by Frost, Sosie
I liked her already.
The woman extended her hand—manicured with pink nail polish to match her dress and the little clutch dangling from a gold chain. Adrian shook her hand, apparently surprised by the force the little lady packed in her grip.
“Hi there, I’m Magnolia Mallory, correspondent for Sports Nation. I’ve been assigned to document the Ironfield Forge’s first season—offering our fans an exclusive behind-the-scenes and on-the-ice glimpse into this brand-new expansion team.”
“Oh.” Adrian feigned excitement. “Great. Good to meet you…” He frowned, attempting to delicately phrase his next question. “So…you’ll be doing the reporting? Personally?”
Magnolia bloomed with pride. “Absolutely. I’ll be covering the ins-and-outs from top-to-bottom, the beginning of this season to the end of the wild ride. My network wants to see all the players, all the drama, all the blood, sweat, and tears.” She winked. “And, hopefully, some wins? You…do think you’ll win some games, don’t you?”
“I’m planning on it.” Adrian hesitated. He respectfully glanced over her figure—more cautiously than actually interested. “And…you will be the sidelines reporter?”
“That’s right. Sidelines. Bench. Locker room interviews. The works.”
His brow crinkled. The worry lines edged a little deeper than before. “With all due respect, Miss Mallory—”
“Mags, please.”
“Mags…have you met the guys on this team?” He snorted. “Do you have any idea what sort of…activities you’ll be covering?”
The iPad was at the ready. Magnolia didn’t miss a beat. Then again, she seemed more than prepared for an interview on the fly. Her hand flew over the screen, though I wasn’t sure how her ring finger kept up, what with the massive fucking diamond weighing it down.
“I understand the Forge seems to be a place for second-chances and…complicated men.” She might’ve stated the obvious, but she did so tactfully. Almost sympathetically. Her style probably endeared her to many players—and the empathy practically busting out of her dress’s low neckline helped too. “It’s difficult to create a brand-new team out of nothing.”
“I’m the sort of man who likes a challenge,” Adrian said.
Magnolia winked at me. Leave it to an investigative reporter to sense the real story.
“I bet,” she said.
“The team’s gonna have some growing pains, but I’ll be there to lead them through the rough spots.”
Magnolia checked over both her shoulder and Adrian’s. The iPad lowered.
“Can we talk off the record?” she asked.
Adrian visibly relaxed. “For Christ’s sake, please.”
Magnolia worked fast, working a scrunchie hidden beneath her sleeve into the thick ebony curls of her hair. She bundled the waves into a messy bun and kept her voice low.
“When I took this assignment, I expected a special interest story. A documentary highlighting the beginning of a brand-new expansion team. Do some interviews, highlight some players.” She gestured toward me. “Maybe talk to a couple girlfriends and families.”
“Oh…” I nervously cleared my throat. “I’m not…we’re not…”
“We’re not together.” Adrian said. “We’re just friends.”
And the finality of his voice struck me like I’d taken a spill on the ice.
My stomach pitted, and I had no idea why. Nothing he’d said was a lie. And we certainly weren’t dating or involved or doing anything more complicated than making a baby together.
But that didn’t make the truth any less…
Tough to hear.
Any less sad.
“Sure—just friends.” Magnolia patronized us with a nod. Her amusement instantly faded as she faced Adrian. “I had planned to come to Ironfield for some footage every week, slap some inspirational music over it, and make a pretty compelling series for the team. Unfortunately, my office in New York has ordered a different direction for my work.”
Adrian shrugged. Magnolia lowered her voice.
“Sports Nation is more interested in the current problems on the team—of which, there are many. Mostly beginning and ending with the more troubled players.” She pulled us deeper into the tunnel, far from the sensitive microphones and equipment in use on the ice. “They’re asking me to report on drama, rumors, and very personal problems. And they want those issues to be shown front and center for the world to judge.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Sounds like they want to document the team’s failings.”
“Bingo.” Magnolia arched a meticulously sculpted eyebrow. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not creating Pulitzer Prize winning material reporting game scores between periods or getting hit on by every Eastern European forward who has learned enough English to call me brown sugar, but…” She nervously rapped her engagement ring against her iPad. “This is not the sort of documentary I think the league needs right now. My network isn’t at all interested in the start-up story of the first expansion team in fifteen years. They only want the drama and troubles of whatever pretty boy decides to break the rules. And, unfortunately for you, Adrian—the network has plenty of material.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
Christ, he was a bad actor. Only this time, he couldn’t blast a puck through any nearby glass to escape.
Magnolia continued, her expression souring. “It’s as if the Forge created this team to fuel Sports Nation’s ratings. Take your pick of the troublemakers on this roster, and I’ll preview how the network is prepared to slander them.”
Adrian shifted his weight. The gloves dropped. Any other person might’ve been intimidated. Magnolia apparently saw this as a sign her message had been received.
“This is an odd sort of interview,” he said.
“It’s not an interview. This is a warning.”
“I don’t think we need any warnings, Miss Mallory.”
“Mags,” she insisted. “Why do you think the Forge drafted Oz Zane to be your goalie?”
He glanced at me. “Because Oz is an excellent goalie.”
“With a loud mouth.”
“The league is plagued with players who take to social media too quickly. It’s a generational thing.”
“It’s a trait the Forge will exploit with Zane. The louder he is, the better.”
Adrian lost patience with the woman. “I think we’re done here.”
“What about Beau Beckett?”
“What about him?”
“He’s a superstar rookie hellbent on ruining his career. He’s got problems with women, alcohol, and partying, mostly when they’re all combined.”
“He’s spirited.”
“He’s a risk to himself and the franchise, and the team knows it.” Magnolia shrugged. “But he’s good looking and cocky, and that combination sells papers and earns ratings.”
“What the hell are you implying?”
“What about Cash Harrington—who, by the grace of God and the commissioner—has managed to remain in the league despite a reputation of violent and dirty, career-ending hits?”
Adrian was quick to defend his good friend. “He’s an excellent defenseman who does his job and does it well.”
Magnolia nodded. “And Felix Ferraro—an otherwise outstanding player who was unprotected by his team due to a growing concern about his locker room rituals and superstitions?”
“Your network wants to run exposés on pre-game routines?”
“Only when they become a liability to the team.”
“Felix has his ways.”
“And Rhett Marlow?” she asked. “Sources say he’s been drinking himself blackout drunk every night since the draft.”
“What sources.”
“Would you believe me if I said they came from inside the building?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t know how else to warn you, Adrian.” Her voice turned cold. “Maybe you could point me in the direction of another cap
tain who might be willing to protect his teammates?”
“Wait…” I prevented Adrian from saying something he’d regret. “Are you telling us that the team’s management is the one leaking player drama to the press? Why would they do that?”
Magnolia clutched her iPad to her chest. “That’s my question, and I think Adrian already knows the answer. He knew it the instant he was handed this roster.”
“Means nothing,” Adrian said. “There aren’t many players in this league without skeletons in their closet or past mistakes shadowing their game.”
I nibbled my lip. “What’s the team said about Adrian?”
Magnolia smirked. “Oh, the great Adrian Alaric? I’ve only heard praise for his exemplary behavior. He’s the gentleman of the league, with not even a whisper of scandal following him.”
“Good.”
“There is, however…” She hummed. “The injury.”
He tensed. “I’m not injured anymore.”
“So it would appear…if the networks weren’t informed that the coaching staff was watching your every workout. We’re told they’re assessing how much damage the injury caused. They’re not expecting you back at one hundred percent.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Are you as fast as you once were? Can you take a hit? Win a game?” Magnolia softened her voice. “I’m sorry, Adrian, but these are the stories that will be airing on Sports Nation in the coming weeks. And I can guarantee, my bosses will be eagerly awaiting the team’s next humiliating mistake—be it an out-of-control rookie partying with the wrong people or a down-on-his-luck defensemen who spends the night in a jailcell.”
“Why would they try to destroy an expansion team before they even play a game?”
“Because sometimes losing is more exciting than the win.” Magnolia’s cell rang, and she sighed as she read the screen. “That’s the office. Gotta take this. Adrian, I can’t stop these stories, but I can give you a heads-up before they’re run. It’s not much, but hopefully you can get control of this team and limit the amount of drama. Someone’s gotta help these guys—and I don’t think it’ll be the Forge’s management.”
Magnolia answered her call and jogged to the ice, waving at the Sports Nation crew as they readied for another round of photo shoots.
Adrian’s expression creased with worry. Dark. Skeptical.
Pained.
I hated it.
I reached for him, though his arms were protected by thick and bulky pads. He didn’t react to my touch.
“It’s nothing,” I insisted.
“Yeah.”
“The media always wants a juicy story. I’m sure Magnolia is overreacting.”
“Maybe.”
Wasn’t like him to answer in one-word grunts. My stomach turned.
“Was she right about the roster?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He spat a profanity and apologized for being crass. His heavy breath even weighed me down. “The guys on this team have issues. They’re in bad standing with the law or the league. Most have piss-poor sportsmanship, cause fights in the locker room, or have no sense of teamwork or comradery. The rest? Substance abuse records or problems at home.”
My stomach churned. “What does that mean?”
Adrian quieted. His grip on the stick tightened, and he studied the frost blue brilliance of his jersey with a grimace.
“It means coming to the Forge might’ve been a mistake.”
11
Adrian
Clover’s pregnancy test came back negative.
And my day only got worse from there.
Ten players straight-up refused to participate in the unofficial workouts. They wouldn’t arrive until training camp began or they were mandated to appear through arbitration between their agents and the team.
Two of my teammates arrived to practice drunk. Rhett Marlow drank to conceal his problems. Orion Orlav drank to cause them. Neither were permitted to stay, though the coaches took their time admonishing them while in the middle of the ice and in full view of the cameras in attendance.
Leo Telane and Felix Ferraro began their argument in the locker room, and it followed them to the ice. So far, no one had thrown any fists, but the insults levied were harsh, biting, and instantly tweeted by the reporters.
And Beau Beckett was the first on the ice only to be the first off, packing his equipment after the showers and making a break for the exit before the team meeting.
“Where the hell are you going?” I blocked his path, trading my skates and sticks for a suit and tie—the new mandatory dress-code for the upcoming training camp. “Practice isn’t over.”
Beau took pride in aggravating those around him. Instead of earning our respect, he chased our animosity. Not sure why the Superstar possessed such a caustic attitude, but his arrogance would burn through the team.
“I got better things to do than circle-jerk with the coaches,” Beau said.
“Think you know better than them?”
“Yeah, I do.”
The locker room was too crowded a space for this conversation. The last of the showers had turned off, and a handful of teammates slowed their dressing just to see where this was going. I ignored the exchange of money between Oz and Cash. Betting against me was betting against the team.
Even if it seemed the more reckless wager.
“You’ve got no idea what it’s like playing in the professional league, kid,” I said. “You should spend some time watching film with the coaches. You might learn something.”
“Spare me. You’re the only one doubting my talent, and a pretty boy like you doesn’t look as good when he’s green with envy.” Beau didn’t break his stare. Like we needed an invitation to toss down the gloves. “Was my stickwork bad? Did I skate sloppy? Did I miss any shots?”
“You play like you’re the only one on the ice.”
“Yeah—because to the opposing goalies and the television crews—I’m the only one worth a damn out there.”
I’d heard it from wanna-be superstars before, and it always ended in disaster.
“You’re not gonna get anywhere without the team,” I said.
He flashed the keys to his brand-new Porsche. “Looks like I can go anywhere I want, zero to sixty in three seconds.”
“Hope it’s got a good ride to the unemployment office.”
“Look, I’m got my payday. I’ve got my skates. I’ve got my stick. You let me worry about the rest, Captain.”
I pointed around the locker room, the unfamiliar electric blue accenting the benches, the rugs, and the line of brick in the white wall. “See all this? This is mine. My team. My reputation. My life. And I won’t tolerate anyone or anything jeopardizing it.”
“You don’t give a fuck about the Forge,” Beau snickered. His distain enveloped the rest of the team. “None of us give a rat’s ass about this team. These jerseys don’t mean shit. This arena is a giant tax-write off for the asshole who built it. And this city sure as hell doesn’t know we exist.”
“So? We can build something here.”
Beau sighed, acting as though the momentary contrition was some grand blessing. “Look, I get it, Adrian. It’s good advice…for guys like you.”
“What the hell’s that mean?”
“Everyone knows that you got hurt. Just like everyone knows it wasn’t only your decision to leave the Marauders. They wanted to get rid of you in case you couldn’t recover. So now you’re doing your part to make sure everyone sees that you’re back to normal. Motivational speeches. Workouts. Interviews. But I don’t have anything to prove.” Beau escaped the locker room with a grin. “The most important part of me is still functioning.”
Fuck. I wasn’t about to defend my manhood to the little prick.
I let the kid go. At least the rest of practice would be smoother without him.
…And the three players who followed him.
Christ. No one had warned me about the problems of a new expansion team. Then again, this sort
of bullshit was unprecedented. Every other franchise in the league managed their players and silenced the unrest before it had time to fester.
We hadn’t even reached pre-season, and already the team had a dire cancer that needed to be exorcised.
The Forge had drafted me to lead.
And it was about time I did my job.
Head Coach Taylor Harland had gone gray early—though most of the guys joked that he’d squirted out of his mom that way. He was as severe as he was disciplined, rumored to have kicked men out of his locker room for speaking out of turn between game periods or daring to crack a joke after a loss.
He’d lost what little patience he once possessed and filled the void with arrogance and an ill-temper. That made him the worst pick to coach our rag-tag crew of misfit troublemakers.
Now I understood why he’d been hired.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone in his office. Coach Harland entertained the owner of the Forge, John Blanche.
John was man with eyes as green as his money and a body shaped like the sack holding all his filthy cash. He greeted me with all the enthusiasm missing from the locker room.
“There he is!” John shook my hand. “Man of the hour. We were just talking about you, Adrian.”
Wasn’t sure I liked that.
Or that my conversation with Coach Harland would be shadowed by a jackal whose grin was as slick as the ice.
“I wanted to speak with Coach Harland,” I said. “I’ll come back later.”
“Nonsense.” John waved me to the chair opposite Coach Harland’s desk—a spartan chunk of metal contorted into an artificial and cold shape. “I’m not fixing to be one of those team owners who sits way up in their private box, sipping champagne and merely watching the games.”
Ah. Like a good owner.
John sat next to me and slapped my knee with a laugh. “I plan to be right there with Coach Harland, staying involved every step of the way.”
Meddling, he meant.
I recognized it now. Was never a good sign when the owner took control of a team. Decisions were made based on profit-and-loss statements and market shares instead of gut instinct and knowledge of the game. John Blanche had never picked up a hockey stick in his life, but something told me he knew just where to jam it if anyone questioned his methods.