Chapter One #2
Speaking of overgrown toddlers…I wonder if Leo’s mood ever actually swings upward.
“I’m not in the habit of auctioning off my players’ belongings,” I say, “in case that’s what you’re thinking.”
He opens and closes his mouth twice. “Well, now I’m thinking it.”
“I was going to give it to the front desk to hold on to.” I flash him my palms in surrender. “But please, roll it into the meeting if you’d rather.”
“I’ll keep it,” he answers curtly, his tone and rigid posture running defense. How very on brand for a D-man.
The breeze lifts my hair off my neck as I nod. “Understood. That’s your emotional support luggage.”
He lifts a sizable hand to his face and massages his temple with two fingers. “Is that a joke?”
My gaze drops pointedly to where he’s white-knuckling the handle with his other hand. “Not if it’s true. Can I get you coffee? A Red Bull?” I snap my fingers. “Wait, you’re sponsored by Brute. Drinking a different energy drink would probably be sacrilege—”
“Not anymore I’m not.” He throws an impatient look at his watch. Where I’d expect a gleaming Rolex lies a beat-up smartwatch with a black silicon band. “Did they tell you I need a babysitter or something? Because I don’t require supervision.”
That he views “coach” and “babysitter” as synonymous is not a great omen for our relationship moving forward.
I cross my arms, my windbreaker swishing at the contact. Normally, talking to hockey players is as easy as breathing for me, what with all the common ground. However, it appears that doing stand-up comedy for a hostile crowd would’ve better prepared me for Leo McLaren.
Every player needs something different from a coach to unlock their greatness. It’s too early to get a full read on him, but my gut is screaming that he needs a challenge.
“Nah. Just being friendly.” I peer up through my lashes. “You should try it sometime, especially with members of your team.”
He barely reacts apart from a twitch of his jaw. “I haven’t actually signed yet, you know. I could walk away. And should, given the team’s track record.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, turning over his threat. It’s probably not in my best interest to poke the bear before he’s even made it inside, since I can’t be certain he won’t bolt.
In fact, the men upstairs will be pissed I’m talking to Leo at all before he’s officially on board.
But then again, the Fury made Leo an offer when no one else was willing.
He was not purchased in the opening days—or even weeks—of the free agent frenzy, which speaks volumes about a veteran player who was an early pick his entire career.
His last season was plagued by on-ice fights, missed opportunities, and an injury that cut short his time with the California Grizzlies. His usual spark on the ice was MIA.
Has he had an epic career? Yes. But even the most legendary runs must come to an end. Whether Leo’s has remains to be seen.
So for all his blustering, this team might be the only option he’s got.
I shrug lightly. “You came an awful long way just to turn around and walk.”
The goading in my tone ignites the air between us, sparking like metal in a microwave. He lifts his chin as if in defiance.
I lift mine back, mentally twirling our ten inches of height difference into something more manageable, like cotton candy around a stick. It’d be easier to gauge his thoughts if we were eye level—or if I could see his eyes at all and not just my own reflection in his lenses.
He says nothing, letting his growly exhale do the talking. He’s clearly not happy to be here.
Even less happy that he can’t bring himself to walk away.
“We’ll be on the top floor in the Ice Box when you’re ready,” I say, trying to hide my satisfaction.
Since he’s surely not looking for an escort by the likes of me, I step backward toward the entry to give him his space.
“There’s a coffee bar and other amenities inside the lobby.
Stephano at the front desk will take care of you and your luggage. And hey—welcome to Maine!”
He glares after me as I back into the revolving door—or I think he’s glaring. It’s hard to tell with his formidable RayBans also running defense on his behalf.
As the door starts to close behind me, he approaches the building.
Challenge accepted.
I cut through the lobby of The Fury Dome, our official game-day arena, to reach the elevators. My skin prickles pleasantly at the drop in temperature. Or maybe at the new distance between me and Leo.
As I ascend to the top floor, the game rink—the Fury’s pride and joy—comes into dazzling view through the glass wall at the back of the elevator.
Visible from every interior window, it’s the focal point and beating heart of this place.
In a few short weeks, the whole arena will roar with life for the first official game of the season.
Electricity zips through me in anticipation. Game-day arenas are my second-favorite place on Earth, edged out just barely by a practice rink. That’s where the magic happens day in and day out.
The door to the Ice Box, our team’s official roundtable room for important meetings, is directly next to the elevator. I turn right and then right again, letting myself in.
Like the elevator, the room boasts a back wall of massive windows. They draw my eye to the view of the rink the second I enter the space.
Every fixture, piece of furniture, and accent in this room is either silver or a sleek and steely gray, to mimic the feel of ice. An artificial pine scent spritzes from a freshener affixed to the wall.
Two men are already here: Jax Biggs, the Fury’s general manager, and Eric Erikson, Assistant GM.
Jax is seated at the head of the table that has the best view of the door. The hockey world calls him Lumberjax, a nickname dating back to his time playing for the BC Queensguard. It’s low-hanging fruit, since everything about him screams of his backcountry, timber-chopping, Canadian roots.
Okay, I’m not sure he ever actually chopped wood. But he looks like he could.
Worth noting: Jax hates his nickname.
His gaze flicks to me before returning to his computer as I approach the table.
His dark hair is graying at the temples and his worry lines threaten to become permanent etchings in his pale, weather-worn skin.
Being a hockey visionary takes a toll on a guy, I guess.
“Hey, Rivers. Sorry to cut your morning short but we need to get this finalized before tomorrow. You could’ve skipped it if you had to. ”
“You bought me a surprise defenseman the day before training camp starts and you thought I’d miss onboarding?” I take a seat on his left. “Not a chance.”
“This happened fast or I would’ve given more of a heads-up.” His brief sidelong glance signals his sincere apology.
I will try to give him the benefit of the doubt on his decision.
Jax knows the game from every angle. He was an incredible forward for the Queensguard in his twenties and early thirties.
I always respected him from afar during his NHL career, and now I get to respect him as a boss.
Leo McLaren ambush aside, I’m grateful to work with ol’ Lumberjax.
And then, unfortunately, there’s Eric, our jerk of an AGM. Vivi’s nicknames for him once got us kicked out of a public skating rink.
“Rave day at the sorority?” Eric’s beady gaze shoots sideways as he clearly awaits a laugh from Jax—seeking daddy’s approval as usual, despite being older than him.
Jax looks at me for another fleeting second, gaze barely touching my painted cheeks, and says nothing.
“Vivi and I ran a charity 5K this morning,” I explain quickly. “There were glow sticks involved and people throwing paint—”
“Sure, kid. I’ll pretend I buy that.” Eric stretches his arms overhead until the chair groans in despair beneath him. He looks and sounds like Homer Simpson without any of the oafish charm. “I’ve done a few ‘5Ks’ myself, if you catch my drift.”
I do not catch his drift.
And more to the point, his use of the word “kid” claws at my skin. If Eric’s backhanded comments about my age, gender, looks, or hockey knowledge were currency, I’d be rich enough to buy this team and perhaps a small island in the Galapagos.
In the months we’ve worked together, I’ve been experimenting with different ways to respond to him. He seems to hate friendliness the most.
“Wow, who knew we were both runners?” I put on a huge smile as I lace my fingers together, my silver rings clinking. “I’d love to train together sometime!”
He narrows his eyes. “I—well, I’m not actually— Your generation doesn’t understand a joke, does it?”
“Guilty as charged.” I turn my attention back to Jax. “Not to press the issue, but you said if we were making any last minute purchases, it’d be that kid from Ottawa.”
The nineteen-year-old puck-moving show pony, while still inconsistent and immature in his play style, has the kind of career ahead of him that could benefit the Fury’s long-term growth. He’s an unpolished gem languishing in a lesser league.
In other words, the opposite of Leo McLaren.
Jax’s burly shoulders rise and fall. “Talks fell apart. Plus you said you wanted a mature presence in the locker room.”
“So you went completely rogue?”
“Andy wanted a legacy player, specifically McLaren.”
I raise my brows. Andy Callahan, boisterous owner of the Fury, isn’t exactly a trusted authority on the nitty-gritty of building a strong roster.
Jax knows that as well as I do. Andy is known for collecting popular press darlings like Pokémon cards, regardless of, say, the player’s position or whether they fit with our goals for the franchise.
I’m pretty sure he’d draft Tom Holland and throw him in the crease so long as it got the Fury brand the attention Andy himself lives for.
“Fine. We can talk more about this later,” I say. “I saw McLaren downstairs, so he’ll be here any second.”
Jax crinkles his brow. “You didn’t walk him up?”
“Your new recruit looks like he’d rather lick the business side of a Zamboni than share an elevator with me, so no.”
Jax lets out a sigh. “No one ever claimed he was a charmer.”
I smile pointedly. “Understatement.”
“That’s showbiz, kid,” Eric interjects. “He doesn’t have to charm, or even play all that well. He’s a household name. And what Jax isn’t outright saying is that we only bought him because our beloved owner has a professional hard-on for Leo’s old man, Hugo.”
“I said he wanted a legacy player, didn’t I?” Jax retorts. “Sadie can read between the lines.”
“Andy’s wife is a fan of Hugo McLaren, too,” adds Eric, “and her hard-on is anything but professional. I wouldn’t be surprised if she turns on Hugo’s NHL Network show at night while she and Andy—”
“Please don’t finish that sentence,” I beg. And for the love of hockey, stop staying hard-on. “Regardless of how we got to the bargaining table, I just pray Leo and his bad attitude aren’t a liability to this—”
“Leo!” Jax jumps to his feet, his gaze snapping to the doorway behind me. “Just in time.”
I wince.
A minute too early, I’d argue.
So much for starting off on the right foot with my new recruit.