34. Russ
CHAPTER 34
RUSS
“You got a minute to talk?”
I look down at the ice, where the A-squad is currently practicing. “If you don’t listening to me huffing and puffing, sure. I’m running stairs at the arena, waiting to practice with the B-squad. Again.”
“I talked to Dorrian about that. They appreciate your leadership role on the team.”
I snort. “Okay.”
“It’s just a balance thing during training camp.” Marty sounds too smooth. Like Shannon’s calm mask.
Lies, all lies.
“Whatever. I’m guessing that’s not why you called me.”
“No. It’s about the Ice League. You’ve heard the rumours.”
“Mostly try to ignore them, but yeah.”
“They want to announce the first wave of players soon.”
I stop at the top of the concrete steps and turn around. I’m at the very top of the upper bowl. “So it’s really happening.”
“There are pros and cons on getting in on it.”
“Where are the teams going to be located?”
He hesitates. “Quebec City. Vancouver. New York. Chicago. Vegas. And Los Angeles.”
I whistle. “Nothing in the Golden Horseshoe?”
“No.”
So it would mean moving. “Not interested.”
“You should hear about the bonuses being offered before you say that.”
I don’t need to. “I’d rather not know what I’m missing out on, Marty.”
“All right. Don’t say I didn’t try to make this happen for you.”
I watch Max pick up speed on the ice. I fucking hate how fast he is—except when we’re playing against another team, and he’s using that for the greater good. “I’m not a UFA anyway this year.”
“They’re negotiating with the NHL. They’d be willing to buy out contracts.”
And then it sinks in. There won’t be any teams within 800 km of Toronto…and in exchange, the league will put pressure on teams releasing veteran players like me. People who can always find a job in the NHL, because we’re good and reliable, but we’re also replaceable by the next generation of players like Malik Zondi.
Here I was blaming Max for being demoted to the B-squad, when all along it might have been a just-in-case call by our General Manager.
Fuck.
Me.
“Have they locked up the stars for each team?”
Another hesitation. “Not gonna talk about other players yet, Rusty.”
I’ll take that as a no. “I’m still out. Thanks for thinking of me. Sorry you won’t get that cut. But I’m staying put. Can you put a phone call in to Dorrian and make that clear?”
I walk back down the stairs and turn run up them again, my thoughts churning. Every high-value free agent is a possible candidate for this launch. All of them would be pressing their agents to get the most amount of money possible. Basketball or baseball star level of contracts. It would have to be, to get them to leave the NHL.
It’s not a given at all that Max will win that lottery.
But if he does, he and his wife will move far, far away from here. From me.
That afternoon, the training camp roster is cut substantially. Among others, Jamie Mason gets sent down to our new AHL affiliate in Niagara Falls—and I return to the A-squad for practice.
When I wake up the next morning, the team group chat is hopping.
Jenson: Don’t forget it’s school photo day today
Kieran: Please don’t piss Mabel off and forget your time slot
Malik: I’m already at the arena having breakfast
Max: Also don’t forget that the press has more access today than usual
Jenson: Best behaviour for school photo day!
Ty: Stop trying to make fetch happen, Haler
Hayden: Don’t use twenty-five year old movie references, boomer
Ty: it’s not a… well, fuck you
I chuckle as I do a search for when Mean Girls was released. Then I drop a thumbs up response on every message except for Max’s, and head out the door.
Even though I know that the day I ran into her, Shannon was just visiting Ty’s empty penthouse upstairs—which remains empty for now—I still expect her to be on the elevator every time I call it.
In the same way she imprinted on my cottage, a single exchange of nothing more than names has seared her into my awareness here in my own fucking apartment, too.
Maybe it would be for the best if Tilman left for the new league.
Maybe I should call up the French billionaire and offer to blow him myself to make that happen.
The arena is attached to a mall that is attached to a convention centre, and the team photos are happening in both spaces, so there’s a parade of players going back and forth through the mall. Fans have turned out, and the team is managing that well, with posters and players signing for the public at posted times.
Despite Haler’s cute comparison to school photo day, there’s nothing quick about it. And it’s not just a single headshot, either.
They have a long list of still and video images they need for promotion throughout the season. Every time we score a goal, get a star of the game, pass a significant milestone, or anything along those same lines, a photo of us in this year’s uniform needs to be added to a graphic. The league also wants some photos.
It’s endless.
Some people get goofy with it, which is fun and fine. I tend to treat it as a straightforward task that is best accomplished as quickly as possible.
When I arrive at the arena, I head to the players’ lounge and find a few people have joined Zondi for breakfast, including Ty, who has brought Puck with him to work today.
“She likes to go on the ice,” he says with a grin.
I grab a banana. “That makes two of us.”
As I eat, I double check where I am on the schedule.
Signing in the mall first. Then back to the arena for the on the ice pictures and video. Then back to the convention centre for the green screen and isolated black backdrop stuff.
They could do it all at the arena, but by having us parade back and forth through the mall, it makes the day more interactive for fans. There’s no arguing that our PR team knows what they’re doing, so I just go where I’m told.
Fingers crossed, I’ll be finished by noon. Then I can get a workout in, and get home in time for a nap.
We’re only playing five pre-season games this year. Tomorrow is our third, and our final home game before the season opener. The last two games will be short day trips to Detroit and Buffalo, and almost certainly they’ll rest those of us who are going to be on the team coming opening day.
So tensions have eased, more or less, and the vibes are pretty good considering the shitty start we’ve had to the year.
I have a busier line than I expect at the signing table. A lot of BioPunk bottles. A few jerseys.
By the time I get to the convention centre for my last set of photos, I’m running on autopilot.
Sixteen years in, all of this start of the season stuff is pretty routine.
So I don’t hear the start of a whispered conversation about a Big Problem that has developed, but the second I hear Shannon’s name, I’m dialled in to the rest of it.
Apparently, Mabel is distressed that nobody knows where Max is and he's forgotten about an extra photo shoot—this one for the team foundation. Shannon's already there. The kids are already there, she says, and that's enough for me.
I am willing to run the risk of sticking my neck out only to have to hide in the shadows again if Max shows up at the last second to belatedly play the role of responsible captain and adoring husband.
But there's a solid chance that he is done for the day and won’t be coming back, either because it wasn’t on his team schedule, or because he’s ghosting Shannon in this moment the same way he’s been ghosting her since we got home from the cottage.And I can't leave her hanging.
“Hey,” I say to the intern who needs to work on his whisper volume. “Tell Mabel a player is on his way.”
“I think they need Mr. Tilman,” he says with a note of worry.
“Sure. But I’m going up there anyway. Bump me down the list here. I’ll be back in an hour.”
The team foundation photos are happening one level up, in another conference room. At the top of the escalators I nod at Aaron Green from the Observer, one of a dozen reporters I’ve seen around today. He’s working on his laptop in a quiet corner just outside the room where Shannon is.
Taking a deep breath, I pull the door open and step inside.
My gaze goes immediately to her. She’s standing with the photographer and Mabel from PR.
Blonde waves spill out of a high, loose ponytail. It’s artfully casual, and entirely off-limits. I want to mess it up. I want to bury my fingers in her strands and tighten my hand into a fist. Push her down to her knees and make her suck my cock.
She’ll have to take off the tight-fitting, sexy version of her husband’s jersey first, though. It makes my chest burn to see her wrapped in it, and the asshole isn’t even here to appreciate her.
From the expression on Shannon’s face, she isn’t happy to see me as the substitute, so I beeline to Mabel and say, “Seems like there was a mix up. I’m not exactly a pretty face, but I can fill in.”
“You’re perfect,” she says, lying through her teeth, because we all know the photo shoot was for the captain and his wife. “Shannon, we might not…”
The wife in question immediately nods, understanding intuitively that she can’t be in the photo shoot with a man who isn’t her husband.
How about the man who makes her come during sex? Because that’s sure as fuck not her husband.
While Mabel murmurs with the photographer about rearranging the kids who will be in the promo material for our winter Highlanders Ball, Shannon pretends not to look at me.
Fine. I can be painfully aware of her from across the room.
I cross to the pile of toys on the black cloth photo backdrop and introduce myself to the hired child models who are dressed up like they’re going to a fancy ball.
“Hey, kids,” I say, squatting down to their level. “I’m going to be in these photos with you today. I’m a hockey player.”
“They told us,” one of the boys says. “You’re married to the pretty lady.”
“Ah, actually not. There was a change of plans. Her husband couldn’t make it.”
“You’re the replacement,” a girl says.
I wish.
I gesture at her sparkly ballgown. “How do I get a fancy outfit like this?”
She giggles. “It’s kind of itchy.”
“Even better. I love itchy clothes. Especially ones that are too tight and make it hard to breathe,” I say straight-faced.
More giggles.
The girl tugs at my jersey. “I like this.”
I spin on my heel, an idea forming. “Do you like the version that the pretty lady is wearing?”
“Uh huh.”
“Then you should go and ask her for it. It would be funny if you wore her jersey over your sparkly dress, don’t you think?”
Her eyes sparkle in agreement and she takes off running, stopping right beside Shannon and tugging on her hem.
Shannon looks nervously in my direction. “Maybe we can get her one?—”
“The others are all too big,” I say, cutting her off. “Yours is just right to puddle on the floor at her feet.”
I rise, excusing myself from the circle of kids, and cross to her.
Her cheeks turn red even before I lower my voice. “If you need another jersey to wear instead, you can have mine.”
She stares at me.
I’m not sure she’s going to do it, but then she yanks the custom jersey off, over her head.
She’s breathing hard as she hands it to me. Glaring, too. She’s so fucking beautiful, and I’d done holding myself back from making sure she knows that she’s wanted.
I let myself look my fill at her before I step back and put Shannon’s custom WAG jersey on the little girl. “There you go, princess. Fits you perfectly. You can keep that one.”
God bless Mabel for always having a rack of spare jerseys, ready for any occasion—although the way her gaze is darting back and forth between Shannon and me, I imagine she wasn’t anticipating her enforcer draping his number on the captain’s wife at this photo shoot.
“Don’t want you to get cold,” I say as I turn back to Shannon. The thinnest of excuses.
The look of raw but willing vulnerability that she gives me right before I slide my jersey over her head is fucking everything.
It’s a confession. It’s a plea.
She lets me slide her arms through the oversized sleeves. My gaze drops to where my number is, the same part of her arm where I pressed my fingers when we were watching Shoresy.
I want to claim her with so much more than just my jersey.
“We’re ready to start,” the photographer says.
“This won’t take long,” I say just for her ears. “Wait for me.”
Shannon’s gaze pleads with me to just go and do the thing I came here to do—cover for the team, maybe. More accurately, protect her from embarrassment. But more honestly, as soon as I heard her name, I knew I wanted to see her.
And now I want more than that.
I want everything, damn the consequences. Damn the embarrassment.
But the second I turn around and let them put me in the photo with the children, Shannon flees for the door. The last thing I see as she sprints for the hallway is my number on her back.
I know it’s a matter of seconds before she takes off that jersey on the other side of the door.
But I also know that her purse is still sitting on a table against the far wall. She hasn’t left the building. And the second we’re done here, I’m going hunting for her.