Chapter Fourteen
The Honey Almond Milk Cold Brew from Starbucks was probably the last thing Nate needed to be slurping right now. The caffeine and the honey would just add fuel to the dumpster fire of his nerves.
The team’s executive offices occupied the middle floors of a glass-and-steel mid-rise building with rounded corners.
Balconies on various corners featured carefully arranged potted trees, flowering shrubs, and a lush array of greenery.
One balcony ledge was adorned with cascading vines.
A partial rooftop garden shared the eighth floor with the cafeteria, offering tables and chairs for al fresco dining.
The building was only fifteen minutes away from the condo which didn’t give him enough time to calm himself.
On the other hand, there wasn’t a whole lot of time to freak out either.
The elevator ride to the fourth floor felt longer than his drive in, and the caffeine had kicked in by the time the bell dinged and the doors swooshed open.
A Locomotives logo, similar to the one hanging from the dressing room ceiling, floated on the brown paneled wall of the corridor. White diamond shapes dotted the dark blue carpeting. Glass doors on either side of the large steam engine beckoned him to his doom.
A glance at his watch revealed that he was ten minutes early, which wasn’t a bad thing. Punctuality showed that he took the appointment seriously. Of course, now he had ten more minutes to imagine all the horrible consequences they were about to hit him with.
He took a breath and stepped into the bright reception area. The executive offices were located on one side of the building. Tall windows overlooked the practice facility and the arena beyond. Morning light flooded the space, and plants and pictures lined a long credenza behind the receptionist.
The receptionist, a plump woman with brunette curls and chunky-framed glasses, looked up and smiled. Her round face was pretty and her big brown eyes sparkled. The nameplate on the counter read Marjorie Kincaid. “How can I help you?”
“I’m Nathan Hennessey. Here to see Mr. Mason.” He hoped he didn’t sound as breathless as he felt.
With a nod, she picked up a handset and pressed a button. “Mr. Hennessey to see Stuart.” Setting the handset back in the cradle, she said, “He’ll be right out.”
“Thanks.” Nate turned and found the team’s history chronicled on the wall between the two frosted glass doors—photographs, newspaper clippings, and magazine articles all framed in polished glass.
A door to the right swung open, and a man in a light gray suit with silver hair, bright blue eyes, and a wide grin strode out.
“Nate, hi. Stuart Mason. Director of Player Personnel. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too.” They shook hands.
Nate wasn’t quite sure what to make of the warm, almost jovial greeting. Wasn’t he in trouble? Shouldn’t this be somber and serious?
“We’ve got a conference room all set up. Follow me.”
Nate trailed Mr. Mason at a distance down a plush corridor, its deep blue carpeting matching the hallway outside the elevator.
Rich paneling covered the bottom half of the walls while a creamy textured wallpaper adorned the upper half.
A fancy wood chair railing separated the two.
Pictures of the Locomotives’ brightest moments lined the walls between thick wooden doors.
Mr. Mason led him into an interior room that mirrored the corridor’s decor, only the walls displayed pictures of bucolic frozen ponds instead of hockey triumphs.
Three men rose from their seats at the glassy round dark wood table that was more reminiscent of an oversized dining table than a traditional conference room setup.
“Thanks for coming in,” said a tall guy with dark receding hair and brown eyes. He had a longish face and nose. He greeted Nate with a smile as well. “I’m Davis Montgomery, the Assistant General Manager.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.”
Mr. Montgomery indicated the two other men. “You know Coach Jameson and Coach Boudreaux.”
Nate nodded to each in turn. “Coach. Coach.” Boudreaux had pulled Nate off Tommy the day before.
Everyone cycled around the table for handshakes.
“Help yourself to something.” Mr. Montgomery waved toward a cabinet sitting right inside the door with a coffee station and a cluster of bottled water.
Nate grabbed a water. He definitely didn’t need any more caffeine.
By the time they were seated again, they were nearly evenly spaced around the table. Shit. He should have called Wade. This could go sideways fast.
Mr. Montgomery sat on the edge of his seat, his hands folded on top of an open portfolio. A couple of manila folders peeked from beneath the burgundy leather.
The coaches sat on either side of him. The head coach, Jameson, leaned back with an ankle crossed over a knee and regarded him over the rim of large metal travel mug.
His silver eyes matched the silver hair that rivaled any flow in the league.
Boudreaux, the assistant head coach, sat flush with the chair back, arms on the rests.
As far as coaches went, he was on the younger side with dark brown eyes, bright red hair slicked back from his forehead, and a freckled complexion to match.
Mr. Mason shifted beside him, folding his arms along the table’s edge. The movement made Nate straighten, his own forearms settling flat on the wood.
“Mr. Hennessey—”
“Please call me Nate.” Nate’s knee bounced beneath the table.
Mr. Montgomery nodded. “Nate. I understand you’ve had two altercations with Alex Tomlinson in the past few weeks. Walk me through what happened.”
Nate’s stomach sank. Montgomery already knew about the first fight—of course he did. Which meant this wasn’t just one strike. It was two. And two strikes could end a career. “I’m really sorry. I swear it won’t—”
Mr. Montgomery held up a hand. “Apology accepted. We’ll discuss consequences in a moment, but first, I want to hear exactly what happened between you and Tomlinson.”
Nate cranked open his water bottle and took a swig. “Well…after the visit to Children’s Hospital a couple of weeks ago, I invited Nader, PawPaw, and Tommy back to my place to play video games. I have a friend staying with me. He’s gay and a bit femme. You all get what that means?”
Everyone nodded. No one looked disgusted or angry or anything. Just interested.
“Anyway, we played video games for a while. Wesley—my friend—hung out in the living room with us for a bit, but then he wanted to rest. He was recovering from a concussion, and we were getting loud, so...”
There was more nodding.
Nate took another swallow of water. The suspense was killing him, and he felt about ten years old, being grilled in the principal’s office about a playground fight. “Am I in trouble?”
“We’ll have to address the incident in the dressing room, yes,” said Montgomery. “Are you in trouble...?” He shrugged, letting the question hang.
Nate’s pulse jumped, his thoughts scrambling to keep up. What the hell was going on?
“Keep going, Nate,” Mr. Mason encouraged him.
Nate explained in detail the exchange at his condo, then the one in the dressing room.
“Look, I know I’m new here, but my best friend was gay.
Ever since high school, I vowed I’d stand up to homophobia wherever I found it.
I’m certainly not going to let it slide in my own home, but I could have handled myself better here at the rink in front of everyone.
I know it’s not a great way to endear myself to new teammates. ”
“On the contrary,” said Boudreaux.
Wait. What?
“I can’t really condone your method,” Boudreaux continued although his tone suggested otherwise.
Jameson looked as though he were fighting a smile.
“But I can tell you that everyone in the room was glad to see Tommy confronted. Most of ‘em have only been here a year or two or don’t speak English well and have shared that they haven’t felt comfortable taking him on.
“He was our first-round draft pick several years ago and has been our star—” Montgomery made finger quotes. “—player since then, so there’s another reason they’re hesitant to challenge him. So far, disciplinary action only works for so long.”
“We brought you here for a reason, Nate. Well, several reasons. Rings in the room of course. You helped your team win the Cup last year. You know what it takes. And you’re in your prime.
” Montgomery tugged a manila folder out from under his portfolio, peeked inside and then slid it across the table to him.
“Portland was stupid to give you up, but their loss is our gain.”
Nate shuffled through the papers—the images of him in the parking lot of that Portland club. His stomach roiled. There were pages of notes and a report. He perused the images and then pretended to read the report, eyes tracking the lines while his mind spun.
They knew.
They’d had him followed and investigated and they knew.
Every muscle went taut, blood surging hot and fast through his veins, his body braced as if for a hit he couldn’t dodge.
He set the papers back in the folder and pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket. “I think I should get my agent on the line.”
Mr. Montgomery shook his head and smiled. “We’ve spoken with Mr. Latham. He’s aware of the substance of this morning’s meeting, but feel free to verify with him now if you’d like.”
Nate tried to grasp what was happening. The team—well, management—knew all about him. They were all smiling and happy and...and accepting?
His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking once. It felt too neat, too rehearsed—like they were leading him somewhere he didn’t want to go. And yet, he was here, in Omaha, in the room, face to face with management. Surely, they wouldn’t set him up for something—would they?
“I don’t understand.” His brain skittered like a puck across chippy ice. He stuck the papers back in the folder and pushed it toward the center of the table.