He Shoots He Scores

by Tricia Owens

He looked up, startled and dismayed to find the team’s General Manager standing in the doorway of the locker room.

  “Yes, Mr. Coleson?”

  The older man smiled. “Stop by my office when you’re done with your call. Want to chat with you.”

  Shit.

  “I gotta go,” Neil murmured once the other man had left. “Duty calls.”

  “Okay, whatever. Just remember: you are not the team. Quit playing like they’re all sitting on your shoulders. You’re skating like a grandma.”

  “I’m telling Grandma you said that.”

  “Go ahead. She’ll agree with me. Talk to you later, slowpoke.”

  Neil put away his phone and mentally braced himself to enter the GM’s office. The man was waiting for him, hands resting on his desk, a smile on his face. It didn’t bode well.

  “How’s everything going, Neil?” Coleson asked once he’d sat down. “How’s the head?”

  “Fine, sir. Hasn’t been an issue since the summer.”

  “Good, good. Never want to play fast and loose with those types of injuries, though in my opinion the media blows it out of proportion.” Coleson smiled and nodded. “Back when I played, I was an enforcer for my team.”

  “For Boston. You had quite a career.”

  Coleson grinned. “That’s a nice way of saying I left an impact on a lot of players.”

  Neil chuckled, trying to hide his tenseness. “That you did.”

  “Well, I can’t deny that. I also can’t deny that I took my fair share of hits, too. Got into a hell of a lot of fights. Just came with the territory.” Coleson’s smile, loose and relaxed before, seemed to solidify in place. “What also came with the territory was a lot of stress.”

  “From fighting?”

  “Yes. Knowing that I needed to be the Man, that if anyone called me out for a fight I needed to step up or else I’d send the wrong message to other players who wanted to cheap shot my teammates—it was a lot of pressure. I couldn’t turn down a fight no matter who challenged me. I was the enforcer. My role was to enforce.”

  Neil waited patiently, wondering where the older man was going with this. Neil wasn’t a fighter. He’d defend himself from cheap crosschecks, but he was the caliber of player whom rival players rarely targeted because they knew there’d be repercussions—from a teammate like Coleson used to be.

  “Most people think, what’s so stressful about knocking guys into the boards and throwing a punch or two? Sounds fun, right?” Coleson’s eyes bored into Neil’s. “It is. Until you get knocked around one time too many and things change. I may not believe in Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy—what a mouthful—but that doesn’t mean I don’t think a guy can’t get his screws knocked loose.”

  “I’m fine,” Neil insisted, teeth gritted. “The doctors okayed me. I’ve passed all the baseline tests.”

  “I’m aware. I was okay most of the time, too. Except when I wasn’t. You know what the worst moment of my career was, Neil?” The GM’s eyes softened. “It was the day I realized I dreaded going on the ice. I was afraid to. I was afraid I’d get challenged to another fight, or that someone I checked would return the favor, only harder. Playing hockey was no longer a game to me.” He sat back. “That’s why I retired.”

  “I thought...” Neil trailed off.

  “You thought it was because I’d turned thirty-six? It was easier to let that be the excuse. But I had at least another year or two left in me and I still loved the game.” Coleson looked away briefly. “But I didn’t love the fear. The fear ruined everything for me.”

  Neil’s mouth was dry with anger. “Sir, I realize my numbers are down. I’m on a cold streak. It happens. But it’s never lasted long for me. I always get back on track.”

  Coleson turned to the open laptop on the desk and touched the screen to wake it from sleep. The screen was angled so that Neil could see that a spreadsheet was opened on it.

  “So far this season,” Coleson told him while scrolling through the document, “you’ve had the worst start of your career. Your numbers are thirty percent off from your lowest year, which was your rookie year. Everything is down and heading lower, and even more concerning is that your presence on the ice negatively affects your linemates’ stats as well. The other players suffer when they try to cover for you.”

  The last comment was a dagger to the heart, but Neil didn’t let it show. “You know what kind of player I am, sir. I’ll turn it around and I’ll turn this team around.”

  “I believe you want to. You’re a competitor, and that’s why we’ve won behind you. But it’s unfair that it’s all on you, Neil.” He smiled the kind of smile that made Neil’s mouth taste sour. “No team should place all that pressure on one player.”

  Neil pressed his damp palms into the thighs of his sweatpants. “What does that mean?”

  “It means no team will win behind one superstar.” Coleson angled the laptop away before shutting the lid. He smiled at Neil. “Big game coming up tomorrow.”

  The ringing in Neil’s ears was solely in his mind. “Last one before the holiday.”

  “An important metric, the Thanksgiving break,” Coleson acknowledged. “Have a great time with your family, Neil. Say hi to Moira for me. I missed seeing her at your golf event last month.”

  He stood and held out his hand. Feeling like he’d been broadsided, Neil stood and shook the GM’s hand before walking out. Then, as he was walking to his car, determination overtook him. Screw Coleson. Screw anyone who thought Neil was a liability. He’d remind them of the type of player he was. He’d prove to them that he was better than even Adrian Magnusson.

  ~~~~~

  Adrian couldn’t believe the hockey headlines these days:

  NHL Round Up – Albuquerque Front Office Shake-up, Colorado Snowdevils Scoreless in Third Consecutive Game

  The Psychology of Recovery: What’s Really Wrong with Neil Shannon?

  What would a Neil Shannon Trade Look Like?

  As he absently stirred his muesli, he read through an article in which a roundtable of sports writers debated what was going on with the Colorado team and how the GM and coach could fix it. The finger pointing was consistently aimed at the same player: Neil Shannon.

  “Unbelievable,” Adrian muttered. He looked down at his snack and saw that it had gone soggy. Annoyed, he shoved it away along with his phone and sat staring out the window of his apartment in downtown Seattle.

  The day he’d signed his seven-year contract here was the first day he’d set foot in the city. He’d fallen in love with it instantly. He owned a sailboat now that he kept in a slip at Lake Union. Next summer, he planned to take boating lessons so he could explore the numerous islands in the Puget Sound. His condominium was downtown and he enjoyed the neighborhood around it. The weather couldn’t be beat, either. It reminded him a little of Sweden.

  His happiness with his new hockey home extended to his new team. With it being new and stocked with young, untested players and those who were cast off from other teams, he’d expected a lack of cohesion and camaraderie. But the spirit of the underdog drove the Kraken team and Adrian was energized by it. He had grown determined to not only make this a winning team, but to help his teammates become winning players. If they took the Cup—when they did—it would be a complete team effort, not him dragging the others along. That was important to him. He found tremendous satisfaction in being part of a group effort.

  Which made the very public abandonment of Neil Shannon boil his blood. Where were his teammates? Why weren’t any of them sticking up for their best player? Shannon had literally sacrificed his body getting Colorado to the Finals and now he was the first one to be thrown under the bus? Adrian didn’t get it. It was straight up wrong. It was bullshit.

  He grabbed his phone again and compulsively looked up game recaps for the Snowdevils. There weren’t many highlight clips of Shannon since he hadn’t been producing much offensively. But occasionally, he assisted on a goal and Adrian watched those clips on a loop
, seeing what he’d seen when he’d watched the games live: Shannon’s game was off, but it wasn’t something that couldn’t be fixed.

  He checked the time and saw that he was running late. He slung on a raincoat and headed out. The owner of the Seattle Kraken, Frank Wassel, had taken a shine to Adrian, which was great because Adrian liked him, too. The older man was a laugh riot, and if there was one thing Adrian enjoyed, it was hanging out with people who gave him a reason to smile.

  Frank had invited Adrian to join his family at the beach at Magnuson Park and Adrian, with no family in the States to spend Thanksgiving with, had happily accepted. He pulled into the parking lot facing the water and immediately saw Frank’s gathering around one of the picnic tables. They’d stretched a portable tent over the table in case of rain, but the children—none older than eight—didn’t appear to mind the overcast weather and were playing along the beach, skipping stones and racing motorized toy boats.

  Frank was the first to see him and jogged over to give Adrian a hug. White-haired, with a smile to match, Frank was as big as Magnusson, though considerably softer. He tugged Adrian by the elbow to meet his children and grandchildren. After arming Adrian with a paper plate and encouraging him to dig into the food offerings, the two men sat on another bench slightly apart from the others to watch the kayakers and ducks.

  “First time having Mexican food for Thanksgiving?” Frank asked with a grin, pointing at Adrian’s plate which sagged beneath soft tacos, guacamole, and flautas.

  “It is, and I thank you for not making it too spicy.” Adrian laughed. “I need to toughen up my stomach, first.”

  “We’ll toughen you up, don’t you worry.” Frank sat back, elbows on the table behind him as he gazed out at the water. “Team’s looking fantastic, Maggy. Top of our division. This is where we should have been from year one. Wish I’d grabbed you sooner.”

  Adrian chuckled as he scooped salsa onto a taco. “Might have been challenging with me still under contract to Chicago.”

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way. You know me, Maggy. I’m not afraid to shake things up and go for it.” He winked at Adrian. “And obviously I’m not afraid to spend money when I think the value is there.”

  “So no regrets?” Adrian teased. Never would he have broached the subject of his income with an owner, but Frank Wassel wasn’t your typical owner.

  “None at all. I feel I’ve got a bargain. You’re going to win the Hart and the Conn Smythe and Seattle’s getting the Cup. A fair exchange.”

  Adrian picked up his bottled beer and clinked it with Frank’s. He was glad that the older man was in such a good mood—not that Frank ever seemed not to be. He was a lot like Adrian in that regard. But having touched upon the subject of spending money for good players, Adrian saw an opening.

  “Our top line is looking pretty good,” he began. “I wonder if it could be even better.”

  Frank took a pull from his bottle. “Your line is already second best in the league in points.”

  Adrian held his eye. “We could be first.”

  Reading something, Frank lowered his bottle and cradled it in his lap. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Elias is a solid center. I’ve got no complaints. I have no complaints with Viktor, either, but he’s more of a playmaker than a shooting winger. Move him to second with Payne and Matty and you’ve got a one-two punch that will decimate other teams.”

  “I don’t disagree. Who do you have in mind to move up to left wing with you and Eli?”

  Adrian smiled, amused by his own balls. “Move a couple of guys out to make room for Neil Shannon.”

  Frank stared at him, but to his credit, didn’t call Adrian out for insanity. “That’s a big move.”

  “You like big moves, Frank.”

  The owner laughed. “You got me there. Life isn’t exciting unless you’re making things happen. But Neil Shannon...” He trailed off and stared at the water thoughtfully. “I like what I’ve heard of the guy. Seems like a leader and a good presence in the locker room. He’s having a rough year. From everything I’ve read, his career might be over.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with him physically. It’s a confidence issue.”

  “That’s worse. A physical injury heals, and you can put it behind you. Psychological issues, though...if the will to play is gone, so is the player.”

  “He hasn’t lost the will to play.” The suggestion ticked Adrian off since he felt like he and Shannon were on the same level. Rivals needed to be equal to foster a rivalry, or was that him being selfish?

  He set his plate of food on the picnic table so he could focus on the owner. “You hire him a sports psychologist to talk things out. But I don’t think even that will be necessary. Shannon is elite. He’s got the winning mindset. But I don’t think he’s getting support from his current teammates. I think I can help him work through it. And when he’s back to normal—Frank, we’ll be unstoppable. You’ll be looking at a Kraken dynasty.”

  The word ‘dynasty’ did the trick. Frank’s eyes glazed over with the possibilities.

  “Colorado is struggling,” Adrian went on, pressing the advantage. “If even half the rumors are true, management is thinking of unloading his salary and trying a younger roster. You can get him for a discount, Frank. He’s as good as I am. In some ways he’s even better. I want him, Frank.” In more ways than one.

  “And if you’re wrong?” Frank studied his beer bottle. “We’d be looking at giving up at least two roster players and high draft picks to get him. With his salary and yours, let’s be straight here—this will be an all-or-nothing play. We’ll have no cap space left to add anyone else for years. We’ll be leveraging the future on the present.”

  “Our window to win is now,” Adrian emphasized. “So let’s do everything we can to win now. You won’t care about a couple of soft years in the future when you’re wearing three championship rings on your fingers.”

  Frank clapped Adrian on the knee. “You’re quite a salesman, Maggy.”

  “I’m not trying to sell you, Frank. I’m trying to help you—help us—win this thing. Shannon will guarantee it.”

  “Guarantee it, huh?” Frank studied him critically. “You feel that strongly about this?”

  “I know talent. Shannon is talent. He’ll make us all better.”

  “And if you’re wrong and he’s more of a headcase than you think?”

  Adrian held his gaze. “Then it’s my career, too, isn’t it? If he spoils it for the team, he’s spoiling it for me. I’m not about to let that happen.”

  ~~~~~

  BREAKING NEWS:

  Colorado Snowdevils move Neil Shannon to Seattle Kraken in surprise trade

  Superstar winger Adrian Magnusson is rumored to have been a catalyst for the deal.

  Chapter 5

  Neil Shannon’s first game with the Seattle Kraken would be a road game in Baltimore. Adrian could hardly sleep the night before. Road games were great chances for teammates to bond. Being forced to sleep in the same hotel, eat together, practice together, and travel together went a long way toward forging long-lasting ties. A part of him still didn’t believe he’d be getting that opportunity with Shannon.

  The speed at which everything was happening, though expected, didn’t fail to astound him. Yesterday at six PM, the news of the signing blasted out over sports channels, blogs, and social media. At a little after midnight, Shannon, who had just finished playing that night with the Snowdevils in Miami, packed his gear and boarded a plane for Maryland. He had already been there for hours by the time Adrian and the rest of the Kraken team arrived in Baltimore in the morning. Adrian couldn’t wait to greet him at the team’s hotel.

  On the bus ride there, he snapped his fingers softly, nervous despite himself. Shannon would most certainly want to know the details of how the trade had come about and what Adrian’s role had been in it. The media had played it up too much, made it sound like he had put his foot down and demanded it happen. Would it
look better if Adrian downplayed his part, made it sound like he’d only offered his opinion when the GM came to him with the idea? Would admitting he’d instigated the trade reveal too much of his hand?

  Shannon hadn’t contacted him since their night together in Las Vegas. Adrian had no idea how much of that night the other man remembered or how he felt about it. Acting casual and as though nothing had happened had seemed the safest route, but Shannon still hadn’t responded to either of the texts Adrian had sent him. Was he embarrassed about that night? Or worse, had he correctly read Adrian’s interests and now wanted nothing to do with him?

  “Probably something I should have checked out before pushing for this deal,” he muttered to himself after a sigh.

  The easiest way to salvage the situation would be to pretend ignorance. They’d both been drunk. If Adrian claimed no memory of what Shannon remembered, he might be able to sow some doubt in the other winger’s mind. Shannon hadn’t been any more clear-headed than he, after all.

  “Play dumb, and when that doesn’t work, play cute,” Adrian murmured with a smile. It was something his mother had advised when Adrian was younger and having trouble making friends. “People like to make friends with people who aren’t threatening. Rely on them for a few things and they’ll think you’re harmless. And you’re a cute boy, use that.”

  In retrospect, it was weird advice to give to an eight-year-old, especially when his father advocated being the good guy that everyone around him could depend on. But Adrian hadn’t found it difficult to adapt a little of each of his parent’s advice to him. He had never lacked for friends since those early years.

  The real test, though, would be making a friend out of Neil Shannon.

  Adrian tried to play it cool as the bus arrived and he and his teammates began the process of collecting their luggage. Puck drop for tonight’s game was at seven o’clock, in about five hours. Adrian and the Kraken had played the night before in New York City, so the travel had been minimal for them. They would hit the arena for a quick half hour skate before resting up and eating.