42. A-Bomb
A-BOMB
brETT
Idon't usually get nervous for paperwork, but I'm making an exception today.
I’ve been summoned to London’s office. And since I already had an appointment thirty minutes from now, I’m not sure what this power play is all about.
My agent’s already in the waiting room when I walk in, wearing the same gray suit I wore the night Chelsea came back into my life. I figure a little luck can’t hurt.
“Good morning, Mr. Sillinger. Please have a seat and Mr. London will be right with you.”
With a chin tip to the receptionist, I make my way over to take the seat next to Graham.
“What's this about?” I ask.
Graham shrugs. “Don't ask me this isn't standard practice before a contract negotiation.”
I hear the quiet part loud and clear.
Maybe this isn’t a contract negotiation. Maybe my fate’s already been decided.
My future with this team.
My future in the league.
My future with Chelsea.
Is she even interested in long distance? We haven’t talked about it. I didn’t want to make any promises, or put her on the spot, until I took this meeting. I need to know where I’m going to be next year before we figure things out. Everything important to me depends on it.
When Craig London opens the door to his office a moment later, it echoes like a gunshot in the waiting area. I flinch, but try to look like I didn’t by getting to my feet. My agent does the same.
The man with my fate in his hands holds one up, palm facing us.
“Just you right now, Sillinger,” he announces, turning and disappearing back into his office.
Well, shit.
I don’t like this at all.
I shoot a panicked look over my shoulder at Graham. He misses it, because he’s already slung back out in his chair, thumbs flying madly over the screen. I hope whatever he’s texting is not about me. If my agent drops me, too, I’m dead in the water.
And on that note of utter horror, I straighten my suit jacket and prep myself for the gallows.
It’s nice, as far as gallows go. Professional and modern, but not cold.
Some hockey memorabilia displayed tastefully on the wall to the left, and a big glass wall behind him.
I don’t know why I notice all that this time around.
Guess maybe because this might be the last time I’m here, and when my life flashes before my eyes, I want to know where rock bottom is.
That dread only deepens when I clear the door and notice that we're not alone.
Coach Freeson. Fletcher Ryan. Nik Ehrhoff. Yevgeni Orlov.
Just me and the big guns.
This isn’t the gallows, it’s a fucking A-bomb.
My career’s gonna be obliterated.
“Take a seat.”
I do, even though every rebellious bone in my body wants to ignore the order. Sometimes you just have to man up and take it on the chin. I settle into the uncomfortable gray chair that faces Craig London's desk.
“It's been quite a year,” he says, and I’m annoyed at the dog and pony show. Just pull the trigger. But I swallow it down. I’m not screwing this up. No matter what happens in this office, he’s Chelsea’s dad, and that means he’s going to be in my life, one way or another.
“There've been some highs and some lows.” He cocks a brow. “And between you and me, some very low lows.”
It’s hard to swallow.
“Sir, I—”
“Let me finish.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
“When we picked you up off waivers, it was because Jack said we needed you.”
I shoot a quick glance at Coach, but his face is stoic.
“I disagreed.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, because no shit is not the kind of commentary that’s needed right now.
“But I was outvoted. He said if we wanted to make the playoffs, we needed a man with experience. A man with size, speed, and a good read of the ice. A defenseman who could take all the raw talent we have in our defensive corps and help mold it into something special.”
I ignore the second-hand compliments as best I can. I know Coach said he went to bat for me, but damn. I have a lot of respect for Jack Freeson, and those words hit hard.
“Do you know what I said to that?”
I shake my head. “No, sir.”
London leans back in his chair. “I told him that we didn't need a troublemaker on this squad. What use do we have for someone who can't focus? Someone who can't keep his personal life off the ice?”
Fair, but ouch.
“But I hired this coach for a reason. Because I respect his game. So I let him have his way.” A beat of silence. “Then you walked in.”
Here we go…
“And I’ve got to tell you, Brett, I didn't like what I saw. Friction with teammates, personal drama, and the piece de resistance, I find out you're sleeping with my daughter.”
“Sir—”
“I'm not finished yet.”
It’s real hard to stay quiet after that announcement in front of my coach.
In front of my teammates. Chelsea is so much more than a quick lay, and the idea that anyone in this room is getting the wrong impression about the woman I love makes me ragey.
But even as my muscles tighten, ready for a fight, I catch Nik’s warning head shake.
The man is so goddamn even-keeled, I’m not entirely convinced he’s not an android. But I take his advice and I clamp that shit down.
“Your first day as a member of the Wolfpack, we spoke at the gala and you told me you'd prove me wrong. You said you'd get my team to the playoffs for the first time in franchise history.
“And to my infinite astonishment, you did. You whipped the D into shape, your teammates respect you, and you were an integral piece of us making the postseason. You delivered on your promise, and today your agent is going to be negotiating for an extension of your contract.”
I can’t breathe. They’re picking up my contract. I’m staying in Montana. Being with me won’t mess up Chelsea’s life. I don’t have to ask her to give up everything to come with me. My exhale is ragged.
“But there's a catch.”
The tide of relief that washed through me recedes. My mouth tastes like dust.
London gestures in the direction of the four men seated along the wall, perpendicular to me. I sift through their ranks, looking for a clue as to what this is about, but they’re giving nothing.
“Your coach and your captains have something to say to you.”
I remind myself to breathe as Coach Freeson straightens in his chair. “You made me look good this year, Sillinger. You delivered on promises I made on your behalf, and you've had the stabilizing effect on this team's defensive line that I hoped you would.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
He adjusts his hat and slumps back down, his time in the spotlight complete.
“It is not public yet, but I am retiring,” Orlov announces without fanfare, his accent brusque and thick. I turn to the big Russian. “That means 42 is available. It is yours. If you want it.”
The announcement shakes through me like I just got boarded. Losing my number had been a massive deal when I first arrived in Missoula. It was a link to my dad's career. Something I shared with my sister. And truth is, I wasn't sure I knew who I was without it.
But it was losing it, losing everything and ending up here, that changed things for me. I had to grow up. Face my demons. And I like the kind of hockey player I am on this team.
Maybe 59 has a little magic in it after all.
It’s time to step up, leave all my old baggage behind, and be me on the ice.
“You know what? I appreciate the offer, but I think I'm going to stick with 59.”
Nik tips his head, like he heard everything I didn’t say and he gets it, respects it, even. I didn’t realize how badly I needed this team to believe in the man I am now, not the boy I used to be.
“You're sure about that?” Fletch asks, and I turn to my captain.
“I'm sure.”
“Well, you better be,” he tells me gruffly. “Because once we put the A on that jersey, there's no changing your mind.”
The whole world stops. “What?”
“Losing Orlov means we're in the market for a new alternate captain.” He gestures to Orlov on one side of him and Ehrhoff on the other. “The boys and I have talked it over, and we think you're the right fit.”
When I’d been worried about a bomb detonating in this office, it sure as hell wasn’t this one. But here we are. My head is spinning. My ears are ringing. There’s no way I heard them right. “You're giving me the A?”
“If you're staying, you're wearing it,” London tells me. “That's the deal. You taking it?”
Since I’m not a moron, I say yes.
I’m still in a daze as I get to my feet to shake hands with Coach.
“Thanks for everything.”
“Keep it up.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze as he steps aside.
“Good luck, man.”
Orlov’s grip is tight and his shake is sharp. “It is time. You take care of these guys for me.”
“Celebratory pizza at my place when you get home,” Nik tells me as we clasp hands.
“Bring your girlfriend.” He says it like it’s no big deal, making it clear to everyone in the room that the sleeping-with-my-daughter bomb isn’t a scandal, it’s just the way things are.
And the fact that he has my back with this means more than I can say. More than the A.
“I will.”
Next it’s Fletcher’s turn.
“I won’t let you down.”
His grip is firm. “See that you don’t.”
“Can you gentlemen give Sillinger and me the room for a moment?
I watch as my teammates and coach file out of the office.
London rounds the desk to stand in front of me. “I didn't like you. I thought you were brash. I thought your priorities were out of whack. I thought you'd be trouble.”
Tell me how you really feel.
“But over the last few months you've shown me a different side of you. On the ice and off. You were dragged through the mud, and I respect the way you handled it. You stood up for yourself.”
There’s a moment of silence, and London gives the impression of a man who’s swallowing the bitterest of pills.
“Most of all, you make my daughter happier than she's ever been.” He clears his throat, like the words scratched up his esophagus on the way out.
“I’m in love with her. And I plan to do everything in my power to keep making her happy. For as long as she’ll have me.”
“Yes, well. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
I huff a laugh.
“I would like us to start fresh and move forward from here.” His pinched expression doesn’t quite match his words, so I shoot him the cocky smirk I reserve for getting under my opponents’ skin.
“Since I plan on sticking around, I’ll take you up on that, sir.”
“If you’re going to be eating dinner at my house, I think it’s time you start calling me Craig.”
“Am I going to be eating dinner at your house?” I ask. Then test the offer by tacking on my most respectful, “Sir?”
He harrumphs, but all in all, it’s pretty good natured. “According to Chelsea you are.”
“Craig it is.” I grin as we shake hands.
“And watch that insubordination, Brett. I’m about to sign your paycheck.”
He rounds his desk and takes a seat.
“Now go get your agent and let’s talk shop.”