After fifteen minutes, the flat suburban landscape gave way to gleaming office towers that illuminated the pre-dawn sky. As a kid, those glittering lights that never turned off gave him hope that there was a world beyond Edina; beyond four hour dinners at the country club. Whenever he'd ride into the city with his parents, he'd sit in the back of his dad's Mercedes, staring up at those magical, artificial stars, envying his father. Envying the lush downtown offices that seemed like a window onto the world.

Now, those same lights were a reminder of life's never ending drudgery. A reminder that no matter how hard he worked, someone else would always be there to work harder.

Sighing, he turned off the interstate and onto the labyrinth of one way roads, noting before he even got to a parking space that the Occupy protesters were already out for the morning, ready to heckle frustrated office workers for the 22nd day in a row.

Do those fuckers really think that the people going into work at 6 in the morning are the ones running the country? Because I'm pretty sure if I had that kind of power, my first order of business would be setting better hours for myself.

Well, that or hiring a hotter secretary.

Having secured a parking space, he once again checked his hair in the mirror before making the dreaded journey inside—his sandy blonde shag was the one thing that had survived the decade intact, and he figured that if he was going to be a pathetic washed up loser, he might as well at least be a pathetic washed up loser with good hair.

"See Dad, I do have good qualities." He glibly thought to himself as he got out of the car and slowly made his way through the throng of patchouli scented protesters.

Also, I know the value of soap. Unlike those stupid assholes.

April, 2001

"Today the Minnesota Golden Gophers will be taking on the Wisconsin Badgers in the final game of the NCAA Men's Hockey Championship."

As he sat there on the bench before the final game of his college career, the chilled air in the arena was electric, the stands packed with cheering maroon and gold clad fans, all clamoring for a win. The Frozen Four was down to one game, and either Minnesota or their neighbors to the east would emerge with the national championship. With Charlie and Guy beside him, it was hard to ignore the poignancy of the moment—though he'd never been the Duck diehard that Charlie had been, having one more year with two of his childhood friends had provided a reassuring bit of consistency following his father's death the previous spring.

"So, are you still going to remember us little people when you're even richer than you are now?" Charlie joked, playfully elbowing Adam in the ribs.

"Wait, who are you?" The former Varsity Warrior captain smiled, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously.

"Yeah" Guy added, having a rare bit of fun at Charlie's expense, "nobody wants to remember you!"

"Assholes."

Several of the other players sat quietly, nervous about the outcome of the game. For Adam, though, the mood was more lighthearted than usual—win or lose, he was still a couple of months from going to the NHL. The only question was just how quickly he was going to go in the draft, and judging from all of the media hype, it seemed a foregone conclusion that he was going to go sometime early in the first round.

Looking up into the stands, he tried to take it all in. The thousands of cheering fans, a good number of them wearing his jersey. The smiling families in matching maroon and gold sweatshirts, harkening back old memories of watching the Golden Gophers with Larson and his dad, the ever frugal Dr. Larson sneaking snacks in his tattered parka. And, of course, just a few feet away sat his beloved Laura, her perfectly coiffed blonde waves brushing against her maroon fair aisle sweater.

God she's perfect.

Catching her eye, she blew a kiss, which Adam promptly returned, a healthy pinkness overtaking his alabaster cheeks.

"Good job snagging the one person lamer than you, cake eater." Charlie laughed, poking fun at the fact that Adam had found the one person preppier than himself.

Eyeing her pearls and monogrammed Bermuda bag, he just laughed. Charlie had a point.

And it was wonderful.

The trim, painfully preppy blonde was no Julie—she was far more interested in working on needlepoint projects and creating the perfect table setting than stopping flying hockey pucks. That was alright with Adam, though. After a certain well meaning goalie had broken his heart, he craved a bit of pillow-y softness, and Laura had provided that in droves, complete with crisp, monogrammed shams. If Charlie and Guy had provided consistency to a life unmoored, Laura provided the warmth for thawing out at the end of the day.

I wonder what she'd do if I really did buy her one of everything.

Maybe someday.

Skating onto the ice for the faceoff a minute later, the familiar feeling of control and power took over. Off the ice, he'd never quite known what to do with himself—his legs were too long, the right words forever eluded him, and his mind swam with a thousand fears and insecurities. On the ice, though, nobody was better. As the fans wildly cheered, he knew it was his day. A day to be great.

Up in his ninth floor office, he turned on his computer, his fingers impatiently drumming at the cherry veneer desk as he waited for the desktop to start up. Looking around, there was no denying that he hadn't exactly lived up to his father; this office was distinctly lacking in fireplaces and Georgian paneling. Instead, he was surrounded by bland white walls, decorated only with the generic corporate "art" that came with the space. Behind him sat a row of bookshelves that happier men used to display family photos and old sports memorabilia, but that sat empty in his sterile office.

He didn't see any point in decorating.

Two years earlier, in his old office, he did have a scattering of family photos in tasteful silver frames—a picture of him and his dad after he led Eden Hall to a national championship his junior year, another of him and Laura on their wedding day, and one of him sitting on a boat at the lake, his two young sons Tucker and William in his lap as the water glistened behind the three of them.

Then, one day he got mad and smashed all three frames to pieces, then set the photos on fire in the metal trashcan beside his desk. He never replaced any of them.

…

His desktop flickering to life, he quickly checked his email for the morning, then meandered over to Facebook to kill a few minutes before the actual work of the day began.

"Ugly baby. Ugly baby." He thought as he scrolled through his newsfeed. "Really ugly baby. Is that asshole ever NOT on vacation?"

Whoa, I need to go on vacation with HER! Yeah Tiffani, keep posting those vacation pictures at the beach…in fact, may I suggest moving to Florida so you can go to the beach every day? Please?

Well versed in the inefficiencies of corporate culture, he realized that the number of hours spent in the office often mattered more to upper management than what was done during those hours, and as such, the first hour of every morning and the last two hours of every evening were typically spent on such fruitful activities as checking the ESPN website, silently making fun of ugly families, and drooling over the vacation pictures of women who did not share Laura's distaste for revealing swimsuits.

Before long, he caught a glimpse of a headline that ripped his thoughts far away from Tiffani's beach vacation and Roger's homely child.

'Germaine Signs $6M Contract with Redwings'.

"Well fuck me, asshole." He thought, running his fingers through his neatly combed blonde mop as he leaned back in his office chair.

I've got $86.13, and there is zero chance that's going to last the rest of the day.

Maybe I should send these stupid protesters to keep him company. Let him listen to a suburban dumbass with dreadlocks yell at him about how he's corporate scum. He's got money, teeth, limbs that work, and a wife who blows him. The least he can do is listen to some basement dweller rattle on about how gender is a construct and all money should be shared equally.

April, 2001

"Good luck out there, preppy." Guy smiled, slapping him on the back.

.

As Adam skated back onto the ice in the middle of third period, it was starting to appear that God himself had decreed that he should go first overall in the draft—there seemed no other explanation for the star's performance. While the rest of the Minnesota team had been unusually lackluster, the starting forward had already scored four goals against an impressive (and hard hitting) Badger defense, helping to ease any lingering concerns that his battered body wouldn't be able to hold up to the brutality of the NHL. After absorbing numerous bone crushing hits, he felt better than ever. Even his thoroughly reconstructed right arm was pain free, an event so rare that he couldn't remember the last time he'd experienced it.

Looking up through the maroon cage of his helmet, he could see Laura in the stands, absently adjusting her strand of pearls as she gabbed with a sorority sister. Through the sixth sense that only young love can bring, he once again caught her eye, and from the distance, he could see bringing her thumbs and index fingers together in the shape of a heart. Smiling, he skated towards the faceoff, his cheeks and the tips of his ears warm at the thought of Laura. At the thought of his future.

.

Quickly getting back into his hockey zone, he won the faceoff, steamrolling the Badger center. Expertly, he sailed past the quick defense, and skated towards the Wisconsin net, hoping to soon send the puck sailing in for the fifth time that afternoon.

Just as he was skating behind the net, he could see a hulking mass of red and black barreling towards him out of the corner of his eye. Before his mind even had time to finish processing what was about to happen, he felt the jarring impact of the 240 lb. defenseman slamming into him at full speed. Almost as if in slow motion, he could feel himself falling, and he knew what was about to happen, yet there was nothing he could do to lessen the horror to come.

Suddenly, the bottom of his chin crashed against the side of the boards with such force that his teeth were shattered through the mouth guard, and his head flew back at a devastating, inhuman angle. Before his body even hit the ice, he heard a terrifying snap, and his mouth filled with blood.

"Please tell me that sound was jaw shattering." He prayed, "Please God. Please tell me that was just my jaw."

His jaw would be fixable. He knew the other possibility was far, far worse.

His hope was short lived.

A millisecond later, he was struggling to breathe. Everything from his shoulders down had been overtaken by a pain he'd never felt before; it was like the pins and needles of a foot that had fallen asleep, except that the harmless pins and needles had been replaced by ice picks that were on fire, stabbing every inch of his body over and over. He kept waiting for the ice below him to help dampen the fire, but it did nothing.

In fact, he quickly realized that he couldn't feel the ice at all.

Tears filled his soulful baby blues, and he wanted to scream out in agony, but he couldn't. He could barely catch his breath enough to remain conscious, much less scream. Instead, he just laid there helplessly, begging God over and over for it to all be a dream. For him to wake up, and for everything to be the way it should be.

….