Chapter One

Keely

Walking down the hall of the Hawkeyes' main office, I follow Adel, the owner's assistant, as she leads me down to the General Manager's office. Adel is the same woman who sent me the acceptance email for my job application with the franchise and scheduled my interview with Sam Roberts.

It's far too soon to get my hopes up, especially since the reason I got this interview was because my uncle Oakley called in a favor to Penelope Roberts, the newly appointed Assistant General Manager, and the current GM's daughter. Still, the opportunity to interview for a Physical Therapist position for a professional sports team is a dream come true. It's the career I've been working toward and the reason that I went into sports therapy after getting my doctorate in physical therapy. I never dreamed I'd be in the corporate office of a professional sports team, due to my family's past. Especially after being let go from my last job.

"I heard that you're the niece of the team's favorite bar owner," Adel says.

She glances over her shoulder with a smile as if she knows my Uncle Oakley. I bet she does, considering that all of the Hawkeyes players buy a beer or two from him after every home game.

Up until I moved from Arizona to Seattle last week and started working for him part-time to earn my keep for staying in the studio apartment above his garage, I had no idea that my uncle's bar is the Hawkeyes' unofficial after-game hang-out spot. Last week, the team was out of town for their away games, but the fans all still showed up at Oakley's, decked out in Hawkeyes' gear. They gave me a small taste of what to expect after the Hawkeyes play a home game tomorrow night.

I assume that the reason I've never heard about the professional team that frequents his bar is because my uncle didn't want my father to know where he could have quick and easy access to a group of professional athletes. This is a tip my career-criminal father would have found useful about fifteen years ago. That is, before he went to prison for a decade and a half on racketeering charges for trying to pay off a soccer team to throw the World Cup for the mob.

Ever since the days of watching professional sports on the couch of my father's condo every other Saturday, per his visitation agreement with my mother, I knew at a young age that I wanted to be a part of this world. It didn't matter what was on: football, baseball, hockey, basketball, or golf, we'd watch it all.

The irony is that the man who brought me to my first love is also the man responsible for the six-month gap in my resume and the reason why I moved to Seattle from Arizona. I needed to get out of the city that knows too much of my family's dirty laundry.

He went away when I was in eighth grade and now at twenty-nine years old, I'm forced to start my life over again in a new city. After fifteen years, most of the world has forgotten about my father's trial. His name was buried under all the bigger names that were also on trial for the same bust. But it was a big deal in the community we lived in.

My dad was my t-ball coach, sat on numerous charity boards, and he was the head of our gated communities neighborhood watch. He was the kind of guy who would go out of his way to help anyone.

It took years after his high-profile trial for people in the city I grew up in to forget that I was Barrett Humphries' daughter. My mother even had my last name legally changed from Humphries to her maiden name—Woods. But it didn't matter. I grew up in that city so it only took days after the local newspaper reported his release for people's memories to come flooding back. That's when the college's sports director received an anonymous tip about my family tree and decided to distance the college from me, stating that it was in the best interest of their program, even though he admitted that I was one of the best PTs they'd ever hired. Even still, he felt the risk was too high just in case the information ever came out that the father of one of their employees did fifteen years for sports racketeering.

It's not as if I was the one working for the mob and bribed an elite soccer team. Still, the college didn't want to chance the possibility that it could hurt their ability to recruit high-performing high school players to their college program if players and their families saw my employment with the team as potentially hazardous to the program, thus hurting their chances at being drafted in the NFL.

I mean, people lost their homes, retirement… whatever they gambled on that game, and fans of soccer lost their trust in organized sports that day.

My uncle had one more surprise up his sleeve last week. He told me that he pulled in a favor with one of the high-ups in the organization and got me an interview for a PT opening whose job posting had already been taken down.

I applied for about thirty other PT positions within a twenty-five-mile radius after I was let go, but I received zero callbacks-even with the letter of recommendation that the college wrote for me. That's when I knew that if I wanted to do what I love, I'd need to move to a bigger city where no one knew who I was. Or, more accurately… a bigger city where no one knew who my father was.

"Here we are—Sam Roberts' office," she says, stopping in front of a large door stained the same deep espresso as the floors, with Sam Roberts, General Manager, written on a bronze plaque and drilled into the door.

She twists the doorknob and walks through. I follow as she leads me into a large waiting room with a sofa and coffee table to my left and a receptionist desk to my right and up against a back wall that seems to lead to Sam's office door.

"Cammy, this is Keely Woods," she says, tossing a thumb over her shoulder toward me as she leads me up to a receptionist's desk where a bright-eyed woman at least ten years younger than me sits with a wide smile as her eyes drift over to me. "She's a last minute addition to the interview schedule for Brenda's replacement in Sports Therapy. Sam knows about it."

Cammy stands out of her chair and leans across her desk as soon as I take the last steps up to her desk.

"Of course, welcome! I'm Sam and Penelope Roberts' assistant. Penelope mentioned you'd be coming in. It's great to meet you, Keely."

I slide my hand into hers and we shake.

"It's nice to meet you too. I almost can't believe I'm standing in the office of the GM for the Hawkeyes hockey team," I tell her.

Adel turns to me. "Cammy is the daughter of one of our players—Seven Wrenley. She's a wealth of knowledge, and she'll be the one corresponding with you for the duration of the interview process going forward."

I turn back to Cammy, unable to hide my surprise.

"Your father is Seven Wrenley, the Hawkeyes goalie?" I ask.

She nods with a proud smile across her lips.

"Your father is a legend," I tell her, but I'm sure she's already aware.

"Oh God, don't tell him that. He's hard enough to deal with as it is. The man doesn't need a bigger ego," she winks.

"Don't worry, I'll keep it to myself," I tell her.

I know she must be joking because Wrenley has been around long enough in the NHL that even I know that the man hasn't taken an interview in over a decade, and it's rumored that he refuses meet-and-greets with fans unless it's for a kid or a charity function. He keeps his head down when walking out of the Hawkeyes stadium and lets all the other players get the praise, seemingly uninterested in anything besides just playing the game he's hired for.

Adel turns her head to glance over at me. "I need to get back to my desk but I'm leaving you in good hands."

"Thank you, Adel," I tell her.

"Not a problem. Good luck and I'll see you on your way out," she says.

Then she turns and heads for the door.

Cammy opens her mouth to say something, but then the door to Sam's office opens, and a tall man with dark hair peppered around his ears stands on the other side of the door. My guess is that he's about the same age as my father—somewhere in his fifties.

He smiles the moment he sees me.

"You must be Keely Woods. My one o'clock interview?" he asks.

"Yes, sir, I am."

"Great. Come on in," he says, pulling the door open wide for me to pass through his office door. "Hold my calls, Cammy. Unless Phil Carlton calls with the new sponsor deal info. I need to know the minute that the contract comes through the legal office."

"Sure thing," I hear Cammy say as I take several steps through the threshold.

I hear the door click closed and then Sam takes steps behind me. My eyes dart around the room to take it all in.

Most of the pictures in his office are of a girl in ice skates—Penelope Roberts—with the most recent pictures of them together with the Hawkeyes center, Slade Matthews, as she sports her Olympics jacket and bouquet of roses in her hand.

I remember Penelope Roberts' huge return to the figure skating world. She and her partner took the world by storm. It was the feel-good story of the Olympics.

"Go ahead and take a seat," he says, walking around me, pointing to the two black leather chairs on the other side of his desk. "I hear that you're related to the one-and-only Oakley Humphries."

He lowers himself in his office chair, and the leather groans under his weight.

"Yes, that's right." I'm about to mention that Oakley is my father's brother but I bite my tongue before I let the words go. I'm not trying to pull a fast one over Sam's head by withholding information, but the likelihood that this interview will turn into a job offer is almost laughable. There's no point in giving away information that Sam doesn't need to be privy to. I hate the way that people in the sports world look at me when they know what my father has done. There's so much judgment and blame that gets cast my way. As if I knew anything about what my father was doing at the tender age of fourteen years old. "I just moved here from Arizona last week and I am beyond grateful for the opportunity to interview for this position. Without seeming too forward, Mr. Roberts, this is my dream job."

A job that feels more out of reach than ever before, due to who I'm related to.

"Sam, call me Sam, please," he says, pulling my paper resume off his desk to review it.

My clasped fingers, laying in my lap, begin to fidget, and I swallow down the lump in my throat as I watch Sam's gray-blue eyes dart from one side of the resume to the other.

"I see that you have a few years of experience working in a team sports environment for the University of Mesa. How did you like the work you did there? How was it working with a team of players?" he asks, still scanning my resume as he listens.

"I loved the busy days and the fact that nothing was ever the same. Working one-on-one with each player keeps every day fresh and different. Not a single player had the same needs as another. I really enjoyed the preventative work that we did there, implementing stretching and strengthening techniques during their workout routine to avoid future injury out on the field."

He nods, seemingly content with my answer.

"Why sports therapy? Once you received your masters in PT, what made you decide to put more hours into training and schooling in order to get your doctorate and sports therapy certificate?"

It's a good question, but one that I never had to ask myself when I decided to pursue Physical Therapy early on in my life.

"I have a passion for working with athletes. I played soccer in high school but tore my ACL and needed surgery. My mom took me to a DPT who specialized in sports injuries, Dr. Paula Jacobs. She spent more time with me than our allotted appointment time and even let me come in after my insurance stopped paying. To be in a field, where you get to do that sort of good and make a difference in people's lives drew me to it. I didn't get to return to the field before I graduated but that solidified it for me. I want to help others like she helped me."

And maybe, in some ways, this feels like a way for me to give back to the sports community when my father only took from it. Like a balance sheet that I'm desperately trying to even out. It feels like a losing proposition, but I have to try.

"And the reason for the six-month gap in your resume?"

I didn't include the college's letter of recommendation. It's better that I move on from here on out. Try to make a name for myself and prove that I'm really good at my job.

So I lie.

"I waited until the end of the season and then resigned since I knew I would be moving to Seattle to spend more time with my uncle. I wanted to make sure that the college had ample time to find my replacement. Finding a good DPT who cares about the athletes and specializes in preventative care and sports injury isn't easy."

"Yes, I know," he smirks.

"Right. I'm sure you do." I let out a small snicker.

Sam Roberts has been in the sports world for longer than I've been alive. Of course he knows how difficult it is to find a PT that fits with the team. Every team's needs are different and every sports therapy program has a playbook of its own.

"Let me be upfront and honest with you, Keely. The position we're filling is to replace our very talented PT, who is leaving us permanently in a couple of months for maternity leave. The job wouldn't start right away, and though I think you have the most passion for your line of work of anyone I've interviewed so far, you also have the least amount of years of experience and haven't worked on professional athletes like all of the other candidates."

I lower my head, attempting to hide my disappointment, but I knew this would be the result.

"I understand completely, and I'm extremely grateful that you gave me a chance to interview, sir."

"Sam," he corrects again. "And I haven't made my decision yet. I have a lot to consider, and since the position isn't open for a couple of months, I have some time to determine which applicant will suit our team best."

The sound of Cammy's voice comes over the phone's intercom.

"Sorry to interrupt, but Phil Carlton just called. He said that the contract came in, and he's heading over to legal's office."

Sam hits the intercom button to respond.

"Thanks for letting me know. Keely and I just finished up. I'll head there now."

He lets go of the intercom button and then stands—I stand next, trying to appear casual as I wipe the nervous sweat from my hands against my navy slacks before our goodbye handshake.

"It really is a pleasure to meet you. Your passion for this field is evident in the way you talk about it, and whoever inevitably hires you will be lucky to have you on their team, I'm sure of it."

"Thank you," I say, warmth blooming on my cheeks.

This is the first time I've ever blushed while being rejected, but receiving a compliment like that from a legend in the hockey world means a lot to me. The sincerity in Sam's eyes leads me to believe he means every word. Even if I'm doomed never to find a job out here in Seattle, hearing those words from Sam is reason enough for me to have made the trip.

Now I need to head back to the studio apartment and prepare for tomorrow night. The Hawkeyes will be heading to my uncle's bar after the game tomorrow, and I need to work on memorizing all fifty beers and hard ciders that my uncle has on tap.

I haven't had to cram like this since college but I'm ready for a new challenge. The people on the West Coast take their beer extremely seriously. God forbid someone asks me to recommend a good IPA and I suggest a lager or an ale. They'll hand me my ass and then laugh me out of the bar.

No, that can't happen.

On the way home, I'll have to stop for my no-fail study snack—hot popcorn with M&M's poured inside. I can almost taste the melted chocolate and crunch of the popcorn already.

Then, bring on the flashcards!