Chapter 3

3

JACK

After the busted game against the Oklahoma Thunder, Coach finally catches up with me, requesting that we have a word.

Bracing myself for a reprimand over my lackluster performance, I tell myself to shake it off, just like all the other oddities of this past week. I’ll reset and come back better than ever after I escape to Jewel Island.

Coach Remy Rougier is a stout man who I’ve never seen lace up. When I signed with the Storm, legendary coach Axel McAden led us like a general. Remy is more of a bowling pin than a cannonball, but his nervous expression worries me.

I follow him to a random office that looks like it’s been vacant since the Cold War. A fluorescent light flickers above a table with two folding chairs. The metal groans when Remy sits down.

My mind records the details of my surroundings to avoid even a second wasted speculating about what he wants to tell me. Or maybe I’m capturing this moment like a before photograph because my life is about to change forever .

“Jack, please take a seat.”

A holdover habit from McAden’s days, I await orders. However, I don’t want to obey Remy. I’m not interested in sitting even though my feet are tired from hours on the ice. I fear whatever he’s about to say requires me to be standing at attention.

He leans back and says, “It was quite a game we had out there with the Thunder.”

I squint because I don’t catch his drift. “It was a game all right.”

“I know you’ve had a rough week.”

“Sure have.”

I award him a D+ for his breaking-the-ice opener.

“You’ve been with the Storm for how many years now?”

Those knots in my stomach tighten. “Almost a decade.”

“Any thoughts on what you want to do when you retire? Big plans?”

I shake my head slowly because the “R” word only applies to other people. I’m still young—just thirty, as Gunther pointed out. “I have a lot more games in me.”

“Not if you keep playing like a rookie.” Remy’s face instantly turns red as if embarrassed that he spoke out of turn.

My jaw tightens and the muscles tick. But he’s not wrong.

Hand waving in the air, Remy says, “It’s just that changes are coming.”

“Are you referring to my contract?”

“The no-trade clause expires, and we have to keep things moving in a winning direction. Hit the playoffs hard.”

“When have I ever done anything else?” My arms slide across my chest because of where this conversation sounds like it’s going.

A bead of sweat appears on Remy’s upper lip. I arch an eyebrow, indicating he cut to the chase, as he discretely wipes it away.

“We have a reputation and so do you, I’m afraid,” he says, as if instantly regretting it. Probably sounded better when he practiced in the mirror.

“My reputation? What’s that supposed to mean?” I won’t cede an inch of territory or let on that my worst fear is about to come true.

“With women, mostly. The partying, too.”

“When has that ever been a problem?” I’m no different than any of the other guys on the team, other than the fact that I have more resources to fund the fun.

He shifts his weight and the chair squeaks again. “Thing is, I’ve been met with a situation. You’re a soon-to-be free agent. Tommy Badaszek offered to trade one of their centers—Kevin Haberssen—for you.”

I grit my teeth. “I’ve been loyal to this team for a long time.”

“Yes, but times change, lineups rearrange, and?—”

“And this is absolute trash.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “I’m afraid it’s reality. The first option that was presented was for you to retire. I did my best to offer an alternative because I agree that you have some more games in you.”

I notice he didn’t say good games. A cool sweat works its way over my skin and my stomach feels like an empty pit. Does that mean someone in the Carolina Storm organization suggested I retire and the Knights’ coach made an offer to keep me in the NHL?

I ask, “Where’s this coming from? It can’t be just due to my recent performance. My cumulative stats are still well above my peers.” I would never have spoken to McAden this way. But there’s something shifty about Remy that makes me push him for more information .

“It was suggested that it’s time for you to retire.” He looks at his hands as if stopping himself from saying more.

“Last I checked, that’s up to me.” Though my father would disagree.

Clearing his throat, Remy continues, “Son, you’re an exceptional ice hockey player?—”

“I’m not your son,” I say and instantly sense that I’m shooting the messenger.

Remy goes on, “And I know you have more to give to the sport. When I was told it’s time for you to step down, I did what I could. The Knights want you. That’s the best I can do.”

“And you think Haberssen is a better forward than me?”

He shakes his head slightly, but it’s as if he’s in a hostage situation. I half expect him to blink twice as if to indicate my hunch is correct. But it doesn’t come. Instead, he gets to his feet.

Remy nervously raps his knuckles on the table. “Retire or join the Nebraska Knights. That’s what’s on the table.”

“We play the Knights next week.”

“That’s right. Maybe it’ll help you decide, but Badaszek gave a deadline. Mid-season trades aren’t typical, so there will be some paperwork to complete and arrangements to be made. Either way, it’s your last game with the Storm.”

Anger rises inside. The most I can do is grunt, otherwise, I risk a scream of frustration that’ll bring down the roof of this shabby old arena. “Got it.”

“See you on Monday and thanks for understanding.” Remy stumps away.

Oh, I understand all right. They want me out because of my high salary. Trade me in for a cheaper model, maybe two. I’m a beast on the ice and my father’s charming, affable son off it, at least until he shacked up with a woman young enough to be my twin.

Without hockey, I’ve got nothing.

I want to wash off this conversation and what it potentially means like yesterday’s workout.

To siphon off some of this white-hot energy, I consider tying on my skates and doing some laps. My phone dings—a reminder to meet my father for a late dinner.

No doubt, I’ll get a few scathing comments about how it reflects poorly on him that I missed the event along with a hefty serving of criticism for my dull play lately—not that my father goes to my games.

I remind myself that the Jewel Island oasis awaits and if this is the last thing I have to do before I set foot on the plane, I’ll go out with a bang.