Let’s face it… I’m being forced to confront my emotional traumas. I have no choice but to move forward. How divine of an intervention was it that Aaron got traded to my team? That put this man back in my path, knowing he could offer me something I’ve been having a damn hard time accepting from others.
“We have a lot of catching up to do,” I say, a tentative offer by me to repair our friendship.
“Yes, we do,” he agrees with a smile. “No time like the present to get started on that.”
He’s right. No sense at all in stalling. In fact, I’ll start with an admission that simply needs to be made. “I’m really glad you’re here.”CHAPTER 7NoraPushing back into my office chair, I kick my booted feet up on my desk and stare at the ceiling. Tacker is due here at any moment for his first official counseling session, and I’ve been flip-flopping on how to handle him.
I did indeed google him after dinner with Raul night before last. It was a wealth of information that explained exactly what was going on with him.
First, I’d learned he is a hockey great. A veteran player who would be in the Hall of Fame sooner rather than later. I don’t know much about hockey, but I read enough to know he was beyond revered in the league for his talent. There were a few articles out of the Phoenix paper that predicted bringing Tacker to the Vengeance was one of the greatest moves in sports history.
Of course, I didn’t understand the risk of such a move until I read a bit deeper on him.
And that’s when I found the source of his anguish.
About fifteen months ago, Tacker was piloting his own small craft from Dallas to Houston, taking his fiancée for her final dress fitting. They were to be married in two weeks.
There was a malfunction in the equipment, and he was unable to determine where the horizon was on a very cloudy day, causing the plane to turn upside down due to spatial disorientation.
He survived. His fiancée did not.
The reports seem to indicate he was out the rest of that hockey season, but they never specified the reason. It could have been physical issues, but it was vague. If I had to guess, he was probably just not able to return emotionally.
Regardless, at the end of the season, he’d been traded to the Arizona Vengeance in the expansion draft, which was considered to be an incredibly risky pickup by the new team. They either got themselves a really hot, dynamic player or a damaged liability.
I’m betting it was a little bit of both as his current stats seem to indicate he’s one of the league’s star players—at least from what I’ve read—yet, here he is, ordered into counseling to maintain his place on the team.
The final piece of information I’d seen was from just a few weeks ago, when he’d driven his truck right into a concrete barrier while drunk.
We’re going to need to explore that.
There’s a subdued knock on my door at exactly three PM on the dot. “Come in,” I call, swinging my boots off my desk to stand.
The door swings open, and in walks Tacker Hall. He’s dressed the same as he was the other day—jeans, t-shirt, and tennis shoes. Clean shaven, he holds a baseball cap in his hand.
He gives a short nod of his head in greeting, and I smile in return. He looks like he’s being led off to the guillotine or something.
“What’s your anxiety level?” I ask. “Because we can take the horses out for a ride. I call it ‘talking from the saddle’. It can help ease things.”
“Not much of a horse person,” he grumbles uneasily.
“I’ve got some gentle ones,” I assure him. “They’ll just plod slowly along.”
Tacker twists the ball cap in his hands but doesn’t answer me. Instead, he glances around my office, but it’s just a stall tactic. Not much to see in here.
“I read up on you,” I say. He shifts toward me, eyes slightly narrowed. “I know about the plane crash and your fiancée. The suspensions from the team. Everything.”
My words are a means to get him to face his reality… that he has to begin somewhere. I’ve just given him an opening to see if he’ll take it. It’s a tough-love type of opener, normally a path I would not take, but Tacker has made it clear he’s not keen on my Pollyanna-type attitude. I’ve already figured he appreciates plain talk with no fluff.
Tacker moves to one of the guest chairs. When he slowly sinks down into it, it’s a silent statement that he doesn’t want to ride today. I follow suit, dropping into my chair across the desk from him.
When he finally talks, it’s not what I’m expecting.