Emmett McCarthy was having a fucking shit day. He'd woken at 9:30 to discover he'd slept through his alarm and wouldn't have time for his morning jog before the joke of a press conference his agent had scheduled him. Of all the things he could be doing with his first free Monday in over two months, a press conference over the state of his shoulder injury was not in the top five. But his jackass of an agent had decided it would be good for his "public appeal", some of which he'd apparently lost when he punched Jasper Fucking Whitlock in the parking lot of a bar.

Surprisingly, the press conference had gone smoothly, save for one awkward question about that dumb fucker Jasper Whitlock. But almost immediately after he'd received a call from his long-time girlfriend where she informed him that she'd flown to Vegas after falling madly in love with some shitty drummer in an up and coming "punk/experimental" band whom she had met two days prior at a concert he had gotten her tickets for. Emmett had then went to physical therapy for the aforementioned shoulder where the doctor told him that it would be at least another month before he could fully rejoin his team at practice. Which meant that fucking shit faced southern boy Jasper Whitlock would again be playing his position for the next six games. It truly pissed Emmett off.

Quite frankly, Emmett didn't believe his day could get any worse, until he received a series of phone calls that turned his entire life upside down.