8. CHAPTER 8
Livia
As Patrick Rowe’s executive assistant, Janine operates with clean efficiency. Her email arrived at six fifty-eight this morning, simple and to the point because when the owner of the Wildfire makes a request, it doesn’t require elaboration.
Mr. Rowe requests your presence in his office at eight a.m. Please arrive promptly.
I noted that I wasn’t the only one on the email. It was also sent to Coach Monahan, the team’s GM Oliver Kemp, and Van Turner. A strange grouping for sure.
The executive suite is bustling when I arrive, but I’m not surprised. Patrick is a hustler. I would expect his entire operational staff to be the same.
Janine is at her desk just inside the mahogany double doors looking composed and precise, but her smile is all warmth.
“Good morning, Livia,” she says brightly. “You can go right on in.”
“Thanks, Janine,” I say and start to move past her desk, but then I jolt because I see Locke sitting in the small waiting area.
He’s in one of the chairs against the wall, leaning on an armrest and looking completely relaxed.
He’s in street clothes—dark jeans, a navy Henley, hair swept back from his face. Those pale blue eyes meet mine.
“You here for the meeting?” I ask.
I detect a flicker of worry, maybe annoyance. “Not that I’m aware of. I was told to be here and when I arrived, I was told to take a seat.”
The specific quality of that—told to take a seat while a meeting about him happens on the other side of a closed door—well, that has a certain implication, doesn’t it?
I know institutional exclusion when I see it. I also know this man well enough by now to know that he knows exactly what it means too. I can hear it in his dry tone that he’s very much aware this meeting is about him.
I can’t do anything but offer a slight nod of understanding before I move past him to Patrick’s office.
I knock and enter.
Patrick is sitting behind the desk mid-conversation with Coach Monahan, who’s in a chair to the left with coffee in hand. Oliver is standing at the end of the desk, bent over an open folder holding documents. Van stands near the window that overlooks the rink, arms loose at his sides.
Patrick smiles at me and gestures to the remaining chair. “Thank you for coming, Livia.”
“Good morning,” I say, letting my eyes pass to each of the men who smile back at me.
“I’ll be direct,” Patrick says after I take a chair. “We’re here to discuss Locke Donovan and whether this organization can continue to carry him on the roster.”
The word continue holds a lot of power in that sentence. I keep my face neutral, even though I have an opinion already on the matter.
Kemp lifts the folder, pulls out a paper. He’s in his late thirties, tall and athletically fit, with laugh lines that soften his otherwise angular face. He’s a handsome man, but so is every other one in this room. I wonder if it’s a hiring requirement.
“Two incidents in eleven days,” he says.
“The Nashville game, game misconduct for abuse of officials following a fight he instigated. The Calgary game, a misconduct for attacking an opposing player after the altercation had been separated.” He looks up.
“Both on home and away ice, televised for the world to see. I think we need to discuss letting him go.”
That’s a very broad term and I understand enough about professional sports contracts to know that you can’t just fire a player. But there are options to keep him off the ice.
“I’d rather understand that history before we make any decisions based on it,” Coach says.
“The history doesn’t change the optics, Colter.”
“The history might change the context.”
Kemp lets that sit, not dismissing it but clearly not accepting it either.
“His contract runs through the end of this season with a team option for two more years at six point four million per year. If we release him now, we eat the remainder of this season’s salary—roughly three point eight million.
If we exercise the option and this pattern continues, we’re looking at twelve point eight million dollars and a discipline record that gets harder to defend to the league every time it adds a line.
” He closes the folder. “The league has already been in contact. This is on their radar.”
Everyone absorbs that, which makes things more serious.
“There are other options besides buying out the contract,” Oliver offers. “We can scratch him and then hit him with fines.”
That’s often done to send a message to the player. Each team has twenty-three players on the roster but only dress twenty for a game. Locke would sit out and someone would come in and take his place.
“What do we lose on the ice?” Patrick asks, steepling his fingers before his chin, his gaze going to Colter.
The coach sets his coffee down. “His zone coverage numbers are top three in the league. Blocked shots top five. His average ice time in high-leverage defensive situations is higher than anyone else on this roster because I trust him there more than anyone else I’ve got.
When he’s on the ice and locked in, we are materially harder to score against.” He pauses.
“Releasing him means promoting from the minors. We’ve got a few options, but we’d be taking a significant step backward.
” He looks at Oliver. “We’d feel that in the standings. ”
“We’ll feel Donovan’s discipline issues in the standings too,” Oliver says. “He cost us the Nashville game.”
“Fair point,” Colter says with an incline of his head.
The room is quiet as the men absorb the information. Everyone is right, and no one is wrong.
Van hasn’t said anything yet. He’s still at the window, looking at the ice, and I’ve spent enough time around him to know that his silence in a room like this is its own kind of contribution.
He’s listening to everything and the fact that he hasn’t spoken means he hasn’t heard what he needs to hear yet.
“Livia.” Patrick turns to me. “Have you made any headway with him?”
I think about what I can say and what I can’t.
About the gym in San Diego and a conversation about Roman infrastructure that shouldn’t have happened and did.
About the question I asked that closed him down so fast I felt the draft from across the room.
About a word I heard clearly from the Calgary bench that I haven’t mentioned to anyone and don’t intend to mention now because whatever it means belongs to Locke and not to this meeting.
“I haven’t had a real session with him yet,” I say carefully.
“He’s resistant. That’s visible to everyone in this building and I’m not going to pretend otherwise.
” I pause, noting I have their attention, including Van’s, who turns from the window.
“What I will say is that in my professional experience, the resistance itself is information. The degree to which someone works to stay closed tells you there’s something behind that door.
” I look at Patrick directly. “I’d like a real shot at him before this organization makes a decision it can’t walk back. ”
“We’ve given him chances,” Kemp says, and it’s not unkindly. He’s looking out for the overall health of this team. “He’s caused problems on other teams.”
“And yet this organization took him in the expansion draft, I assume for all the reasons Coach has told you he’s vital to this team.
You’ve given him warnings, but nobody has addressed what’s actually driving the behavior.
” I keep my voice even, professional, the same register I’d use presenting to a board. “This is the very reason you hired me.”
Patrick tilts his head in curiosity. “So there’s a root cause?”
“I’ve seen enough to believe I’d like to try to dig deeper,” I say, unwilling to make any promises.
Silence.
Then Van speaks for the first time.
“I think Locke deserves a chance.” He’s quiet, his response unhurried, indicating he’s thought carefully about this.
“I’ve been on both sides of this situation.
There was a period in my career… when my father’s book came out, when everything private became public without my consent…
” He pauses for a beat. “I made it very hard for the people around me to help. I made decisions that had nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with carrying emotions I didn’t know how to handle.
” His eyes come directly to me. “I wonder how much easier it would have been for me had I had someone with your experience to help me through it.”
Oliver glances back down to his folder with a frown, while Colter takes another sip of coffee with a contemplative look.
“Thank you all,” Patrick says, standing from his chair. “I’m going to meet with Locke and then I’ll make my decision.”
Everyone moves toward the door. I stand, gather my things and start to follow, but Patrick’s command halts me. “Livia. Stay, please.”
I sit back down.
Oliver is the last one out and he pulls the door shut.
Patrick’s gaze lands on me. “You’re sure he’s worth the effort?”
“Coach seems to think his numbers prove he is,” I reply.
“No, I mean is whatever this is…” He motions in the air. “An issue inside of him that he can work past?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I just know I should try.”
That seems to be enough because Patrick leans across his desk, presses a button on his phone and says, “Janine… send Locke in.”
A moment later, the door opens again. Locke Donovan walks in, scans the room and sets his jaw into a stubborn line. He stands in the center of the office with his hands loose at his sides, eyes moving between us, trying to pick up any information he can from our silence and expressions.
“Sit down, Locke.” Rowe motions as he returns to his chair.
Locke sits down in the chair next to me, eyes locked on the Wildfire owner.
“I’m going to be very direct with you.” A pause, a staring contest to make sure his attention is engaged.
“This organization is close to the end of its patience. I am at the end of my patience. Two uncalled-for incidents in eleven days is a pattern, and the league is out of patience as well.” He lets that sit for a few seconds that feel eternal.
“A change needs happen and it needs to happen now.”
Locke says nothing. His jaw works slightly, the only visible sign that any of this is affecting him.
Patrick nods in my direction. “You are going to work with Livia. This is not a suggestion. It’s not a recommendation.
It is a condition of your continued employment with this organization.
You engage fully and in good faith with her or you pack your gear.
” He pauses, his normally warm, expressive eyes lasered with command. “Are we clear?”
The silence that follows is telling. I can see it in Locke’s expression that he’s weighing what his life would look like away from hockey. He’s calculating the risk of walking away from all of this to keep mired in his past, and there’s no doubt that past is affecting his performance.
“Clear,” Locke finally says, gritting out the word as if it’s leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Good.” Patrick looks at me. “Let’s get an appointment on the calendar right now so I know we’re moving forward.”
I blink in surprise over the micromanagement, but it’s probably for the best. I suspect Locke will continue to put me off if given the chance. I pull out my phone and Locke doesn’t move.
Patrick swivels his head back that way and stares at him until Locke pulls his out as well, as if every muscle in his body is resisting the effort.
“I believe the team has Saturday off,” Patrick offers helpfully.
“Saturday is open for me,” I say, not even bothered it’s a weekend. This job doesn’t have a typical Monday-through-Friday schedule.
Patrick looks at Locke. “Saturday works?”
A stubborn beat. “Fine.”
“Good.” Patrick stands, which means the meeting is over, and Locke and I follow suit. We move toward the door, but Patrick stays behind his desk, already reaching for his phone, moving forward to the next order of business.
Locke gets to the door first. His hand is on the frame when he stops and looks back at me, his expression caught between resignation and wariness.
“Your office?” he says. “Saturday.”
“No,” I say, my mind quickly settling on a plan. “I’ll text you where to meet.”
He stares at me.
“Dress in layers,” I add pleasantly.
I walk past him into the hallway before he can ask anything else, and I don’t let myself smile until I’m far enough away that he can’t see it.