Page 5 of Roughing
She beamed at me with mischief in her eyes. Why this kid had attached herself to my grumpy ass was beyond the scope of my understanding. Every day after school, Remi sat in the lobby and read, colored, or entertained herself in some manner. Hudson, the resident cat, lay next to her, curled in as small a ball as his fat body allowed.
“Do you think I could borrow a couple dollars for a candy bar?” She asked me this every single day. What the hell did her parents do that they left her alone in this lobby for hours without food? I didn’t know, and I made it my business not to find out.
“Borrow?” We both knew she’d never pay me back. She beamed at me. The girl was a little charmer, not the least bit intimidated by my bad attitude.
“Just enough for a candy bar. I have a sweet tooth.”
Sighing, I pulled out my wallet and gave her a ten. Her big brown eyes lit up as if I’d gifted her a puppy. “Thank you, Biggs. Thank you.” She giggled and launched herself at me, hugging me. I awkwardly extracted her arms from around my legs. I wasn’t into kids, and I’d made a dire mistake by giving her money that first day she’d asked. I didn’t have a clue how old she was. Maybe five or six or seven. Hell, maybe she was eight. Children’s ages escaped me.
“Don’t eat too much crap.” We both knew that’s exactly what she would do. I continued my trek across the street to my car. I’d have walked, but rain was coming down in sheets. I briefly wondered once again why Remi was left on her own in the lobby, but I shrugged it off. None of my business. The ancient security guard didn’t seem to mind, and he certainly kept an eye on her. Hal was the kind of man anyone would want for a grandfather, at least from what I’d seen on TV.
My motto was never get involved on a personal level. Giving this girl money was being involved. She was a little con artist, precocious and daring, and I’d be wise to keep my distance. Even at a distance, talking with her could end badly if she had parents who seized an opportunity to scam money from a high-profile athlete like me.
Shrugging off thoughts of Remi, I reminded myself that I had more important things to worry about. I drove to the Icehawks practice facility and parked my truck in the parking garage in the player section. I got out and took the elevator to the practice rink level. Outside the rink, I heard my teammates’ shouts, skates swishing on ice, and the bam-bam-bam of sticks hitting pucks.
My gut wrenched with the reality of how much I missed those sounds.
Drawn by some inexplicable power, I slipped into the rink and stood in a darkened corner to avoid being seen. Hockey was in my blood. I wanted to be out there. I craved the feel of the burn in my thighs and the ache in my lungs as I pushed my body to new limits.
Admit it, Briggs, you aren’t ready to walk away.
But I didn’t want to play on this loser team, either. They’d disrespected me from day one by pairing me on the second line with a rookie. I was a solid first pairing, and their bullshit solidified in my mind that the coaching staff didn’t have a freaking clue what they were doing. All that rah-rah positive crap served as a smoke screen for incompetence.
As good as I was, I should’ve never been exposed in the expansion draft. If I were being honest, my attitude, not my ability, was the reason. I’d immediately contacted my agent and requested a trade elsewhere, almost anywhere but a going-nowhere expansion team in Portland, Oregon. Of all the fucking choices for expansion, I was baffled as to why Portland won that coveted prize.
No trade was forthcoming—not even a lowball offer. I’d deluded myself for the past several months. There wasn’t a team out there that wanted a disruptive asshole like me, no matter what amazing stats I had or how stellar my abilities. My agent contacted multiple teams in need of a top-line defenseman. The Icehawks also shopped me around. From what I understood, not one franchise showed the slightest bit of interest.
It was either the Icehawks or tuck my tail between my legs and play in Europe. At this point, I wasn’t certain the Icehawks were an option. I could well suffer the final humiliation of being a healthy scratch for the remainder of the season if they couldn’t off-load me elsewhere.
I narrowed my gaze and watched the defensive pairings muddle their way through drills. It was painful.
The guys trickled off the ice. If they noticed me, they didn’t acknowledge my existence, and I didn’t blame them. I’d been nothing but a problem since the day I walked into this facility. My shitty attitude rolled off me in waves in an uncontrollable tsunami of frustration, anger, and guilt. I lashed out at anyone who tried to get close. I didn’t need or want friends. I destroyed those closest to me through my selfishness. My sister had learned that the hard way, and I no longer deserved good things. Keeping my distance did us all a favor.
My phone vibrated, a reminder that my appointment was in ten minutes. Reluctantly, I took the elevator to the executive floor and stiffly walked to the GM’s corner office. His assistant, Rodney Glasson, glanced up and didn’t disguise his scowl. I wasn’t popular anywhere in this organization.
“Go on in. They’re waiting for you.” His disapproval was palpable. I entered the office, not paying attention to the stunning view or the impressive display of credentials on the bookcase. I already knew all I needed to about both of these men. Honestly, I didn’t understand why they’d agreed to take on the task of building an expansion team.
Sitting at a table were Coach Jeffs and GM Brian Werkle, a Hall of Famer revered for his brilliant hockey mind. Coach Jeffs had been my college coach another lifetime ago. Back then, I’d been affable and enthusiastic, ready to do whatever it took to make the pros. Now I was jaded, angry, and self-destructive, ready to lash out without warning. Jeffs was most likely the reason this crap team had chosen me.
“Sit down.” Werkle waved his hand toward the chair.
I nodded and sat down, wiping my sweaty palms on my pants. My stomach pitched and rolled like a small boat in stormy seas. Surreptitiously I slid my hand under the table and rubbed my midsection, but nothing calmed my nerves. I hated this vulnerable feeling. I was at their mercy. These guys had my future in the palms of their hands.
“Let’s get to the point.” Werkle started the conversation. His obvious disgust wasn’t lost on me, and my chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. I battled hard to keep my emotions in check. Hockey players were renowned for their pain tolerance, and I’d never let them see me bleed. On the outside was cool as the ice in the rink; on the inside was a boiling pot of water on a stove.
My tumultuous emotions revealed a truth that struck me with the velocity of a puck to the cheek. I wanted to play hockey. I needed to play hockey. As much as I tried to convince myself I’d rather quit than grovel for forgiveness, that simply wasn’t true. I’d do what it took to stay on this team.
“Your suspension ends tomorrow, the same day the team leaves on a five-game road trip. I don’t want you on that plane.” His gaze pierced the layers of armor protecting my emotions. My stomach wasn’t braving this storm well and threatened to embarrass the hell out of me. I was going to be physically ill, but I held it together by sheer force of will. On the outside, I was stone-faced and indifferent. Inside, I was a hot mess.
Werkle waited for his words to sink in. I gazed steadily at him and said nothing. The two men exchanged a private glance I wasn’t able to interpret. The room was oppressively hot, and I wiped my brow, noting they appeared cool and calm.
“Thank you for your time.” I started to rise from my chair.
“Sit. Down.” Werkle’s tone rang harshly like a thunderclap, and I dropped back into my chair. We sized each other up for a long moment. Unblinking, I met Werkle’s challenging gaze. I looked away first. Now wasn’t the time to turn this into a pissing match.
Silence permeated the room with tension thicker than a goalie’s pads. I fidgeted with the collar of my shirt and pulled it away from my neck. When I caught Werkle’s satisfied smirk, I clasped my hands in my lap. I’d revealed my apprehension and given them the upper hand. They had me where they wanted me, and they knew it.
“Jeffs believes you’re redeemable.” Werkle’s gaze sliced into me with the accuracy of a surgeon hitting me right in the heart. He turned to Coach Jeffs, silently yielding the floor to him. The knot in my stomach loosened but didn’t go away. GMs overrode coaches when it came to player personnel decisions. I didn’t know enough about this organization to understand the dynamics between the two and how much weight Werkle would give to the coach’s desires.
