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)
Then I see the one guy I really wish I didn’t have to deal with in coming to this team. I’d rather face a hundred Locke Donovans than a single Miller Parks.
I can’t fucking help myself, but my eyes drift down to the wedding band on his left hand.
I keep my face neutral and my eyes moving, as if Miller is just another player in the room.
Arch’s head turns slightly, and I can feel him clocking the change in me without even looking directly at my face. He knows my tells because he’s one of the few people who’s spent enough time around me to notice them.
He leans closer. “You sure you’re okay with this?”
I’ve been asking myself that same question ever since I found out Miller got picked up in the expansion draft.
I keep my voice low and controlled. “Totally good.”
Arch’s brows pull together. “Gotta be weird though, right?”
“I’m totally good with him,” I say, tapping my pen on my armrest. He’s not the real problem. “Going to be a little weird at social events though.”
“That’s the fucking truth,” he mumbles.
The weirdness stems from the fact that Miller Parks recently married my ex-fiancée. I’d heard it through the grapevine a few months ago and didn’t think twice about it. I parted ways with Cherry without a backward glance and have zero regrets about my decision to end things.
Admittedly, when I found out Miller was coming to Portland, I had a bit of a “what the fuck” reaction, mostly because I didn’t want to deal with her. Unfortunately, hockey teams end up becoming family units, complete with frequent social events, and it’s inevitable.
We’re going to cross paths.
“I wonder if she’s changed any,” Arch says pensively.
“Don’t give a flying fuck one way or the other,” I reply, and he chuckles.
Arch knows there’s no love lost between me and Cherry, just as he knows there’s no sadness, regret or anger. I don’t feel anything for her, even if I can unequivocally call her the greatest mistake of my life.
“You definitely dodged a bullet with that one,” Arch says with a smirk.
“Truth,” I reply, and we fist-bump.
I’ll have to deal with Miller and Cherry at some point. It will be an in-my-face reminder that I once trusted the wrong person and paid for it with headlines and assumptions and a private life that stopped belonging to me.
The lights dim a fraction, conversation softens, and the room settles into a collective attention that feels almost unnatural for a group of hockey players.
Then Patrick Rowe walks onto the stage.
If the building looks like money, Rowe looks like the man who made it.
At forty-eight, Rowe’s tall, broad-shouldered, immaculate without being flashy. Dark suit, no tie, collar open like he’s not interested in pretending he’s someone who asks permission. He wears his salt-and-pepper hair a little long on top and short on the sides with a silvery beard trimmed to razor-sharp perfection.
He’s one of the wealthiest men in the United States and I doubt anyone ever tells him no.
He rests his hands on the podium, his gaze sweeping the room. When he speaks, his voice is slightly cultured, calm and absolute. “I’m not here to give you a lecture,” Rowe says. “You’ve heard enough speeches in your lives.” A few quiet chuckles and Rowe offers a candid smile. “I’m here because we are about to do something people will tell you can’t be done.” He pauses, lets the words sink in. “They’re going to call you an expansion team like it’s a handicap. They’re going to judge every action like it’s an excuse.” His eyes narrow. “I didn’t pay to buy excuses.”
The room is utterly still, all attention rapt.
“Every one of you was brought here for a reason. Not because you were available. Not because you were leftover. Because you fit what we’re building.”
He steps away from the podium, slow and controlled, all eyes glued on him. “This franchise doesn’t get a grace period. We don’t get a cute first season where everyone pats us on the head and says, ‘Good effort.’” Rowe lifts his chin. “Three months ago, the Pittsburgh Titans raised the Cup in one of the most dazzling final rounds of playoff hockey I’ve ever seen. They did that only two years after their organization lost nearly everyone in a plane crash.”
If possible, the room gets even quieter because there’s rarely been as good a comeback sports story as the Titans rising from the ashes. It’s a story that’s offered not as tragedy but as proof that anything can be accomplished with the right combination of leadership and talent.
“They were told they needed time. They were told they needed patience. They were told they needed a rebuild.” Rowe’s gaze sweeps again. “They chose to be winners anyway.”
He points, not at anyone in particular but at the room. “That’s what we’re doing. From the start.” He glances around once more, tucks his hands in his pockets. “Being new doesn’t make you weak. It makes you hungry, and we’re going to make the league regret every assumption they’ve made about us.”