Page 87 of Misconduct Zone

“It was not deliberate.” Today is nothing like Halloween when he thought about drinking. His demeanor is different, and I’m positive my assessment is correct, but anxiety floods my system. It’s hard to stay calm. The problem isn’t that he took a sip of alcohol. It’s how he deals with his mistake, and right now he’s spiraling.

Dylon is not giving himself the grace of his mistake. I didn’t see him take the drink, but it was less than a second between when his brain registered the alcohol and him spitting it out.

His sponsor answers, and Dylon blurts out, “I drank.”

I cannot allow him to mislead his sponsor. “Hi, it’s Lars. Dylon did not decide to drink. He picked up the wrong drink and spit it out.”

We spend time discussing intention, and his sponsor calmly reassures Dylon while she lays out all the ways this could interfere with his sobriety if he lets it put him in a negative head space.

“I still have to report this to the Enforcers.” He flexes his fingers, then lets them drop limply.

“Your program makes allowances for mistakes. The team will consult the experts, and I am confident you have not broken the rules,” the sponsor says.

Dylon’s set jaw suggests he’s still upset with himself.

“Do you think the team should fine me or negate my contract for assault?” I ask, and he sputters unintelligible sounds. “I put my hands on the Detroit player who slashed you. Part of me wanted to strangle him or worse. I didn’t but I wanted to. Should I be punished?” I ask again, demanding an answer. It’s not the same, but there are parallels.

“You didn’t do anything,” he says indignantly.

“I stalked him, waited for a chance to attack him, tore my gloves off, and hit him. If the refs knew I had intent to harm, they would have ejected me. Youmade an honest mistake since your glass was on the same table. I premeditated an attack. Which is worse?” This is one example, but I do it in almost every game. I search for opportunities to retaliate within the system. If they judged me for intent, I would not have a career.

His sponsor reiterates my sentiment, and Dylon reluctantly agrees to practice humility and willingness as part of his program.

By the time we hang up, he’s exhausted and I intend to get him home in bed. He texted Mr. Dimon and is scheduled to meet with him in two days when he gets back from his trip. Waiting the couple days will be torture for both of us, but it should be an in-person meeting.

Most of the team has left, and the mood’s somber when we enter the living room.

Trevor throws himself in Dylon’s arms. “You got this. You’ll be okay.”

“I made Griff take Benz home. He vas very upset.” Patrik extracts Trevor from Dylon and folds him into his arms.

“I tried to look up the team’s policy, but it’s too specific. You got a room full of guys to back you up,” Ace says in his captain’s voice.

“Thanks,” Dylon says without making eye contact.

Pulling him close, I whisper in his ear, “Stay or go?” The team can provide support, but he might need alone time to process.

“Go.” He nuzzles into me. “I need fresh air. Let’s take the subway.”

We say our goodbyes, and the guys give Dyl hugs and back slaps for support. He needs the touch, especially with his embarrassment.

In the elevator, I wrap him in my arms, breathing in his coconut-lime scent.

“Are you scared?” he murmurs.

“I am worried how this will affect you, but I am not scared of your mistake.” I kiss his temple.

“You have too much faith in me,” he declares softly, his lips below my ear.

“There is instinct and action. And there is fighting both.” I run my fingers through his curls. “I’m still so proud of you. You only had a fraction of a second to decide, and you spit it out.” I hope he sees the positive.

“All over the rug,” he groans.

“No one cares about that. They care about you.”

“If I was an elephant, I would’ve smelled the alcohol and not taken a sip,” he laments.

“A lot of things would be different if you were an elephant. We would not be having this conversation, and I wouldn’t be fantasizing about sex with you.”

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