Grizz
I head straight to my stall and change into my gear without speaking to anyone. Getting geared up before practice is a ritual—half muscle memory, half quiet meditation. It starts slow, with guys trickling into the locker room in sweats and backward caps, earbuds in, coffee cups in hand.
Some start by taping their stick blades first, wrapped tight and precise as though it’s a personal signature.
Others begin with compression shorts, knee sleeves, or lacing up their skates even before their pads are on.
The room gradually fills with the sounds of Velcro fastening, tape tearing, laces tightening as they screech along rivets, shin pads thumping onto legs, and the rhythmic snap of someone re-taping their stick.
Guys sit in front of their stalls, heads down as they slide on base layers, then shoulder pads, elbow pads, pants. The gear goes on in a practiced order, always the same—left, then right, or vice versa, depending on superstition. Some joke through it, others stay locked in, staring at the floor.
Once ready for practice, I hit the ice.
“If it isn’t Grizz McAvoy,” Tanner chirps as he skates past me, flipping a puck in the air. “The man, the myth, the felony.” Tanner’s the one guy on the team who sees through me, understands who I am.
“Morning to you too, Casanova.” I loosen my neck with a roll. “You look like you slept in last night’s conquest.”
He winks. “I did. Her name was—hell, not like that matters… or I even remember. What matters is she’s a certified Pilates instructor and has incredible endurance… and so does her best friend—”
“Spare me the details.”
“Hey, Grizz, you brought it up. Go grab me a water bottle, I’m thirsty.”
I can’t help but chuckle. Tanner’s the only guy on the team with the balls to chirp me and the talent to survive it. He’s also got an uncanny ability to deflect heat, a useful trait I’ve sort of learned but haven’t mastered.
I grab a water bottle from the bench and toss it to Tanner.
“I passed Langley in the hall,” he says with a pointed look.
Tanner knows that I’ve got a scheduled come-to-Jesus meeting with the owner of our team.
I had no clue he was back from his travels, but truthfully, I hadn’t thought much about it.
It’s going to be the same ass-chewing, and I’ve heard it all before.
“He’s going to insist you clean up your act. ”
“I don’t do choirboy, you know that,” I mutter, as I stickhandle a puck to warm up my mitts.
“No kidding,” Tanner says. “You do villain arc with bonus media implosion. I respect the brand.”
We skate a few hard warm-up laps, then the real drills begin. Finally, I’m back in my happy place, mid-practice, lost in the game that consumes and defines me. Coach puts us through the hard paces and after half an hour, all my muscles are burning.
As I ready for a two-on-one battle drill, the boards rattle with the tap of a stick. One of the team’s equipment managers motions for me from the tunnel.
Tanner whistles low. “Dead man skating.”
“Mr. Langley wants to see you in his office,” shouts the equipment manager.
“I’m in the middle of practice,” I retort.
“He knows, but he requested you come now.”
I give the guy a quick death stare, then skate to the rink’s door and head into the vacant locker room.
Rare are the moments a hockey player is alone in the locker room. It’s almost never a good sign, case in point.
I tear off my gear. First the gloves hitting the floor of my stall before they’ve even stopped steaming.
Shoulder pads next. I rip the Velcro straps open with a jerk and let the whole thing drop behind me.
The jersey’s drenched, clinging to my back, but I wrench it over my head and slam it onto the ground in a crumpled heap.
I sit down just long enough to yank off my shin guards, tossing them to the side without looking. The tape around my wrists is slick with sweat, but I tear it off with my teeth and spit it onto the floor.
Every movement is measured but efficient. I’ve done this a thousand times, but right now, it’s not routine. It’s battle prep. Stripping down before I walk into a different kind of fight.
By the time I’m down to compression pants and adrenaline, I’m pacing in the area by my stall. I drag a hand through my hair and exhale once.
I already had a sit-down with Langley a month ago, not long after the season started. He wants the best out of me. That’s what he said, clear and simple. And I told him that he has to take the good with the bad. The good needs the bad. The bad fuels the good.
Now, he wants another conversation. Mainly, he wants control. But if he thinks I’m walking into that office ready to bow my head and beg?
Ain’t happening.
The halls of the Vipers facility are too clean. Corporate to the bone—sleek white walls, framed black-and-white photos of legends who haven’t worn the jersey in decades, and LED overhead lights.
Every hallway looks the same with its symmetrical, sterile design, meant to impress visiting execs, not the guys bleeding for this team. The place smells like eucalyptus and fresh paint, not sweat-drenched equipment like it should.
Flat-screens hang from the walls, looping highlight and promotional reels—“The Vipers Are Coming Out of Their Den”—like we’re a brand, not a brotherhood. One of them shows a clip of me burying my game-winning goal last night. I snort. Good to know I’m still marketable in high definition.
I round the corner past the treatment room, where guys get their injuries tended to, and nod at a trainer who quickly looks away.
Smart.
The closer I get to the battleground, the stiffer my spine becomes.
My fists are clenching and unclenching instinctively.
The blood rushes hot beneath my skin, that deep thrum of fury building in my chest. I don’t know if Langley wants to scream, fine me, threaten me, or trade me, but whatever it is, I’m ready for it.
Hell, I want it.
Let him try. Let him tell me I’ve gone too far, that I’m bad for the brand. Let him act like this team has anything without me.
The hallway narrows before opening into the glass double doors of the executive wing. The Vipers logo—a venomous green snake with glowing eyes—stares back at me with evil intent.
I square my shoulders and push through. The receptionist greets me with a smile. “Mr. Langley’s waiting for you in his office. You can go right in.”
The owner of the New York Vipers is standing behind his desk, not sitting.
That’s his first move—power posture. Custom designer suit, gold Patek Philippe watch, hair so precisely styled it looks airbrushed.
He doesn’t speak right away. He watches me walk in with that clipped, unreadable expression he’s perfected.
We don’t greet each other, and he doesn’t offer me a seat. Rather, he folds his hands behind his back and steps around the desk like he’s circling a land mine.
For a second, neither of us says anything. The silence stretches thin and tight, tension coiling in the air.
I feel the restraint radiating from his body. His left eye just barely twitches, and I know—I know—I’m already under his skin.
This is his office, but I’ve been in more dangerous places. On the ice, there’s blood and glass and flying elbows. In here? It’s just two men playing a different kind of game.
He finally speaks, voice low but commanding. “We have a problem.”
“Which is?” I ask.
“The league’s breathing down my neck,” he continues. “Sponsors are nervous. The media are circling, looking for stories, desperate for an implosion. You’ve managed to turn a win into a crisis.”
“I scored two goals and lit up a guy who cheap-shotted me. If that’s a crisis, maybe the league needs to re-evaluate how they categorize a crisis.” I chuckle at the incessant nonsense.
A flash of heat ignites in his eyes now, breaking through the veneer. “You think this is funny? You’re a highlight reel of violence, bad quotes, and suspension-worthy conduct. You’re a walking liability with great hands and zero filter.”
I shrug. “You knew what you were buying.” He knew I had baggage, just like every other guy who grows up on the prairies of Saskatchewan with a father who lived through his son.
“I knew I was buying fire power. I didn’t realize I’d need a hazmat team just to get you through a simple postgame interview.
” He stalks behind his desk again, palms braced on the edge, like he needs something to hold him back from launching into full-blown fury.
“You think this team’s just about goals and fights?
You think I poured half a billion dollars into this franchise so you could piss it all away one soundbite at a time? ”
“I think,” I say, “you needed someone to wake this place up. Someone the fans can believe in. Not another pretty captain with a clean shave and a three-point night against Buffalo. You wanted the storm, so don’t act surprised when it rains.”
Langley’s eyes narrow. “What I wanted was wins. What I got was a sideshow. We talked about this at the beginning of last season when you were suspended twice for getting involved in unnecessary fights.”
“No,” I fire back. “You got someone who bleeds for the Vipers jersey, who puts it on the line every night for your team, for your profit. Someone who’ll fight until there’s blood on the ice and banners in the rafters.”
“Yes, I want all of that, Grizz. But I’ve had enough of the negative headlines. Enough of the press circus. This organization can’t afford to keep cleaning up your messes. Unless you want to spend the rest of the season watching from a press box next to my suite, we’re doing this my way now.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Your way?”
On cue, he reaches for the intercom on his desk phone and presses the button. “Send her in.”
Behind me, I hear his door click open, followed by that unmistakable sound… heels on hardwood.
I turn around to see a beautiful woman walking in like she owns the place.
Black blazer, gold hoops, a notebook in one hand, a pen in the other.
Her dark hair is knotted in a bun at the top of her head, which only serves to highlight the elegant line of her neck.
Her blue eyes lock onto me and her expression is the exact opposite of impressed.
She looks like someone who’s more dangerous with a pen than I am on a breakaway.
Langley straightens, practically puffing out his chest with pride.
“Grizz McAvoy,” he says. “This is Daisy Turner. She’s not with our usual PR firm, rather coming in from traditional media.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Traditional media?”
“Investigative background. I need someone a little tougher than the usual mitigators we’ve put on you.”
Daisy gives me a once-over, taking inventory of the damage. Langley keeps going, undeterred. “She was with Contour, one of the best, most influential magazines in the country. Broke some major stories in the fashion industry—”
“Got fired for it, didn’t she?” I interrupt, leveling a smirk her way. I remember seeing something about the big kerfuffle on social media a few days ago. “Yeah, they canned you, didn’t they?”
She shrugs. “I got too loud for the people I made uncomfortable.”
Langley gives a tight smile. “Which makes her uniquely qualified to handle you. She’ll be overseeing your public narrative, image control, messaging. All of it.”
I run my eyes down the length of her in cold appraisal before turning to Langley. “You brought in a journalist to follow me around and tell me how to do my job?”
“She’s more than a journalist,” Langley says. “She’s the one who’s going to make sure you’re still employable by Christmas.”
I laugh. “You think some magazine girl with a notebook and a grudge is gonna fix this? What’s the plan? Write a think piece about my inner demons? Spin me into a misunderstood antihero?”
“I’m not here to babysit you, Mr. McAvoy,” she interjects.
I meet her eyes. “Good, because I didn’t sign a contract that calls for some media chaperone following me around with a halo and a crisis binder.”
Her gaze doesn’t flinch. “I didn’t sign up to hold your hand through a meltdown.
I’m not here to be liked. I’m here to do a job.
You blow things up, I keep the fire from taking down the entire building.
” She steps closer, now just inches from me.
Not blinking. “You don’t have to like me.
You just have to listen. Because right now?
You’re not a hero. You’re a headline with legs.
And I don’t plan on letting your self-destruction ruin both our reputations. ”
Langley chuckles under his breath. “Excellent. I’ll leave you two to… get acquainted.”
He walks out, and the door shuts behind him, leaving me and my babysitter in silence.
I look at Daisy. She doesn’t look away.
This is going to be a problem.