Chapter 3

Wade

I open my mouth to object to having this support team that's being thrust upon me, but I don't get a chance before Savanna points down the line of people. "You will check in with me every Friday, in person to tell me about your progress. If I am unavailable, you will report to Dustin or Marcus."

"Progress?" I blurt, confused, but again she railroads my questions.

"As a team, we've decided to deal with your recent behavior in-house," she says as if reading from a script. "More than anything, we want you to remain on the team. Marcus has agreed to do all he can to help you get back on track without external influence from the governing bodies."

Shit, if they get involved my contract would more than likely be terminated.

Savanna adds, "You will be required to attend grief counseling sessions with Thomas Bernstein." Waving her hand in the direction of a guy I assume to be Thomas. "Pleased to meet you, Wade." He nods, smiling.

"I don't need a grief counselor." My tone is fretful and I scowl hard, looking back at Savanna. I then apologize to Thomas. "No offense."

"None taken," he replies, seemingly unaffected by my objection.

Ezra, Myles, now everyone else… why does everyone think I need grief counseling?

Savanna's tone becomes much gentler as she says, "We heard Gretchen died, Wade. I'm so sorry to hear that." With kind eyes she looks at me, her sympathy stabs me through the heart, and I feel like I want to fucking die. "A year ago?"

Who told them?

My mother? Why would she care?

Fuck her. She didn't even come to her funeral.

Savanna tilts her head to the side. "Why didn't you tell us, Wade? We would have helped you navigate your loss." I didn't even take any time off, I just tunneled through the darkness of it all in a daze.

"It was nobody's business but mine. I don't need anyone's help." I sound pathetic. Like I might break at any second. I hate it.

"If you want to remain on the team, the counseling is non-negotiable," Marcus states, straightening his tie.

Eyes locked in a standoff, we stare at each other, and I know I'm not exactly in a position to argue with him. I'd be a fool to mess with the man who pays my wages and can stop them with a quick email to Savanna.

"Our sponsors and stakeholders are sitting up and paying attention. They don't appreciate the bad publicity. Neither do the fans." Marcus points at three large moving boxes. "Those are full of hate mail."

My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach. Hate mail?

His admission makes me see that it's time for change. Although I don't know if I can. I"ve been wallowing for so long now, it's become a habit. So, I take the path of least resistance and agree to it if it will guarantee my place on the team. "Okay." No one said I have to talk when I go to the grief counseling, just attend, so that's what I'll do. Show up and tick a box.

"What else do I have to agree to?"

I snap my eyes along the table and calculate that I have another four people I'll have to agree to work with if I want to see out my career playing for the Eagles.

My gaze lingers for a beat longer than it should on a woman I think I recognize.

No way it could be her. My mind is playing tricks on me, surely.

Her unnerving stare from her dark eyes makes me shift in my seat as uneasy feelings course through my body.

Oozing power, her face remains motionless, glaring at me as if wanting to eat me alive. With blood-red lips, she looks like a black widow spider—one bite and she'll kill me.

I squint to get a better look… is it her? It can't be… looks a lot like her though… I'm definitely seeing things.

Savanna's voice breaks my thoughts. "You will work with Ash one-on-one at his training facility to improve your skills. Specifically, on your edge work drills."

"My edge work is insane." I look across at Ash, confused, throwing my hands in the air.

He sits forward, resting his laced fingers on top of the table. "It needs improving. As is your ability to avoid contact and contain your temper when another player is intentionally unsportsmanlike. I've watched the tapes. You're a liability on the ice, to yourself and others. You'll come work with me every week and you'll also have sessions with our sports psychologist, Joe Gray." A guy around his mid-forties nods his head to make himself known.

Unable to stop myself, I blurt out, "What the hell do I need to speak to a spo––"

Ash places his pointer finger to his lips, urging me to shut up. "It's all booked, Wade."

I flop back in my chair, folding my arms across my chest, unable to hide how annoyed I am with all this.

Between training, visiting Gretchen's grave, which I do every week without fail, games, traveling, press conferences, interviews—although they don't let me do them anymore—and preparing balanced meals for my strict eating plan, when the hell am I getting any downtime?

"This is for your own good," Ash justifies. "You'll also be assigned sessions with our nutritionist too. No more alcohol. It doesn't agree with you."

He's not wrong about that.It makes me aggressive and confrontational and turns me into someone I don't particularly like. If I didn't know better, I would swear I have an ulcer because it makes me vomit something terrible.

A sweet voice interjects, "And you don't have to worry about preparing food, grocery shopping, laundry, errands, appointment scheduling, everything you don't have the time for because your schedule is about to get super busy, I'll do it all. I'm Lola, and I'm your new personal assistant." A beautiful girl with the sweetest dimples smiles at me with a shy finger wave.

Paying full attention, I unfold my arms and sit up straight. Now this I can get on board with. Lola is beautiful. Blond, brown eyes, around my age, maybe slightly younger.

"Lola has a boyfriend." Ash sounds exasperated. "Hands off."

"We're getting married, actually." She flashes her ring to everyone.

"Well, that's too bad," I say, turning on my boyish charm, making everyone chuckle except Marcus.

Although I should watch my mouth. The Britney incident is still fresh in everyone's minds.

Read the mood in the room, Wade.

"Why are you doing this for me?" I asked, confused by the whole set up. I'm unworthy of their effort, time, and money. It must be costing the team a fortune to hire all of these professionals. Other than Gretchen, nobody has ever cared about me or my career before.

Leon jumps in to explain. "Wade, you're out of control. You need saving from yourself before you really mess up. Fights on the ice, fights off the ice." He points at his fingers as he reels off a list of my misdemeanors. "Arguments with your team, being rude to fans, coming late for press conferences, drinking, late nights, missing practice. If you agree to work with me, that all has to stop. Today." He cuts his hands through the air in front of him. "I won't put up with any of your shit. If you agree to my representation, I will not allow you to make a fool out of me, the team, and all of us around this table." Leon pauses, and I know what he's going to say. "This is your last chance. Or––" He draws an invisible line with his pointer finger across his neck as if he's cutting his head off.

"I'll transfer you to another team. Out of Canada. To an AHL team," Marcus confirms my worst nightmare.

Holy shit, Leon is going to be my new agent, but fuck no, I will not be transferred to some bumfuck farm team in the AHL.

No fucking way.

"Okay," I agree instantly.

"No more broken noses." Leon waggles his finger at me, and I have to force myself not to laugh.

"Thanks, Leon." I stand up to reach across the wide table and hold my hand out for him to shake it, which he does. "I want you to represent me," I confirm.

"We are going to do great things together. All of us together will. Lola has the paperwork. You just have to read over the terms, which you will see are pretty sweet. Have a lawyer check them over too. Get back to me with any questions or amendments. Once signed, we can get the ball rolling because I have plans for you, Wade Collins."

I can almost see the dark clouds above my head evaporating as he pulls my hand into his and pumps it up and down like an excitable hydraulic piston.

Whatever his terms are, I don't care. I will sign the contract whatever his percentage fee is, although I've probably just shook his hand and sold my kidney as part of the deal. Fuck it, I only need one though, right?

"I don't get into that many fights," I lie through my teeth as I pull my hand away, and smile through my dishonesty, as I take my seat again.

"I disagree." A clipped disembodied voice snaps my head in the direction it came from.

The black widow pushes her chair away from the table. Dressed all in black, she stands to her full height, lifts a folder off the table, and walks in my direction. She looks familiar, definitely looks like her… but how can it be? And she's… getting closer… she has everyone's attention… she sucks all the air from my chest… she's… tall, really fucking tall… she's right beside me, forcing my neck to curve back and look up at her… she's…