Daisy
The Vipers facility sits in the heart of midtown Manhattan, all glass and steel and aggressive architecture. Sleek edges and asymmetrical angles define the building, a design meant to project power. I pull up to the main entrance in an Uber, clutching a coffee that’s already gone cold.
Above the entrance hangs the iconic Vipers logo, sculpted from polished chrome.
The security guard at the front desk barely glances up when I flash my temporary credentials.
“Hello,” I say. “I’m here to see Grizz McAvoy.”
“You sure, miss?”
I smile and nod. “Positive. I’m supposed to meet him in one of the conference rooms. I was told it was reserved for an hour for me and him.”
“He’s in the gym,” says the guard, his attention now firmly back on his crossword.
“Gym?”
“Fourth floor. Follow the signs,” he says, pointing toward the hallways to his left.
I take the elevator up, watching the floor numbers tick by while my stomach does the same thing it used to do before walking into a hostile interview. The difference is this time I’m not here to expose anyone. I’m here to save them from themselves.
The hallway on the fourth floor stretches endlessly in both directions, lined with motivational posters featuring players I don’t recognize and quotes about winning and perseverance.
I follow the signs, my heels clicking against the floor with each step.
The gym doors are glass, and I see him before I even push through.
Grizz is alone in a space that feels like it could house multiple large aircraft.
The facility is pristine with rows of gleaming squat racks, mirrors that stretch floor to ceiling, and enough square footage to make a Manhattan real estate agent weep.
Langley clearly spared no expense. Really, this is a temple to peak performance.
Grizz is at the middle squat rack, the bar loaded with heavy plates on each side.
His back is to me, shoulders straining under a compression shirt that’s seen better days.
Even from here, I can see the methodical precision in his movements.
Down, pause, up. Each rep controlled. The muscles in his shoulders ripple beneath his sweat-soaked shirt, every fiber of strength clearly defined, powerful, and distractingly evident.
Sweat beads along his neck, trailing down to disappear into the dark fabric stretched taut across his back.
His powerful thighs flex beneath athletic shorts with each deep squat and despite my best efforts, my pulse quickens.
I push through the doors. He doesn’t acknowledge me immediately, finishing his set with a grunt that reverberates through the cavernous space. When he finally racks the bar, the clang of metal on metal splits the silence and he spots me in the mirror’s reflection.
“Wasn’t sure you’d show up,” he says, still not turning around.
“I always do. You’ll learn that about me.”
He grabs a towel from a nearby bench and wipes his face, finally turning in my direction.
Up close, in this space, he looks even bigger than I remembered.
More solid. A presence who commands attention without asking for it.
He must be six foot three, maybe four. Far taller than I am at five six in my highest heels.
“I’ve got to get a workout in before the team leaves for our road trip this afternoon,” he says. “So, if you want to talk, we need to do it now.”
I adjust my bag on my shoulder. “That’s fine.”
He points to a large plaque mounted on the far wall, black letters on green: “This room is for WORKERS only. Anyone not working out must leave.”
I look at the sign, then back at him. The challenge is implicitly written all over his face, not just explicitly on the wall.
“Sorry,” he says with a shrug that’s anything but apologetic. “I don’t make the rules.”
I’ve been tested by better men than him. “I’ll go change,” I say. “Where can I find some workout clothes?”
His expression shifts. Surprise, maybe. Or disappointment that I didn’t back down.
“Equipment room down the hall has extra gear. Might find gear there that fits you.”
Fat chance.
But twenty minutes later, I’m back in borrowed athletic shorts that are too long and a Vipers T-shirt that hangs off me like a tent.
The equipment manager—a portly, weathered man who clearly finds this whole situation amusing—hooked me up with a pair of sneakers and a hair tie to keep my hair out of my face.
I feel and look ridiculous. But I’m here.
Grizz is at the bench press now, warming up with what looks to be a moderate amount of weight—moderate for him, anyway. He glances up when I approach, his eyes rounding with surprise. “Shirt looks a little big, huh? And how’re you keeping the shorts up?”
“Safety pins work wonders,” I say.
I head to the treadmills and start with a light jog, more to warm up than to impress. The gym falls into a rhythm—his breathing, the clink of weights, the steady thumping of my feet on the belt.
“So,” I say after a few minutes, slightly breathless but determined to power through. “We need to talk about your upcoming commercial shoot for the league.”
He doesn’t respond right away, too focused on his lift. When he finishes the set, he sits up and reaches for his water bottle. “What about it?”
“You can’t misbehave or try any antics.”
He laughs, a mocking sound that cuts through the air. “Misbehave? What am I, twelve?”
I stop the treadmill and move to the rowing machine, adjusting the settings with more confidence than I feel. “I know how the last shoot went. The one for Forge Hockey equipment. Ring any bells? Langley gave me the debrief.”
A muscle feathers along Grizz’s jawline. “I did nothing wrong.”
“You showed up two hours late,” I say, pulling on the handle and settling into a steady stroke. “When the director asked you to smile for the camera, you told him to go fuck himself. You walked off set when they asked for a second take.”
“The script was garbage.”
“It was thirty seconds of you saying ‘Forge Hockey. Gear up to win.’ That’s not exactly Shakespeare.”
He moves to the free weights, selecting two fifty-pound dumbbells. “The director was a prick.”
“The director was doing his job.” I keep rowing, my breathing starting to labor but my voice steady. “You cost the team a seven-figure endorsement deal because you couldn’t be professional for half an hour.”
“They still aired the commercial.”
“They had to use footage from practice because the actual shoot was unusable.” I pause my rowing, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Do you know how that made Langley look? How it made the team look?”
Grizz starts his biceps curls, the large, bluish veins in his forearms protruding with each rep.
“I’m not here to make anyone look good. All that matters is winning.
Optics and popularity contests are distractions.
It’s plain and simple, always has been. The one thing my dad taught me that never failed…
winning solves all problems, and I’m here to win hockey games. The rest is irrelevant.”
“That’s quite a mouthful. But I’m here to make sure you can keep doing that without destroying everything around you.”
The tension in the room ratchets up a notch. We’re both working now, both sweating, both pushing against more than just resistance.
“You’ve been on the job for what, five minutes? You read some files, watched some game tape, and now you’re an expert on Grizz McAvoy?”
I move to the free weights myself, selecting a much more reasonable load, ten pounds each. “I know you’ve been fined three times already this season and we’re only in October. Last year, you were suspended twice. I know your first three PR representatives quit within six months.”
“Maybe they weren’t cut out for the job.”
“Or maybe you made their jobs impossible.” I start my own biceps curls, determined to keep pace with the conversation.
“That commercial shoot wasn’t an isolated incident.
The training shoe deal that fell through?
That was you too. The community outreach event where you told a group of kids that hockey was too violent for kids who acted like ‘pussies’? Also you.”
His movements become more aggressive, the weights clanging together at the top of each rep. “Those kids needed to hear the truth.”
“Those kids needed a role model, not a lecture on toughness from someone who can’t control his own temper.”
He stops mid-rep, setting the weights down harder than necessary. “You want to psychoanalyze me now? Add therapist to your list of qualifications?”
“I don’t need to psychoanalyze you. I need you to show up and do your job without making everyone else’s job harder. It really shouldn’t be that difficult.”
“This is my job,” he says, gesturing around the gym. “I don’t care about the noise.”
I finish my set and face him directly. “The commercial shoot is Thursday. It’s for the league, not a private sponsor. You can’t walk away from this one. You can’t show up late. You can’t tell anyone to go fuck themselves.”
“And if I do?”
“Then you’ll find out exactly how creative Langley can get with disciplinary measures. And that likely means you not being able to help the team win, which it sounds like is the one thing you actually do care about.”
We stare at each other across the weight rack.
“You think you’re tough?” he asks finally.
“I think I’m necessary.”
He picks up heavier weights. “Let me ask you something, Turner. What happens when your fancy journalism background runs head-first into the reality of professional hockey? This isn’t some boardroom where you can ask pointed questions and watch people squirm.
This is blood and bone and guys who’ve been fighting since they could walk. ”
I move to the leg press machine. “I’ve been in plenty of rooms where powerful men thought they could intimidate me. It never worked out the way they hoped.”
“Hockey’s different.”
“Men are the same everywhere.” I start my leg presses, controlling my breathing despite the burn in my muscles. “They think they can bulldoze their way through problems until someone calls them on it.”
He’s moved to pull-ups now, his form perfect even as his frustration bleeds through each rep. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know enough.” The weight feels heavier with each rep, but I push through.
“I know you’re talented enough that everyone’s been willing to overlook your behavior.
I know you’re good enough that you think the rules don’t apply to you.
And I know you’re scared that one day, your talent won’t be enough to cover for your attitude. ”
Grizz jolts and drops from the pull-up bar, landing with a thud that echoes through the gym. “I’m not scared of anything.”
“Everyone’s scared of something.”
“Yeah? What are you scared of?”
The question hits differently from what I expected. I finish my set and stand, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “I’m scared of watching someone throw away everything they’ve worked for because they’re too proud to accept help.”
For a moment, the only sound in the gym is the hum of the ventilation system and our labored breathing.
“You think that’s what I’m doing?” he asks.
“I think you’re so used to fighting everyone that you can’t tell the difference between an enemy and an ally.”
His watch beeps. “I gotta shower and get home to pack before the roadie. Workout’s over.”
And with that, Grizz beelines it toward the glass doors. Just before he exits, he looks back at me. “Turner, one other thing…”
“What’s that?” I say.
“Next time you want to work out, bring your own gear. The stuff you have on is for Vipers players only.”