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)
I don’t say anything to that either because he said a word so foul to my sense of being, I actually grimace.
Trust.
It’s a fucking bullshit concept.
But admittedly, the knot in my chest loosens somewhat at the compliments. I’m a hard worker. I care about winning and this team as a concept. I love and bleed for this sport, so it’s nice to know that parts of me are appreciated.
“I want this to work,” Rowe says, his tone making it clear he’s completely at ease with whatever comes next. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make this environment work for you. So tell me—what do you need to be successful?”
I blink at him in surprise. Last night I took a bad penalty and it lost us the game. The Badgers capitalized on my lack of control and scored. It’s my fault we went down 3–2.
“I’m fine,” I say, a force-of-habit reaction. Not the first time someone’s asked me if I’m all right, because it’s obvious my head’s fucked up in all kinds of ways.
“You’re not fine. You got thrown out of a tied game last night for abusing an official after starting a fight with a player who was running his mouth, which he does to everyone, every game, all season long.”
“I’ll do better.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“It’s what I’ve got.”
He studies me and I don’t look away. I don’t fill the silence, which seems to be the one thing that costs him, because he exhales through his nose in defeat.
It’s the sound of someone who’s given up on the battle but is preparing to win the war.
Unease curdles in my stomach.
“All right,” he says, nodding toward the door. “Follow me.”
Jesus Christ… am I being escorted off the premises? Have I been fired?
I resist the urge to dig my heels in and make him drag me from this facility. I resist the compulsion to beg for another chance because I’m not ready to give up this career, no matter how much I make it hard on myself to stay.
Like a robot, I get up from the chair. I follow the Vipers’ owner out of the office, back down the hallway, down the wide staircase, through the main corridor of the west wing. We walk past the film vault, past the video review rooms, past the coaches’ offices with their glass walls looking out over the workout room below with its rows of equipment gleaming under overhead lights. There are a few players down there now, a massive Jumbotron hanging in the middle with its twelve screens of video feed running. Rowe moves through all of it at that unhurried pace of his, nodding and smiling graciously at the few staff members who are in early.
I follow him and say nothing.
He finally stops at a door I hadn’t paid attention to before.
It has a nameplate on it, brushed aluminum with the Wildfire logo of the Cascade Mountain Range and flames licking at the bottom.
LIVIA CROSS
DIRECTOR OF HUMAN PERFORMANCE
I frown at what feels like a bullshit title. What the fuck does that even mean?
Rowe knocks and waits politely.
“Come in,” a woman’s voice rings out, lilting with notes of good humor.
I follow Rowe inside and find who I’m guessing is Livia Cross standing behind a desk that’s still in the process of being personalized. There are a few framed credentials on the wall, a plant in the corner that looks fake, and a whiteboard with a diagram I don’t have time to read.
She’s in Wildfire-branded athletic wear, leggings and a quarter zip in forest green, and it’s fitted enough that I can see the smooth planes and sculpted curves of an athlete.
She’s wearing glasses, wide frames that work on her face. Dark brown hair in a high ponytail and chocolate drop eyes that land on me, warm and direct. I get maybe two seconds of thinking she looks approachable before I realize she’s quite stunning. Olive-toned skin, high cheekbones and a heart-shaped mouth, she’s got a face that could be on the front of magazines.
The woman is young, mid-twenties I’m thinking, which honestly… makes me wonder if her “Director” title is indeed bullshit. Is she kin to Rowe somehow and this is a nepo hire?
The way she stands—comfortable, unhurried, like she expected us and is genuinely glad we’re here—sets my teeth on edge.
This feels like an ambush, and I don’t trust any of it.
“Livia,” Rowe says, his tone no warmer than the way he spoke to me earlier. “This is Locke Donovan. Locke, Livia Cross, our new director of Human Performance.”
She comes around the desk with her hand out and I shake it. Her grip is firm, her eyes clear and unflinching.
“Director of Human Performance,” I say, looking at Rowe. “What the hell is that?” It comes out genuinely confused. Not sarcasm, just—I actually don’t know what that is.