2. CHAPTER 2
Locke
Rowe’s office is on the third floor of the west wing of the performance facility, up a staircase wide enough to drive a semi through and down a hallway with thick dark green carpet.
The mahogany double doors at its end are closed when I get there at seven fifty-nine.
I’m always punctual, a habit I developed back when I was a kid playing hockey.
I wanted to be the best and while my dad never taught me much, I did observe that he was always punctual wherever he went.
He’s a very successful, über-wealthy financier, and I figured out that was part of what made him great.
Still, I don’t enter early. I don’t enter late to spite either. I stand in the hallway for sixty seconds and then I push the left door open, stepping into the executive lobby.
Rowe’s executive assistant, Janine, greets me with a bright smile. “Good morning, Mr. Donovan. Patrick is ready for you.” She sweeps her hand toward the short hall that leads to his corner office. “Go right on in.”
“Thanks,” I reply with a chin lift. I find it interesting that I’m “Mr. Donovan,” but the owner of the team is “Patrick.” Some might find that slightly suspicious, but I’ve noticed… most people call him Patrick and not Mr. Rowe.
Weird.
The office is what you’d expect from a man who built a hundred-and-sixty-thousand-square-foot performance facility and then put a raw bar in the concourse of his arena because Portland would want one.
A dark wood desk the size of a small country takes up one end of the room, banked by floor-to-ceiling windows that look down onto the main practice rink. The ice is currently empty, shined to a high gloss and waiting for action.
Rowe is already standing when I enter. No jacket today, just a charcoal dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to the forearms and black slacks.
It seems overly casual for a multibillionaire, but I’ve seen him in jeans on plenty of days.
The one thing I’ve noticed about this man is that he’s never consistent, and doesn’t quite fit all the way into the super-wealthy stereotype.
I know this well, since I was raised within it.
Despite the two of us having that in common, I have zero trust in the man.
He gestures to the chair across from his desk and I sit.
He moves to the window, hands in his pockets, as he looks down at the empty rink before turning to face me.
“How’s the jaw?”
“Fine.”
It isn’t fine. There’s deep, mottled purple along the left side and it hurts like a son of a bitch when I eat, which I found out this morning over the eggs and bacon I whipped up.
He nods like he expected that answer. “I’m going to be direct with you, Locke.” Again, my first name, an obvious attempt at a personal connection, which I push aside. “I think you know by now that’s how I operate.”
I say nothing as I’ve never had a hard time handling direct. In fact, I prefer it because wishy-washy has caused a shitstorm of problems in my life.
“You came to us in the expansion draft,” he says, a fact I consider wasted breath. I know the fucking route that led me here. “You know what that means. Every organization in this league had a decision to make about which players to protect and which to leave available.”
“And I was left available,” I say blandly, totally fucking bored already.
His stare makes me feel like a bug under a microscope. He’s trying to figure me out, but no one really can. It’s because I give nothing. You either take me as I am, or you don’t take me at all.
“You lead the league in penalty minutes. You’ve been suspended four times in nine years. You don’t speak to the media—not a single word in nine years of professional hockey.”
“I’m a defenseman. We’re not exciting enough for the media.”
“Oh, I disagree. That little stunt you pulled last night has them all clamoring for an interview.” He waits for my response, and when I don’t give one, he continues.
“There are rumors about your temper off the ice that I’ve chosen not to investigate because I believe in giving a man a clean slate, but your teammates barely know you.
You’ve been here since training camp and I’m not sure any of them could tell me one personal thing about you. ”
“This is a hockey team, not a social club,” I offer as an explanation.
“True,” he says, surprising me by chuckling at my temerity. “But you do understand the concept of a team sport, right? That camaraderie breeds loyalty, which in turn breeds effort. Surely you’re smart enough to know that.”
I don’t take the bait. I don’t rise to the type of man he wants me to be. “Maybe you should tell me why I’m on this team then?”
Rowe pins me with those eyes. He doesn’t even look frustrated. On the contrary, he looks determined, which doesn’t bode well for me at all.
He almost smiles. “Because you’re one of the best defensemen in this league and everyone who left you available was making an emotional decision instead of an analytical one.
” He moves back to his desk, picks up a folder, and opens it.
“Your defensive zone coverage ranking puts you in the top three league-wide. Your blocked shots, takeaways, average ice time in high-leverage situations—all top tier. When you’re on the ice and focused, you make this team harder to score against in ways that show up in the numbers and ways that don’t.
” He closes the folder. “I didn’t take you in the expansion draft by accident.
I took you because Van Turner told me what he saw when he watched your tapes, and I trust Van. ”
Van Turner is one of the assistant coaches, recently retired from the championship winners, the Pittsburgh Titans, and also spent a number of years with the Carolina Cold Fury.
I don’t say anything to that either because he said a word so foul to my sense of being, I actually grimace.
Trust.
It’s a fucking bullshit concept.
But admittedly, the knot in my chest loosens somewhat at the compliments. I’m a hard worker. I care about winning and this team as a concept. I love and bleed for this sport, so it’s nice to know that parts of me are appreciated.
“I want this to work,” Rowe says, his tone making it clear he’s completely at ease with whatever comes next. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make this environment work for you. So tell me—what do you need to be successful?”
I blink at him in surprise. Last night I took a bad penalty and it lost us the game. The Badgers capitalized on my lack of control and scored. It’s my fault we went down 3–2.
“I’m fine,” I say, a force-of-habit reaction. Not the first time someone’s asked me if I’m all right, because it’s obvious my head’s fucked up in all kinds of ways.
“You’re not fine. You got thrown out of a tied game last night for abusing an official after starting a fight with a player who was running his mouth, which he does to everyone, every game, all season long.”
“I’ll do better.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“It’s what I’ve got.”
He studies me and I don’t look away. I don’t fill the silence, which seems to be the one thing that costs him, because he exhales through his nose in defeat.
It’s the sound of someone who’s given up on the battle but is preparing to win the war.
Unease curdles in my stomach.
“All right,” he says, nodding toward the door. “Follow me.”
Jesus Christ… am I being escorted off the premises? Have I been fired?
I resist the urge to dig my heels in and make him drag me from this facility. I resist the compulsion to beg for another chance because I’m not ready to give up this career, no matter how much I make it hard on myself to stay.
Like a robot, I get up from the chair. I follow the Vipers’ owner out of the office, back down the hallway, down the wide staircase, through the main corridor of the west wing.
We walk past the film vault, past the video review rooms, past the coaches’ offices with their glass walls looking out over the workout room below with its rows of equipment gleaming under overhead lights.
There are a few players down there now, a massive Jumbotron hanging in the middle with its twelve screens of video feed running.
Rowe moves through all of it at that unhurried pace of his, nodding and smiling graciously at the few staff members who are in early.
I follow him and say nothing.
He finally stops at a door I hadn’t paid attention to before.
It has a nameplate on it, brushed aluminum with the Wildfire logo of the Cascade Mountain Range and flames licking at the bottom.
LIVIA CROSS
DIRECTOR OF HUMAN PERFORMANCE
I frown at what feels like a bullshit title. What the fuck does that even mean?
Rowe knocks and waits politely.
“Come in,” a woman’s voice rings out, lilting with notes of good humor.
I follow Rowe inside and find who I’m guessing is Livia Cross standing behind a desk that’s still in the process of being personalized. There are a few framed credentials on the wall, a plant in the corner that looks fake, and a whiteboard with a diagram I don’t have time to read.
She’s in Wildfire-branded athletic wear, leggings and a quarter zip in forest green, and it’s fitted enough that I can see the smooth planes and sculpted curves of an athlete.
She’s wearing glasses, wide frames that work on her face.
Dark brown hair in a high ponytail and chocolate drop eyes that land on me, warm and direct.
I get maybe two seconds of thinking she looks approachable before I realize she’s quite stunning.
Olive-toned skin, high cheekbones and a heart-shaped mouth, she’s got a face that could be on the front of magazines.
The woman is young, mid-twenties I’m thinking, which honestly… makes me wonder if her “Director” title is indeed bullshit. Is she kin to Rowe somehow and this is a nepo hire?
The way she stands—comfortable, unhurried, like she expected us and is genuinely glad we’re here—sets my teeth on edge.
This feels like an ambush, and I don’t trust any of it.