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)
“Thanks,” I reply with a chin lift. I find it interesting that I’m “Mr. Donovan,” but the owner of the team is “Patrick.” Some might find that slightly suspicious, but I’ve noticed… most people call him Patrick and not Mr. Rowe.
Weird.
The office is what you’d expect from a man who built a hundred-and-sixty-thousand-square-foot performance facility and then put a raw bar in the concourse of his arena because Portland would want one.
A dark wood desk the size of a small country takes up one end of the room, banked by floor-to-ceiling windows that look down onto the main practice rink. The ice is currently empty, shined to a high gloss and waiting for action.
Rowe is already standing when I enter. No jacket today, just a charcoal dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to the forearms and black slacks. It seems overly casual for a multibillionaire, but I’ve seen him in jeans on plenty of days. The one thing I’ve noticed about this man is that he’s never consistent, and doesn’t quite fit all the way into the super-wealthy stereotype.
I know this well, since I was raised within it.
Despite the two of us having that in common, I have zero trust in the man.
He gestures to the chair across from his desk and I sit.
He moves to the window, hands in his pockets, as he looks down at the empty rink before turning to face me.
“How’s the jaw?”
“Fine.”
It isn’t fine. There’s deep, mottled purple along the left side and it hurts like a son of a bitch when I eat, which I found out this morning over the eggs and bacon I whipped up.
He nods like he expected that answer. “I’m going to be direct with you, Locke.” Again, my first name, an obvious attempt at a personal connection, which I push aside. “I think you know by now that’s how I operate.”
I say nothing as I’ve never had a hard time handling direct. In fact, I prefer it because wishy-washy has caused a shitstorm of problems in my life.
“You came to us in the expansion draft,” he says, a fact I consider wasted breath. I know the fucking route that led me here. “You know what that means. Every organization in this league had a decision to make about which players to protect and which to leave available.”
“And I was left available,” I say blandly, totally fucking bored already.
His stare makes me feel like a bug under a microscope. He’s trying to figure me out, but no one really can. It’s because I give nothing. You either take me as I am, or you don’t take me at all.
“You lead the league in penalty minutes. You’ve been suspended four times in nine years. You don’t speak to the media—not a single word in nine years of professional hockey.”
“I’m a defenseman. We’re not exciting enough for the media.”
“Oh, I disagree. That little stunt you pulled last night has them all clamoring for an interview.” He waits for my response, and when I don’t give one, he continues. “There are rumors about your temper off the ice that I’ve chosen not to investigate because I believe in giving a man a clean slate, but your teammates barely know you. You’ve been here since training camp and I’m not sure any of them could tell me one personal thing about you.”
“This is a hockey team, not a social club,” I offer as an explanation.
“True,” he says, surprising me by chuckling at my temerity. “But you do understand the concept of a team sport, right? That camaraderie breeds loyalty, which in turn breeds effort. Surely you’re smart enough to know that.”
I don’t take the bait. I don’t rise to the type of man he wants me to be. “Maybe you should tell me why I’m on this team then?”
Rowe pins me with those eyes. He doesn’t even look frustrated. On the contrary, he looks determined, which doesn’t bode well for me at all.
He almost smiles. “Because you’re one of the best defensemen in this league and everyone who left you available was making an emotional decision instead of an analytical one.” He moves back to his desk, picks up a folder, and opens it. “Your defensive zone coverage ranking puts you in the top three league-wide. Your blocked shots, takeaways, average ice time in high-leverage situations—all top tier. When you’re on the ice and focused, you make this team harder to score against in ways that show up in the numbers and ways that don’t.” He closes the folder. “I didn’t take you in the expansion draft by accident. I took you because Van Turner told me what he saw when he watched your tapes, and I trust Van.”
Van Turner is one of the assistant coaches, recently retired from the championship winners, the Pittsburgh Titans, and also spent a number of years with the Carolina Cold Fury.