Crosby (Portland Wildfire #1)

Chapter 1

Crosby

The practice facility is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Touted as the most state-of-the-art and luxurious in the league, the esteemed owner of the new Portland Wildfire apparently spared no expense.

Then again, Patrick Rowe is a fucking billionaire a few times over, so why should he go on the cheap when outfitting his new hockey franchise?

The facade of the one-hundred-and-sixty-thousand-square-foot building is dominated by sweeping walls of glass and steel panels in muted slate and graphite tones.

The main entrance is recessed beneath an overhang of glass and metal, the doors framed by towering windows that flood the lobby with natural light during the day.

The team crest is etched directly into the stone, a massive twenty-foot-diameter circle of the Cascade Mountain Range, bordered by evergreen trees and wildfire flames.

The facility sits in Beaverton, Oregon, close enough to downtown Portland to be considered convenient, far enough to keep the noise out.

It gives the team space to work without an audience, and I chose to purchase a home here rather than in the city.

I’ll spend far more time here than I will at the actual arena for games.

Rowe definitely gets bragging rights over the sheer enormity of the place.

It has two full ice rinks—one regulation size and a secondary development rink—housed in the center portion and flanked by two outward wings.

The eastern side of the building houses the main locker room, the medical and rehab suite, the strength and conditioning gym, and a full-size sit-down restaurant called The Blue Line where, rumor has it, the chef will prepare meals for you to take home if you ask nicely.

The western wing houses the executive team—coaches’ offices, the general manager’s suite, as well as video review rooms and a sports science and analytics center.

I heard there’s even a leadership office suite for whoever is elected captain and assistant captains of the team.

There’s also a team meeting auditorium, assorted conference rooms and a media zone for interviews and press conferences.

I’ve been around this league long enough to know when a facility is meant to inspire and when it’s meant to impress. This one does both and I consider it a massive perk for coming to this team as a free agent.

The sun is barely up, and the September air has an early-morning bite. I glance to the southeast and while I can’t see it today, I’ve been told Mt. Hood is often visible.

Training camp starts in a few days, but the entire team meets for the first time today.

Most came in the expansion draft held at the end of June whereas others like me were free agents.

Because we’re an expansion team, we’re comprised largely of players the other teams didn’t want, which means we’re ragtag at best.

At worst, we might be a hot mess, but it’s way too soon to know that.

I check in at the security desk and step through a turnstile after I scan my badge, which had been hand-delivered to my house yesterday, along with a welcome gift package from Patrick Rowe.

It was a matte black box with the Wildfire logo embossed on the top and a soft velvet lining.

Inside was a Ferragamo travel bag, a Jaeger-LeCoultre watch, and a set of Bose QuietComfort noise-canceling headphones.

I’ve always been great at math, and some quick calculations led me to believe our new owner probably dropped three hundred grand on these player gifts.

Not too shabby.

I move past the security checkpoint and head left to the west wing, following signs to the team auditorium.

It’s not my first time here, as we all got tours upon our arrival last week, but it’s no less mind-boggling.

It’s built like a private cinema with stadium-style, tiered rows that rise gradually from the front of the room to the back.

Each chair is wide and padded, upholstered in mocha-brown leather with black piping, built-in armrests, and the Wildfire logo in the team colors of burnt orange and forest green embossed into the headrests.

At the front of the room spans an enormous wall-mounted video screen that stretches nearly wall to wall and floor to ceiling. It can operate as one massive uninterrupted display or split into three independent panels, allowing coaches to run multiple video feeds simultaneously.

At the front corner of the room sits a low coaching podium and integrated control station.

From here, staff can control video playback, lighting, audio and screen configuration.

Additional monitors are mounted discreetly around the room for presenters, ensuring coaches never have to turn their backs on the team.

I’m the first to arrive and I take a seat in the tenth row, direct center. Not because I need to be seen, but because it’s where I can see everyone else as they enter.

As a goalie, that’s habit.

It’s my job to read a play before it happens and you can’t do that if you don’t have the best line of sight as well as understand angles.

I consider my journey here and what I left behind in Winnipeg, where I was a team leader and one of the top-performing goalies in this league.

Oliver Kemp, the Wildfire GM, sought me during free agency because I’m steady and consistent under pressure.

They came for me with a pitch that didn’t include ego stroking or promises of “being the face” of the new team.

Instead, Kemp signed me not only with a ridiculously large sum of money—which was important—but with the lure of a challenge.

“We need a backbone,” Oliver had said to my agent and me during a Zoom meeting. “We need an ambassador of hockey culture… someone who the room will follow even when the room isn’t sure it wants to.”

He said more, and it was all right on point.

I came because this sport is my life and I know how quickly things can go sideways when there isn’t a center of gravity.

I believe I can be that stabilizing force for this new team and I believe Patrick Rowe is doing all the right things to make us great.

I want in on the ground floor of this machine. That’s the real reason I’m here.

The doors open and players start filing in. I know almost all of them either well enough to shake hands or just enough to give a chin lift. Spend enough years in the league and relationships form across team boundaries.

Arch Hewitt spots me and heads my way. He drops into the seat beside me like he’s done it a hundred times, which he has. We played in Winnipeg together and he’s my closest friend in the world.

Arch bumps my shoulder with his, then hooks an arm around the back of my neck and pulls me in hard so he can rub his knuckles over the top of my head.

“Jesus, Hale,” he says with a laugh. “You trying to set a record for earliest arrival?”

“Someone has to establish a standard, you toddler,” I deadpan, shoving him off me.

He snorts and leans back, stretching his long legs out in front of him like he owns the row.

Arch is the kind of guy who can turn his switch on and off.

He can grind on the ice for sixty minutes and still crack a joke when it’s over, and it’s a boon to me that he’s here.

A measure of familiarity in a new world.

Arch followed me here from Winnipeg, not because he was recruited, but because he was left exposed. In an expansion draft, every team in the league is allowed to put a certain number of players on a protected list. The rest are “exposed” and can be picked to fill slots on the new expansion team.

I was protected but Arch was not. As the third-line center, that was a position the team was willing to let go, whereas the starting goalie…

not so much. But Winnipeg couldn’t match the offer that Portland made for me as a free agent, so here I am with one of my best mates, starting a new career journey.

He tilts his head toward the front. “You nervous?”

“Fuck no,” I scoff.

He gives me a look like he doesn’t fully believe that but he’s probably projecting. Nervousness is an emotion I rarely feel. I don’t get nervous about hockey or the pressures surrounding it, but I do get… aware.

Hyperaware, actually.

There’s a difference.

More players filter in—some in small groups, some alone. The room fills with subtle energy, the kind that comes from a bunch of men who all know they’re being evaluated, even when no one is holding a clipboard.

I scan faces, more chin lifts, a few fist bumps.

Boss Calloway comes in with first-row energy even as he takes a seat in the row behind me.

Big grin, easy confidence, the kind of guy who could sell out an arena on charisma alone.

He nods at me on his way up the aisle, a little more serious than his expression suggests.

He’s an incredible right-winger and my guess is he’ll head up the first line.

Luca Marcelli arrives behind him. He’s a solid center with a blistering wrist shot.

His posture is relaxed but his eyes are sharp, taking in the room and sizing up the competition.

Yes, we’re all teammates but we’ve got training camp looming, and everyone’s going to be fighting for the coveted first-line positions.

The room quiets when Locke Donovan stalks in like he’s looking for something to hit.

The defenseman picked up in the expansion draft from the New Jersey Wildcats is the biggest risk Patrick Rowe is taking.

Jaw tight, shoulders broad, and black Harley-Davidson T-shirt pulled across muscle like it’s one deep breath away from tearing, Donovan doesn’t smile at anyone.

Doesn’t acknowledge anyone.

The vibe rolling off him isn’t arrogance.

It’s volatility.

He has a distinct reputation in this league and Locke’s the type who can change the outcome of a game in ten seconds—either by leveling someone clean or taking a penalty that makes the coach want to strangle him.