Chapter Two
Leo
Rock bottom has a basement. One that smells like a cheap air freshener and sounds like my new coach complaining that she’s saddled with the likes of me.
Good. Glad the feeling is mutual. I don’t want to be with the Fury any more than she wants me to be.
Hell, I’m not even sure what a Fury is, unless they were named for the feeling they got after losing almost every game for the last two years straight.
I meticulously avoid Sadie Rivers’s blue-eyed stare from across the table as the GM launches into his spiel, welcoming me as though I didn’t just walk in on them talking shit.
Not them. I didn’t hear the managers, though I wouldn’t put it past them.
I only heard her. Rivers. The same woman who tried to give me unsolicited pointers at hockey camp when we were teenagers and balked when I said I’d do things my way, thank you very much. Maybe I was an ass, but she started it.
I was sure someone as pretty and talented as her had never been challenged a day in her life, and I was more than happy to be the first, considering her goal was to embarrass me in front of everyone within spitting distance.
If only I’d known that the girl giving me her unsolicited opinions then would grow up to give me her paid opinions now. And I bet she’ll expect me to thank her for it, maybe even flatter her.
She’ll be mistaken, if that’s the case. My strategy for handling coaches—most of whom are insufferable know-it-alls—is the same as it’s always been.
I leave my blood, sweat, and tears on the ice, and then I clock out.
I don’t kiss ass in the locker room, interviews, or anywhere else.
Charming and agreeable was always my dad’s style, not mine.
My approach didn’t earn me many complaints during my first thirteen years of professional play, when I was racking up wins for the Grizzlies.
Funny how one rough season changes everything.
“Does that sound good, Leo?” Jax Biggs asks.
I only half heard him, since I’m busy pretending I don’t notice Sadie studying me across the table.
“Yeah, sure.” I crack my knuckles one at a time under the table to stay grounded. My right fingers twinge in discomfort until I shake them out. “One year, follow the rules, try not to suck, et cetera. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
Biggs and I shared the ice a handful of times before he retired, which somehow makes this whole experience more humiliating. I outplayed this guy when he was at his peak and I was just a kid with all the potential in the world.
I grit my teeth. Things have changed.
Tariq already prepped me for the terms of this contract before I arrived. My agent was kind enough not to state the obvious—that I should be on my hands and knees, kissing the Maine dirt that the Fury picked me up at all.
Had I not been thrown around on the ice like a goddamn ragdoll last year, maybe I’d be having a different conversation right now, with a better team.
But for the last several grueling weeks, the only inquiries in Tariq’s inbox were from lesser leagues. Oh, and from my biggest sponsors looking to “regroup,” aka sever ties with me, aka kick me while I’m already down.
A one-year contract. Probationary. Pittance. When my dad was my age, he was given a seven-year extension with the Grizzlies.
His voice, famed in our world, plays through my head.
Suck it up, buttercup.
Pain is weakness leaving the body.
Determination heats my blood. I’ve got a lot of work to do if I’m ever going to get back to where I was.
And I have to get back to where I was.
“Great, I’m happy we’re all on the same page.” There’s relief in Biggs’s booming voice that suggests he’s already mentally moved on to the next thing on his to-do list. “We’ve got the press room reserved for later this afternoon so you can sign with a proper audience, as you deserve.”
I’m about to inform him I’d rather take an ice cream scoop to the eyeball than speak to the press for even a second when he adds, “Coach Rivers, can you escort Leo next door?”
She leans forward on her elbows, hands clasped. “Happy to.”
Great. An escort from my parking lot ballbuster. Just my luck.
Her dark ponytail looks like a fountain on top of her head.
With high cheekbones and bright eyes, she looks her age.
Twenty-nine, according to all the commentators who complain about her every second of the damn day.
Her face appears to be smiling even when she’s not, due to a maddening sort of perkiness to her lips.
She’s the kind of pretty that gets under your skin, if you let it.
Good thing I know better.
Today’s face paint didn’t throw me—I assumed it was a makeup trend and none of my business—but it’s hard to take her seriously when she’s wearing a windbreaker indoors.
I resist the urge to ask her if there’s rain forecasted inside the Ice Box or Deep Freezer or whatever cutesy name they call this room.
I look past her at the view of the rink. “What’s next door?”
“The practice facility where we’ll complete your physical. It’s not literally next door— just down the street. Don’t worry, we’ve got golf carts for just such occasions.”
Of all my worries, intra-facility transportation didn’t even break the top fifty. The top spot on that list belongs to the physical that determines if I’m allowed to sign this contract.
The ache behind my eyes intensifies. I lift the coffee I got in the lobby to my lips. Heat bleeds through the paper cup as I drain what’s left. Even the coffee is weak in this place.
“Knock knock!”
Andy Callahan, owner of the franchise, ambles in.
He’s short, probably no taller than five and a half feet, with the walk of someone more comfortable on horseback than land.
“There he is, the man of the hour! Good to see you again, Leo.” He moves behind my chair and claps me on the shoulder.
I stifle a hiss as a bolt of pain shoots up my neck.
Sadie pins me with a curious look. “You’ve already met?”
I can count on zero fingers the number of times I’ve spoken to this guy, but it feels weird to point that out when he’s standing so uncomfortably close to me. “Hockey is a small world.”
“A very small world,” Andy echoes. “His parents are friends of mine.”
My gaze snaps up. Whatever comfort this shitty cup of coffee was bringing me leaves my body.
Everyone in this small world knows of my father, and the broader world my mother, but they’re friends?
Fucking hell. That is not the reason I want to be acquired. I’ve spent my life proving my value—mine. Not the value of my father, or my last name. The idea that being related to him might have had anything to do with this contract makes me sick. But what am I supposed to do?
I’m backed into a corner.
Still hovering by my seat, Andy turns his attention to Sadie. “What’s the occasion, sugar?” He snaps his hand to his mouth. “Sorry, bad habit—you’re my daughter’s age. What’s the occasion, Sadie?”
Sugar? From an owner to his head coach? Weird slip-up. Jax looks as disturbed as I feel.
As does Sadie. Her cheerful smile drops. “Oh, uh—charity race.” She rubs at her cheek. “There was paint involved.”
Andy stares for a beat before releasing a gruff laugh. “My head coach, running for a good cause, drumming up respect for the Fury—that’s what I like to hear! You wore our branded gear, I hope?”
Sadie opens her mouth to answer, but Eric, the AGM, doesn’t give her a chance.
“Unless she half-assed it, in which case, I hope she didn’t,” Eric interjects with a grating laugh. “This team is all about winning this year.”
“I ran a twenty-four-minute 5K and came in second in my age group.” Sadie rises to her feet, not sparing him a glance. “Not that it has anything to do with our team winning—which we will. And speaking of, the doctor is expecting us, Leo. Are you ready?”
To be poked and prodded? Never. But at least it’ll get me out of this room.
I grunt in assent, chuck my empty coffee cup in the trash, and escort myself to the door. Biggs tells my new coach to text him when we’re on the way to the press room so he can meet us down there.
My shoulder tenses. If I don’t pass my physical, the press will have plenty to discuss.
None of it good.
Sadie takes a sharp turn out of the Fury Dome’s parking lot.
I clutch the railing above my head to keep from falling out of the golf cart. “Damn, Rivers. You drive like a bat out of hell.”
“Well, yeah. If I’m a bat trapped in the underworld, of course I want out.” Her toe points as she pushes harder on the gas pedal. “And don’t you want to get to your appointment on time?”
I’d rather never get to this appointment, frankly, but I muster up a lie. “I guess.”
Since she scrutinized me across that boardroom table, I don’t feel bad doing the same to her while she’s distracted with her 2 Fast 2 Furious audition.
The upturn of her nose, the delicate line of her jaw, her pale skin.
The way one hand wraps around the steering wheel while the other taps a steady rhythm on her thigh.
How her pants cling to the curves of her hips and thighs.
A pair of murder-sharp high heels the color of a ripe cherry.
I glance up from her shoes just in time to catch her trapping her lip—also cherry red—between her teeth. A wave of heat rolls through me at the sight, followed quickly by irritation.
That’s enough looking.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asks.
She’s got to be kidding.
As if I could forget the only girl who qualified for that west coast skills camp, especially since we, you know, interacted.
In case time had dulled the memory, Sadie Rivers was everywhere during her legendary career. Even if I didn’t want to remember her, the interviews on my social media feed would’ve reminded me. She’s unbearably photogenic, and sports news made it everyone’s problem.
They still do. Not a day goes by when she’s not plastered all over my feed.