Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
He sighs, a sign of annoyance, and that actually makes me happy.
“You want to tell me what happened out there?” he finally says.
I bend over to unlace a skate. “Morrow ran his mouth. I responded.”
“Morrow runs his mouth at everyone. That’s his job. He does it every game and he’s been doing it for years.”
I have nothing to say to that.
“Third period,” Rowe says. “Tied game.”
And that strikes deep, a sizzle of guilt burning in my gut. “I’m aware of the score.”
“Good. Then you’re also aware, Locke, that we’re currently on the penalty kill because you’re sitting in here instead of being on the ice.”
I freeze, more off-kilter that he called me by my first name. It’s personal and I don’t like it. “Penalties are part of the game.”
“When they’re tactical,” he says bluntly.
“Like I said, just doing my job.”
“Is it really your job to put your team in jeopardy?” he asks.
It isn’t the question that gets me but rather the simple accuracy of it—the way he identified the precise thing I can’t argue with, and he did so without yelling or theatrics.
I really don’t like him.
I have no answer, which shouldn’t come as a shock since I’m a quiet guy. I keep to myself, don’t normally engage in pointless conversation, and I find this to be tedious and dull.
The exception is the pure game of hockey, and I never seem to be at a shortage of things to discuss in that respect. Give me video, give me strategy, give me a breakdown of why a defensive pair isn’t working, and I’ll give you back useful strategy. I can talk hockey all day and it’s usually the one place I’m never without an answer.
He’s asking me a simple question about the sport… about why I took the penalty. He’s giving me a platform to defend myself, and I could probably sell it if I tried.
But I have nothing because I didn’t pick a fight with Morrow for strategy, for optics, or even to give the crowd a thrill.
I did it because I felt like hitting someone.
Rowe seems to accept the silence and starts to turn away. I’m almost ready to let loose a breath of relief when he says, “I want you in my office tomorrow morning,” he says. “Eight o’clock.”
“For what?” I ask, my hackles rising again. “Because if you want to yell at me for what I did, I’m right here.”
“Eight o’clock,” he says again.
Like I haven’t spoken, he’s already moving toward the door.
I consider pointing out that I’m not the only one on this roster with penalty problems, that I’m not the only one who gets into it with opponents, that my numbers on the ice—the actual defensive numbers, the ones that determine whether this team can hold a lead—are better than anyone Rowe could have found in the expansion draft for the contract he paid.
I think about all of it, but I hold my tongue.
Because none of it touches the question he asked: Is it really your job to put your team in jeopardy?
The door closes and I sit in the quiet of the dressing room with one skate unlaced and the muffled sound of the game continuing without me in it.
I don’t think about what Rowe wants. Typically, when a player isn’t living up to expectations, that’s handled at the coaching level, and I’m sure Coach Monahan will have plenty to say after the game. If my job’s in danger, that would involve the general manager, but I haven’t spoken to Oliver Kemp since I signed my contract.
I brush those worries aside and refuse to think about Morrow or the fight or the blood I can still taste in my mouth. I don’t think about the score.
I bend over and work on my other skate, closing it all out and sealing myself off.
I’m a professional at that.
Chapter 2
Locke
Rowe’s office is on the third floor of the west wing of the performance facility, up a staircase wide enough to drive a semi through and down a hallway with thick dark green carpet. The mahogany double doors at its end are closed when I get there at seven fifty-nine. I’m always punctual, a habit I developed back when I was a kid playing hockey. I wanted to be the best and while my dad never taught me much, I did observe that he was always punctual wherever he went. He’s a very successful, über-wealthy financier, and I figured out that was part of what made him great.
Still, I don’t enter early. I don’t enter late to spite either. I stand in the hallway for sixty seconds and then I push the left door open, stepping into the executive lobby.
Rowe’s executive assistant, Janine, greets me with a bright smile. “Good morning, Mr. Donovan. Patrick is ready for you.” She sweeps her hand toward the short hall that leads to his corner office. “Go right on in.”