Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Here it goes: New Guy, take four.
The Avengers PR guy waits for me inside the players’ entrance. Oliver looks exactly like his photo, right down to the purple dress shirt—the Avengers team’s color. With neatly combed brown hair, freckles that stand out against his pale complexion, and a warm, welcoming grin, he looks every bit the PR guy.
I stick out a hand, eager to go first. “You must be Oliver Redwood.” He’s emailed me a few times since my agent dropped the news of the start-of-the-season trade a couple days ago.
“And you’re the new star left winger,” he says as we shake hands.
That merits a small grin, but I don’t let it linger because he’s a PR guy and that’s a PR thing to say.
“Thanks, but check back with me in a couple weeks and we’ll see if that fits.” Humility goes a lot further than braggadocio.
“No doubt it will. We’re glad you’re here. You’re only going to be the subject of, oh, say, all the media coverage for your first few games, so I figure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
“Bring it on.” The media doesn’t scare me. I’ve had four years to sell the same line—I’m just happy to be here. I don’t let the media see anything I don’t want them to see.
With a smile, Oliver gestures to the corridor in front of us. “Love that attitude. Let me give you the tour.”
An hour later, I’ve seen the athletic trainers’ room, the workout rooms, the video review room, and, obviously, the ice. I’ve met the general manager, the ops manager, the equipment manager, and the equipment manager’s assistant. Violet, Jamal, Mike, and Doggo. I caught that his real name is Doug, but Doggo works for me. I’ve also met Parvati, the social media manager and Oliver’s right-hand woman.
As we walk down a swank corridor with cool blue lights and Avengers logos plastered over the walls, Oliver tells me, “This might all change soon. We’re likely changing our name this season.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Well, a certain movie franchise has made searching for the team name a fruitless mission.”
“What options are in the running?”
Oliver places his finger on his lips. “I’m under strict orders.”
“Fair enough,” I say. I catch the click-clack of heels on concrete, growing louder. The sound is sharp and purposeful, and it can only signal one thing.
The owner is here.
Oliver glances behind him and then straightens like he’s a ruler. “That’s Jessie,” he whispers out the side of his mouth. I stand straighter too. “Don’t let the sweet name fool you.”
Jessie Rose is one of three female owners in the NHL and an absolutely fearless competitor. The Texas native is a former tennis star who made millions with a wicked backhand and then turned those millions into billions. She’s said to love winning more than she loves Louboutins.
I turn to greet the boss. She’s polished and poised in a dark pink suit, with tight, shoulder-length curls, warm brown skin, and deep brown eyes. She stops in front of me, and in a twang familiar from post-match interviews, she says, “Hayes Armstrong. At last, I finally got you.” Her pink-lipsticked grin spreads as wide as her home state. “I’m so glad we convinced you to join us.”
“Thrilled to be here,” I say, shaking her offered hand. But I don’t let her compliment go to my head. I’m sure this is stuff that she says to new players.
“Cade and I watched you play last year when we were in Los Angeles,” she says, referring to her shark of a sports agent husband. “And I sure hope you saved some of those goals for us.”
Translation: you better stay good.
“I’ve got lots in the tank, Ms. Rose.”
“Good, because I’ve got a bet going with my besties on whose team will go farther this year, and I don’t want to lose to Lacey or Hannah. You’re not going to let me eat crow, are you?”
She says it with a straight face, and I answer like a good soldier. “No, ma’am.”
“Play hard and get me some wins, and we’ll get along just fine.” The smile vanishes, and she stares sharply at me. “Because I didn’t trade to be disappointed.” She checks her watch and the smile flashes back on, full wattage. “Don’t hesitate to let me know if you need a single thing.”
I won’t need a damn thing, but still I say, “I will. Thank you.”
She heads off, click-clacking down the hall in a cloud of expensive perfume and the confidence of a Bugatti.
When she’s out of earshot, Oliver lets loose a huge breath, then shudders. “I want to grow up to be just like her,” he whispers.
I laugh. “I get that.”
Oliver rolls his shoulders like he’s shaking off an encounter with a lioness, then resumes his pace, guiding me down the hall, chatting more about the potential new team name, some of the plans for the contests, and Jessie’s hope that the new name won’t become the next big damn movie franchise.