30. Dane

30

DANE

“Conference Champions, Baby!” Cam shouts in the visitor’s locker room at the Knights’ arena. The team erupts into a roar of cheers when he and Gavin pop bottles of champagne. The sticky liquid sprays over everyone in the room. “Next stop, the Stanley Cup!”

“Hell yeah!”

“We’re going to sweep the Florida Crocs!”

“They don’t stand a chance.”

I grin and listen to my teammates continue to jar about our opponents in the finals as they pass along our conference trophy, admiring the shiny hardware we worked so hard for.

We’re a good team, but so is Florida. Beating them won’t be easy, but as long as we play with the skill we showed tonight, I’m confident we can pull it off.

“And let’s hear it for Coach Miller,” Cam continues shouting.

The team cheers for our head coach.

Miller lifts an acknowledging hand. The room quiets. “I’ve never doubted this team is capable of greatness, and you men just proved it to the world.’

I join my teammates and clap.

“Now, let’s get cleaned up and back on the plane to Dallas. We have two days to celebrate before it’s back to work preparing for the finals.”

The room hoots for another few seconds before the team heeds Coach’s words and strips out of our uniforms to hit the showers.

“Larson. Someone wants to talk to you.”

I’m pulling my jersey over my head when Coach Miller addresses me. I drop the sweaty material and look over to see him standing with none other than Vincent Gianni Jr., the owner and NHL Governor of the Texas Ranchers—the same man who has been avoiding me since the trade news broke.

Vincent Jr. wasn’t the acting owner when I joined the team. His father, Vincent Senior, is the one who pushed for me to join his team when my rookie contract was up and I was eligible for a trade.

The old man and I got along great. Mr. Gianni came from humble beginnings, working his way up in the world with a hospitality business that flourished into the billion-dollar corporation he left to the middle-aged man standing in front of me. I’d respected him. And he’d respected me.

My relationship with Vincent Jr. is not the same.

“Congrats on a great win.” Vincent holds out his hand. He looks like a Bond villain with his slicked-back hair and fitted, dark suit.

I shake his hand. “Thanks.”

“It got off to a rough start, but we pulled out the W in the end. Didn’t we?”

You didn’t do shit.

“The team worked hard,” I reply, then cut to the chase. “How can I help you, Mr. Gianni?”

“Call me Vincent, please.” His lips curl up into a tense smile. “And I’m here because I’ve heard that you wanted to speak with me about recent trade negotiations that were prematurely leaked to the media.”

“Negotiations that I’m not part of,” I point out, doing my best not to show just how irritated I am by that fact.

Not even Henry is privy to specific details about what’s going on with the higher-ups at the Ranchers and Minnesota. And he should be.

Henry’s incompetence is another reason I have Carter’s lawyer, Davis Phillips, looking into my contract with my agent. I don’t wish the guy ill, but he’s proven he’s not the best man to represent me and my interests. Not anymore.

“The board and I didn’t think it would be wise to distract you from focusing on playoffs,” Vincent Jr. says smoothly. “I’m sure you understand.”

“But now is a good time?” I cross my arms and look meaningfully at the room filled with players and staff, several of who keep looking at me and the owner with a mix of curious and suspicious expressions. I’m not the only one who doesn’t vibe with the new owner.

“Yes, if you don’t mind.”

“Let’s step into the back,” Coach Miller proposes, already heading in that direction. “There’s an office we can use.”

I motion for Vincent Jr. to walk ahead of me, then follow the men deeper into the guest locker room.

Cam catches my eye, lifting a brow as he bundles up his jersey into a ball and shoots it into the laundry cart.

I dip my chin to let him know I’m good, then look forward and mentally prepare what I want to say to the cagey owner.

I need to tell Vincent Jr. I’m not interested in being traded. I’ll admit I was wrong to bring it up in the first place. I’ll apologize if I have to. But I’m not letting our conversation end without making it clear that I won’t consent to a trade.

Coach Miller opens the office, which is intended for visiting coaching staff, and motions Vincent Jr. and me inside.

I walk to the other side of the room and lean my back against the wall, facing the door. Vincent Jr. positions himself just next to the entrance while Coach Miller makes himself comfortable in the office chair situated behind the metal desk in the center of the space.

“We don’t have much time until we need to head to the airport,” Coach begins, never one to beat around the bush. “How about we get this conversation rolling?”

Vincent Jr. smiles tightly. “Brash, as always, Mr. Miller.”

The seasoned coach doesn’t bat an eye. I respect him for it.

The owner hums under his breath before turning his attention to me. “Miller says you don’t want to be traded.”

I resist looking at my coach. I’m surprised to hear he spoke to the owner on my behalf, but I appreciate it. “That’s right.”

“He believes you’d retire rather than agree to a trade deal,” the billionaire presses his lips into a flat line. “Is that true?”

Again, I’m surprised Coach Miller has taken it upon himself to speak to Vincent Jr. about this subject, especially when I haven’t explicitly told him I’d stop playing hockey rather than be traded. I hadn’t wanted my drama to distract him or anyone else on the team from focusing on playoffs. But I’m glad to hear Miller is in my corner for this fight.

Again, I say, “That’s right.”

Vincent Jr. exhales a heavy breath and shakes his head condescendingly. “You know, you really put us in a bind with that mess with the trainer.”

“Yeah,” I clear my throat and swallow my pride. “Sorry about that. I’m glad things were resolved.”

“As were we, but to be frank, the organization is worried something similar might happen again in the future.”

“It won’t.”

“Yes, well, while I appreciate your words, you have to understand our concerns. If you remain on the team, we will need guarantees that this sort of thing won’t happen again.”

I feel my heart pound against my sternum. “So, there’s a chance you won’t go through with the trade?”

“Considering your willingness to leave hockey behind if we do, there doesn’t seem to be a reason to bother going through the effort. Any deal we make won’t hold if you no longer play.”

Victory swells in my chest. It deflates when he adds, “But there need to be concessions on your end before we agree to keep you on the team.”

I stiffen.

I don’t like the sound of that.

“What sort of concessions?”

Vincent Jr. tucks his hands into his pockets. “Considering the latest legal problems the organization had to deal with, it’s imperative that your relationship with your current nutritionist needs to change.”

I take a slow, measured breath before I respond, “Change? How?”

He rocks back on his heels. “Well, the easiest option would be for the relationship to end.”

My nostrils flare. “Excuse me?”

“Now, now,” Vincent says placatingly. “That is not the only option, of course. The young lady could also resign from her position. That would have the same desired effect. In fact, that might be the best option. Breakups can be a headache of their own.”

A red haze begins to creep along the edge of my vision.

The guy has some nerve to stand in front of me and suggest such a thing with a serious face.

The only thing stopping me from screaming in this asshole’s face is the fact he’s the owner of the team I want to play for, but that doesn’t stop me from injecting ice into my next words.

“Morgan and I followed the team’s dating policy to the letter.” Morgan had insisted on it. She didn’t want our fake relationship to bite her in the ass. Understandably so.

And I’ll be damned if I let our real relationship negatively affect her, either.

“Yes,” Vincent nods. “And I’ve personally instructed our HR department to amend the policy to prevent any relationships of this nature from occurring in the future.”

I frown. “Relationships of what nature?”

“The Ranchers no longer want players to have romantic relations with anyone in the organization. We want to avoid conflicts of interest and potential distractions.”

The red haze grows. “My relationship with Morgan caused neither of those things.”

“Well, it led you to assault another member of our staff, didn’t it?” Vincent Jr.’s placating smile is forced.

“That staff member was harassing her, and he has been accused of harassing at least one other woman.” I widen my stance and cross my arms, ready to go to battle.

I don’t give a fuck if Vincent Jr. is the owner. I won’t roll over and let him make these statements unchallenged.

“A change in policy does seem a little reactionary,” Coach Miller remarks.

I’d forgotten he was in here.

I look toward the seated man and note his lips are curved in a disappointed frown. But it’s not directed at me.

“Your input is noted, Mr. Miller,” Vincent Jr. says dismissively. “But the policy change is underway, nonetheless.”

The Ranchers can do whatever they want with their employee handbook. I have no say in that, but I do have a say in what I will or will not agree to regarding my relationship.

“Morgan and I aren’t going to break up, and she isn’t quitting her job,” I state, pushing off the wall and straightening to my full height. “We did nothing wrong.”

Vincent’s oily smile falters. “Then we will be pursuing a trade. If that is not what you desire, I suggest you reconsider your decision.”

Fuck this asshole.

Owner or not, I’m not going to stand here and be blackmailed like this. I don’t fucking need this job. And I don’t want to play for an asshole who’d put someone in this position.

“Fine,” I growl. “Then consider this my notice that I plan to retire at the end of the season.”

“Larson, don’t be?—”

“I will finish this season strong for my teammates,” I speak over Coach Miller. It’s against my instinct to dismiss a coach’s words, but I need to let this conniving piece of shit knows he can’t manipulate me to do what he wants.

“But make no mistake, Gianni.” I let hatred seep into the words, hoping they convey at least a fraction of the disdain I have for the manipulative Nepo baby. “I’m done with the Ranchers. Enjoy explaining that to your board.”