Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
I consider my journey here and what I left behind in Winnipeg, where I was a team leader and one of the top-performing goalies in this league. Oliver Kemp, the Wildfire GM, sought me during free agency because I’m steady and consistent under pressure. They came for me with a pitch that didn’t include ego stroking or promises of “being the face” of the new team. Instead, Kemp signed me not only with a ridiculously large sum of money—which was important—but with the lure of a challenge.
“We need a backbone,” Oliver had said to my agent and me during a Zoom meeting. “We need an ambassador of hockey culture… someone who the room will follow even when the room isn’t sure it wants to.”
He said more, and it was all right on point. I came because this sport is my life and I know how quickly things can go sideways when there isn’t a center of gravity. I believe I can be that stabilizing force for this new team and I believe Patrick Rowe is doing all the right things to make us great. I want in on the ground floor of this machine. That’s the real reason I’m here.
The doors open and players start filing in. I know almost all of them either well enough to shake hands or just enough to give a chin lift. Spend enough years in the league and relationships form across team boundaries.
Arch Hewitt spots me and heads my way. He drops into the seat beside me like he’s done it a hundred times, which he has. We played in Winnipeg together and he’s my closest friend in the world.
Arch bumps my shoulder with his, then hooks an arm around the back of my neck and pulls me in hard so he can rub his knuckles over the top of my head.
“Jesus, Hale,” he says with a laugh. “You trying to set a record for earliest arrival?”
“Someone has to establish a standard, you toddler,” I deadpan, shoving him off me.
He snorts and leans back, stretching his long legs out in front of him like he owns the row. Arch is the kind of guy who can turn his switch on and off. He can grind on the ice for sixty minutes and still crack a joke when it’s over, and it’s a boon to me that he’s here. A measure of familiarity in a new world.
Arch followed me here from Winnipeg, not because he was recruited, but because he was left exposed. In an expansion draft, every team in the league is allowed to put a certain number of players on a protected list. The rest are “exposed” and can be picked to fill slots on the new expansion team.
I was protected but Arch was not. As the third-line center, that was a position the team was willing to let go, whereas the starting goalie… not so much. But Winnipeg couldn’t match the offer that Portland made for me as a free agent, so here I am with one of my best mates, starting a new career journey.
He tilts his head toward the front. “You nervous?”
“Fuck no,” I scoff.
He gives me a look like he doesn’t fully believe that but he’s probably projecting. Nervousness is an emotion I rarely feel. I don’t get nervous about hockey or the pressures surrounding it, but I do get… aware.
Hyperaware, actually.
There’s a difference.
More players filter in—some in small groups, some alone. The room fills with subtle energy, the kind that comes from a bunch of men who all know they’re being evaluated, even when no one is holding a clipboard.
I scan faces, more chin lifts, a few fist bumps.
Boss Calloway comes in with first-row energy even as he takes a seat in the row behind me. Big grin, easy confidence, the kind of guy who could sell out an arena on charisma alone. He nods at me on his way up the aisle, a little more serious than his expression suggests. He’s an incredible right-winger and my guess is he’ll head up the first line.
Luca Marcelli arrives behind him. He’s a solid center with a blistering wrist shot. His posture is relaxed but his eyes are sharp, taking in the room and sizing up the competition. Yes, we’re all teammates but we’ve got training camp looming, and everyone’s going to be fighting for the coveted first-line positions.
The room quiets when Locke Donovan stalks in like he’s looking for something to hit. The defenseman picked up in the expansion draft from the New Jersey Wildcats is the biggest risk Patrick Rowe is taking. Jaw tight, shoulders broad, and black Harley-Davidson T-shirt pulled across muscle like it’s one deep breath away from tearing, Donovan doesn’t smile at anyone.
Doesn’t acknowledge anyone.
The vibe rolling off him isn’t arrogance.
It’s volatility.
He has a distinct reputation in this league and Locke’s the type who can change the outcome of a game in ten seconds—either by leveling someone clean or taking a penalty that makes the coach want to strangle him.