Page 2 of Locke

I throw my gloves into the stall and let my stick fall to the floor.I have no clue what’s going on in the game, even though there are TVs along the walls I could watch if I were interested.We’re defending a penalty right now and it might cost us the win.

Even though I project an attitude that I don’t give a shit about such things, I actually do care about winning.I mean, I want my team to win and there will be guilt if this stunt costs us the W.But right now, I can’t watch.I just want to go home.

The only person in the room is one of the equipment attendants, a kid in his early twenties who I’ve never spoken a single word to.He’s at the far end with a tray of sharpening equipment.

He looks up quickly, then averts his eyes again.

I sit on the bench and methodically strip off my gear, working through the same sequence I’ve been doing since I was a kid.They’re mindless motions, which is good, because the part of my brain that handles thought is preoccupied with tomorrow.

The headlines that will spotlight my reckless behavior.The same chatter that has followed my name around for years, no matter where I go, no matter how many organizations I move through, no matter how thoroughly I refuse to discuss it with anyone who asks.

I know I’m an enigma, but I don’t give a shit if people don’t understand me.They’re going to think what they want about me and the version that makes the rounds is never near the truth.I accepted that a long time ago and I don’t have the energy to say otherwise.The true version lives only in my head now and I’m okay with being the villain.

I peel off my elbow pads and set them in the compartment.

The anger is still there because it never leaves—a low simmer that’s an inherent part of me.I stopped pretending otherwise around the time I realized that pretending doesn’t make it go away.

If anything, it makes it burn hotter.

Yeah… it’s better to know where it lives.I don’t need to ruminate on the why because that’s a part of my life I’d just as soon forget.I merely need to accept it’s who I am.

The door opens but I don’t look up, assuming it’s one of the trainers coming to have a look at whatever damage Morrow’s knuckles did to my jaw, which is throbbing like a son of a bitch.

“Sam.”

That’s Patrick Rowe’s voice, quiet and commanding.

My head jerks up, as I have no clue who Sam is.I find Patrick standing there, looking over at the equipment guy, who’s staring back at him with wide eyes.“Mind giving me the room?”he asks.

“Yes, Mr.Rowe,” he says, even offering an awkward, bobbing bow.

“Just five minutes,” Rowe says, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.He offers the kid a reassuring smile and only after he’s gone does he turn his attention to me.

Rowe is a powerful man.He’s tall, broad through the shoulders, and carries an undeniably commanding presence wherever he goes.He’s a forty-eight-year-old, fiercely ambitious mogul who doesn’t impress me at all.He stands there in his immaculate suit with vivid blue eyes that are clearly sizing me up.

I note he doesn’t look angry, but that doesn’t surprise me.Over the past several weeks, I’ve never heard the man raise yell at anyone, but I also know he’s no pushover.

Which kind of sucks.Anger would be easier.Anger, I can work with.Instead, he looks like a man who has made up his mind but is here as a courtesy to fill me in on the game plan.The thought of it raises my hackles.

I keep working on my gear, ignoring my ultimate boss.The man who can make or break me.

Rowe moves into my peripheral vision and takes up a position standing a few feet from me.He doesn’t say anything right away, so I keep working on my gear.

He sighs, a sign of annoyance, and that actually makes me happy.

“You want to tell me what happened out there?”he finally says.

I bend over to unlace a skate.“Morrow ran his mouth.I responded.”

“Morrow runs his mouth at everyone.That’s his job.He does it every game and he’s been doing it for years.”

I have nothing to say to that.

“Third period,” Rowe says.“Tied game.”

And that strikes deep, a sizzle of guilt burning in my gut.“I’m aware of the score.”

“Good.Then you’re also aware, Locke, that we’re currently on the penalty kill because you’re sitting in here instead of being on the ice.”