Chapter Six #2
And frankly I’m glad for a change, because if Ivan is decimating my enjoyment of hockey after a few weeks, I can only imagine how the other men must’ve felt dealing with him for years. Probably like dancing in traffic at rush hour.
“A man that management agrees will bring wisdom and leadership at this crucial time in the Fury’s story. Someone more than deserving of the opportunity to lead this team. So congratulations to our new captain”—her blue eyes snap to mine—“Leo McLaren.”
Come again?
The name repeats in my head, nonsensical syllables that don’t stick.
She pauses for a fraction of a second, and in that breath, I brace for the correction. The just kidding! For all the good that has happened in my career, I’ve never heard those words before.
Our new captain.
Her delicate throat works as she swallows, and her skin turns a rosy pink, no doubt from the intensity of so many stares boring into her at once. “We can’t wait to see what you do—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The words barely leave Mikael’s lips, but he might as well be shouting.
A fevered flush burns up my body. All the whispers breaking out in the locker room feel like little pinpricks.
Is Sadie trying to make a spectacle of me?
“That’s all. Enjoy the rest of your day.” She turns on her heel, disappearing back into her office.
That’s it? She thinks she can drop that bomb and bail?
I jump up and march for her office, ignoring the noise swelling around me. The dull headache that followed me off the ice has sprouted fangs, but I don’t have time for pain.
The press is going to have a field day with this. And the worst part? Their criticism of me will be well deserved.
After my injury, when I convinced myself I’d stopped hurting and was ready to rebuild, that very first skate felt like I was given brand new parts, a Frankenstein’s monster of someone else’s limbs.
My arms didn’t feel quite right. I held my body differently to compensate for the tightness in my neck and both shoulders.
My left hand grip was weaker, my drive less powerful.
My muscles were uneven, either too tense or too much like mashed potatoes.
It was disconcerting not to feel at home in my body when my body was the thing that defined my livelihood and worth.
I wasn’t my best. I’ve come a long way, but I’m still not where I want to be. Power, speed, micro-hesitations—it eats me up inside to know that every single person in this room, including the coaches, can see my weaknesses. They’re impossible to miss.
The captain doesn’t have to be the absolute best player on the team, but they need to be their best, both physically and mentally. And the rest of the team must respect them.
As desperate as I am to get back into lethal defenseman shape, as hard as I’m willing to work, the reality is that I’m not the player I was. Everyone can see that.
I don’t need to make it even more obvious by wearing the C.
“Rivers.” I shut the door behind me and take a few steps inside, trapping myself between two desks that face each other. “Have you lost your mind?”
Vivi leans back in her chair, delight in her eyes. “Oh, this ought to be good.”
Sadie looks past me. “Viv, mind if I have a chat with Leo?”
“Not at all.” She gestures solemnly. “Please, continue.”
“Privately.”
Vivi shoots a finger gun our way. “Right. I’ll pay a visit to Fallon’s office to see if I can use one of those fancy muscle massager things.
My quad is killing me.” She stands up, gathering things from her desk: a ceramic Addams Family mug, something pink and poofy that might be a key chain, her phone.
It is the opposite of a man laying down his weapons.
Sadie and I wait in stilted silence as she finally exits out the door that leads to the hallway.
She gestures at her desk, as if I’m to sit down on the thing. Or maybe she’s gesturing at the other desk, so I can sit in Vivi’s chair and we can continue this staring contest at almost eye level.
I angle to face her desk completely, otherwise remaining exactly where I am. “Captain, Rivers? You want a target on my back? Is that what this is about?”
“No, I—”
“Or is the goal to piss off Ivan the fucking terrible? Because if so, you got what you wanted and can cut the shit.”
Her eyes narrow into slits. “No, I—”
“Because even if that is the goal, there are at least five other men this team would rather answer to before me. Nic’s a good mediator.
He gets along with everyone.” I scrub my hand down my face.
“Though he’s young and it shows. He’s still a people pleaser.
When push comes to shove, I don’t know that he’s ready to challenge your longer-tenured players.
So not Nic, I guess. And not Mikael, the morally corrupt shithead. ”
That Sadie.
I’d like to forget the glint in his eye as he said her name—and everything else—but unfortunately, it keeps replaying in my mind.
Sadie props her elbow on her desk, tenting her hands beneath her chin. “How about Callum?”
“No way. He’s a fetus and new to the NHL. Maybe someday, but he’s nowhere near ready. Why not Anders? He’s been around a while.”
“According to Jax, Anders doesn’t want it. So he’s not a choice.”
“Why the hell wouldn’t someone want it?”
Her brows shoot up. “Great question, Leo.”
I feel a gotcha coming on, and I resent it. Just like I resent the way my name sounds on her tongue, like she enjoys saying it. Like she’s tasting each letter.
“What about Lachlan?” she presses.
“Lachlan? I’m pretty sure he has his own phone number tattooed on his forearm so he doesn’t forget it.”
“That’s a little harsh.”
“He thought CatDog was an actual species of animal.”
She gapes at me before finding her voice. “How on Earth did that even come up?”
“Tom has a CatDog tattoo across his pecs.” I shake off the horrifying visual. “Regardless—no.”
“How about Jetty?”
“Jetty, who missed the first half of training camp for a torn ACL? That’s a lot of pressure to deal with right now, wouldn’t you say?”
She hums. “So we should stick with Ivan.”
“I think the fuck not. He’s a douchebag whose ego takes up all the space in the room. You can tell they shut down around him.”
“Agreed.” She lifts a tiny lemon from a bowl of two. I almost think it’s real until she gives it a good squeeze. She’s here around the clock, yet her nails appear freshly painted and white at the tips, like she has time to get them done.
Her chair makes no sound when she leans back, giving her the vibe of a silent assassin.
My chest pulses uncomfortably as she watches me, her legs crossed and gaze holding the weight of contemplation.
Instead of her usual ponytail, her hair is in a clip that looks like a claw.
Extra pieces fall out around her face, espresso against pale white skin. “There’s Nash.”
I scoff. “Did you happen to catch a Fury game last season, Rivers? Review any tapes?”
“So you’ve noticed he tends to glare at refs.”
“It’s more than glaring. He baits them and constantly looks ready to take a swing. That’s not what you want in a captain.”
Her lips move like they badly want to smile. “All that insight after a few weeks of practice and you still don’t think you’re a contender?”
Infuriating woman. This isn’t the rink. She can’t just look at me like that—like she’s got me up against the boards.
“I haven’t earned it, Rivers. Don’t you get it?
The new guy doesn’t get to waltz in and call the shots.
They’ll never let me know a second of fucking peace.
” I fight a frown. “I’ll be harassed left, right, and sideways. ”
“You can’t list one other person on this roster who would be better than you.”
No, I can’t. And I’d rather chop a toe off than let any one of those assholes lead this team. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m walking onto a team that has, for better and for worse, played together for two seasons with little turnover. You can’t just waltz in and interrupt that.
“Locker rooms are war zones,” I argue. “There are unspoken rules to this thing—ones I’d expect an Olympian and former college athlete to understand. This is going to fuck up the team’s dynamics.”
Not that the team has great dynamics as it is. And we both know that.
Her cheek puckers like she’s chewing the inside of it as she watches me.
Thinking. Analyzing the situation, the same way she does on the ice. The hairs on my arms stand up at her attention.
I lift my chin. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
Like you’re trying to read me. “Like…you know something I don’t.”
“I hope I know something you don’t, or else what am I doing here?”
The question hangs between us, unanswered.
“You’ve never been given this opportunity in your career,” she continues. “With how long you’ve played, doesn’t the title and prestige that goes along with it—the legacy of it all—tempt you?”
She’s got the heel of her shiny boot against my throat with that one.
The temptation is strong—the validation the role brings unmatched by just about anything in this career. It’s the kind of opportunity most players never see. My dad wore the C for the Grizzlies for ten years. Ten. He will always be associated with their rise, and later, their dominance.
Talk about a legacy.
When I was drafted to the Grizzlies at the ripe old age of nineteen, my blazing arrogance thought it could someday be me.
That it was only a matter of time before I moved up in the ranks, like a government employee climbing the ladder.
But there was always someone else given the role.
First, it was a veteran player who’d been with the team for years, and when he was injured and retired, another deserving veteran.
But then, something…shifted. A newer player was named captain instead of me, someone with less tenure on the team.
It stung to figure out in real time that I was never going to be who my dad was to the team. I was a damn good player—the stats don’t lie—but I guess no one saw me as a leader.