3. Dane

3

DANE

6 Months Later

“Larson, meet me in my office.”

I bend my hips and turn to the side to stop my glide, coming to a stop on the ice as I register Coach Miller’s barked command. I have no idea what I’ve done to piss off the Ranchers’ head coach, but I suspect I’ll know soon enough. Frank Miller isn’t the type of guy who holds his cards to his chest. You always know what he’s thinking.

“Oooo. Looks like someone is in trouble.” Cam skates over, wearing his bulky goalie pads, grinning at me like a mischievous kid. “What did you do this time?”

“He’s probably pissed about that interview you gave Ranchers Network last weekend,” Brody Patterson, one of our defensemen, chimes in with a cackle. “I can’t believe you criticized our fanbase like that.”

“I didn’t criticize shit,” I growl, unable to ignore their ball-busting. “All I said was our fanbase isn’t as large as the ones for the teams up north.” Which is objectively true.

The Ranchers have some loyal fans in the Dallas area, but other sports dominate the interests of the Texas population as a whole. It’s nothing like in Minnesota—my home state.

“You’re right.” Cam nods. “You didn’t criticize the fans. You criticized the organization. I bet the owner loved that.”

I shake my head, skate to the wall, and exit the rink. Practice is over, but a lot of the guys are hanging around and working on their shots. We’re two weeks out from the start of playoffs, and the team clinched a spot after our win over Boston last week.

Now, we’re all focused on the next phase of the season—and that’s doing everything in our power to make it to the finals and win the Stanley Cup for the first time in franchise history. It’s a tall order, but with the way the team is playing, we just might have a shot.

I go to the locker room to shower and change before making my way to Miller’s office. The door is open when I arrive.

Still, I knock.

“Come in, Larson.”

I roll my shoulder back, ready to face whatever criticism is coming my way, and step inside. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“I did.” Miller isn’t alone. Justin Young, the head athletic trainer, sits in front of the coach’s desk. “Take a seat.”

Justin watches me enter before rotating to face the head coach, who sits behind his sleek wood desk. I sit next to the trainer, lean back to rest my elbows on the armrests, and wait for Coach to explain why I’m here.

I don’t have to wait long. “There have been some questions regarding your recent performance.”

I blink. “My performance?”

Does he mean the slapshot I delivered in the final seconds of the last game to seal our win? Or my double-digit assists from the game before that?

“You’re training performance,” Justin says, receiving a silent cue from the coach that he should take over.

I eye the broad guy with a mix of annoyance and respect. Justin is a forty-year-old ex-player, and he knows his stuff. But I’m not thrilled with being criticized for something that isn’t worth criticizing.

“Can you elaborate?”

“Your endurance isn’t what it once was,” Justin states, unaffected by my cool tone. “You’re slower in the final minutes of the third period.”

So is every other player on the ice.

“My endurance is fine,” I counter. “I have no problem making shots when needed.”

“If we want to make it to the championship,” Miller interrupts. “We need all of our players to be at their best. Especially our captain.”

My lips turn down.

It’s an honor to be captain, and I knew the position would come with greater expectations, but I can’t believe my athletic prowess is being questioned. I can’t think of a single instance where I’ve made a mistake this season. I’m not exaggerating. I’ve been on fire this year.

Apparently, that isn’t good enough.

“It’s come to our attention that you don’t follow the team’s nutritional plan.”

My forehead furrows as I look back at Justin. “What are you talking about?”

“You haven’t spoken with the team’s sports dietician since you were traded to the team.”

“So?”

“So.” Justin and Coach Miller share a glance. The trainer continues, “Given your age, I suspect a change in diet could dramatically improve your endurance in the final minutes of the game. Which will prove critical in advancing in the playoffs.”

My age?

Is he being fucking for real?

“I’m only thirty-two,” the words come out as a growl.

“And nutritional needs drastically change as we grow older,” Justin continues, undeterred. “Especially for athletes.”

I look between the trainer and my coach. Part of me waits for someone to jump through the door and shout, “Gotcha”.

Or maybe for a confetti cannon to go off behind me, revealing this is all some weird sort of prank.

But no. They’re serious.

Tension knots my shoulders. I roll my neck to relieve the pressure and consider my next words carefully. “Let me make sure I understand you,” I say, looking at my coach. “You aren’t happy with my game performance.”

I briefly shift my attention to the trainer. “And you want me to change my macro intake to do that?”

“Your performance, as always, is commendable,” Coach Miller says. That’s high praise coming from the no-nonsense coach. “But Young is right. Your energy wanes towards the end of games. If there’s a shot of changing that with a new dietary regimen, it’s worth trying.”

I understand what he’s saying, but the way this subject has been brought to my attention rubs me the wrong way.

I’ve busted my ass for the Ranchers even though part of me wished I’d never been traded to the organization. I would’ve rather stayed up north.

“Fine.” My nostrils flare, and I tell myself to reign in my attitude. Miller won’t abide by a petty player who could damage locker room morale. He had one of our best defensemen traded last year for the same offense.

“What do I do? Set up a meeting with the dietician?” I’ll have to ask one of the guys where he or she works. As the trainer pointed out, I’ve never met them.

“No need.” Miller stands. Justin follows his lead. “You can meet with the nutrition team today.”

I look between the men with a frown and stand as well. “Right now?”

Coach Miller lifts a brow. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”

“No, sir.”

“Glad to hear it.” Coach nods at Justin. “Please take Dane to Dr. Gaines’ office.”

“Of course.” Justin tilts his head toward the door. “This way.”

I follow him out of Coach Miller’s office.

I wait until we round the corner so our voices won’t carry to growl, “What the hell, Justin? How about a little warning before you throw me under the bus?”

I respect the guy a lot, but what he just did wasn’t cool.

Justin frowns. “Don’t be dramatic, Larson. It’s nothing personal.”

“Really? Shit-talking my performance seems pretty personal.” I glare at the trainer. “Who brought up the conversation first, anyway?”

Justin looks at me from the corner of his eye when we reach the stairwell.

“The owner called a meeting last week to discuss playoff strategy,” he reveals. “Some staff was invited.”

He pushes past the door and begins to climb.

“And you all talked about my performance?” And clearly found it lacking.

“We talked about a lot of different ways to improve the team’s chances of making it to the finals. It wasn’t just about you.”

I shake my head but keep silent as I follow Justin to the next floor and through a room filled with tall cubicles that conceal their occupants.

Fluorescent light is drowned out by the bright sun shining in through floor-to-ceiling windows. Offices with glass walls line the edges of the space. Men and women in business suits sit behind mahogany desks, typing away at computers or speaking emphatically into phones.

Aside from the coaches’ offices, I never ventured beyond the training facilities in the Rancher’s facility. Running a hockey organization requires a lot of manpower, but I never considered what that looked like. There are a lot of people working here, and this is just one floor of the facility.

Justin turns down the farthest row of cubicles and heads toward the back corner office. This one has a foggy glass wall, which allows more privacy than the other offices. A bigwig must sit there.

We reach the door, which has an etched nameplate that reads, “ Dr. Gaines, MS, RD, LD.”

Justin knocks.

An aged voice from inside calls, “Come in.”

The trainer pushes open the door and steps inside. I take a deep breath, mentally preparing myself to keep a level head as I hear out whatever this guy is about to say. In my younger days, I was known as a bit of a hothead. I’ve gotten a better grasp of it these days, but irritation still snakes under my skin from this entire situation.

The first thing I notice when I enter the office is it’s nice. Like… really nice.

The view of the Dallas skyline a few miles away is incredible. The dark oak furniture is polished to a shine, and the red leather armchairs angled in front of the desk make me think this is an office fit for the team's owner —not some nutritionist. No offense intended; I just didn’t think the position would warrant this level of extravagance.

The second thing I notice is that the white-haired man standing by the bookshelf filled with textbooks with gold lettering on the spine isn’t the only person in the room. Anger sparks in my chest at being, once again, surprised by another unexpected witness to a conversation I don’t really want to have in the first place.

But then the woman with a sleek braid turns, and all the air rushes out of my lungs.

“ Morgan ?”