I poke at my mashed potatoes while the air around us becomes thick and oppressive, the silence weighing heavy. All I want to do is run into my room and hide my head under the pillow and possibly never come out. “Did you ever make a volcano with your mashed potatoes?”
I sense his surprise and relief at my change of topic to something benign.
“Of course. Hasn’t every kid?”
“Probably.”
“One time I put some chocolate chips into leftover mashed potatoes, scooped it into an ice cream cone, put sprinkles on it, and gave it to JP.”
A startled laugh obstructs my throat briefly. “Did he eat it?”
“Oh yeah.” Théo grins. “He was pissed. It was hilarious.”
“I once cut up a sponge into squares and spread Nutella all over it so it looked like brownies.” I grin. “Chris grabbed one and started to chow down, and then he spit it out all over the kitchen.”
“Ha! Good one.”
Our eyes meet in shared amusement.
We both look quickly away.
I poke at my potatoes again. I try to eat, and when I think I’ve consumed enough that it doesn’t look like I’m running away, I set down my cutlery and stand. “Well, I’m full. That was good. So nice of your mom.” I carry my plate over to scrape the leftovers into the garbage and then slide the plate into the dishwasher. “I’m tired. Must have been our trip yesterday. I’m going to go wash up and read for a while before bed.”
“It’s seven o’clock.”
“Wow, really? Feels like ten!” I start putting away the leftover food.
“Leave it,” he says gruffly. “You’re tired. I’ll clean up.”
I shouldn’t leave it for him, but I do, because I’m desperate to escape the heavy atmosphere.
I close my door and throw myself facedown onto the bed. Jesus be a fence.
I lie like that for a while, letting thoughts spin through my brain. Eventually I calm down and roll onto my back.
Okay. He’s right. If we had sex, I might feel like I was prostituting myself. I’m living in his house, letting him buy me clothes and necessities, like a kept woman.
Argh!
And yeah, yeah, I know I have to put on the act for his family. I can do that.
A slow smile tugs at my lips. I can so do that.
But fine, we’ll be friends. I’ll just ignore that tingly, flippy feeling I get when I look at him. Or think about him. Or touch him, or smell him…I can take care of my own needs, thank you very much.
Which I proceed to do, wriggling out of my shorts to lay there in my panties, sliding my hand down inside them to find my slick entrance, and getting myself off with a shuddering orgasm. I wasn’t imagining Théo’s fingers touching me. Nope, not at all.
Chapter 12
Théo
I’m at my office early Friday morning. Yesterday I organized a few things. I don’t keep a lot of personal shit in my office, but I have framed team pictures from my days in Wilkes-Barre and my first (and only) season in Pittsburgh. I also have a stuffed penguin in the image of what used to be the team mascot.
The offices are quiet as I sip my Starbucks coffee and scroll through various hockey news sites. I pause at the article written by my uncle Asher. I snort because even though he’s my uncle, he’s two years younger than me, my grandpa’s son from his second marriage. Asher’s the other black sheep of the family who doesn’t play pro hockey—he just writes about it for a new sports blog, covering both the Condors and the Eagles. Asher never wanted to play pro hockey, even though he was probably good enough. Unlike me, he had a choice and he chose something else. I admire that. Which is probably why, even though I’m supposed to be at odds with my grandpa and his family, Asher and I have stayed friends. And now I’m working for Grandpa, so…
Actually, it’s technically not true that Asher and I are the only Wynns who don’t play hockey. Asher’s sister, Everly, also doesn’t play hockey—but she works for the Condors Foundation. Just because she’s a girl doesn’t mean she may not have wanted to play hockey, because my cousin Riley, also a girl, does. Did.
I smile at one of Asher’s comments. He’s smart and knowledgeable about hockey, but he’s also a good writer and his metaphors always amuse me. I’ll have to suggest we go for beers sometime.
Okay. I’ve got a shit ton of work to do.
Ever since I made my decision to take this job, I’ve been researching and creating spreadsheets and charts and graphs to help me in my analysis. But there’s much more to do. I flew into town a week ago to do exit interviews with all the players before they disappeared for the summer, but I know I’m going to have to meet with some of them again. It might involve going to them, wherever they’re spending their summer, although there are a few players who’ve stayed in the area. I’ll especially need to talk to the team captain, Jimmy Bertelson, also known as Big Bert, a veteran player and the undisputed leader of the team.
One of the first things I need to do is hire an assistant GM. I’ve already looked at who’s out there and talked to some, and I’ve narrowed it down to a few candidates. I’d like to have someone more experienced than I am, because I know I’m smart and good at what I do, but I’m also smart enough to know what I don’t know.
My mind drifts to Lacey.
Shit. I hurt her feelings last night.
I knew I was going to.
I sit back in my chair. After I left her at home yesterday afternoon, I was all sappy happy because she was loving the ocean so much. And I can’t get all sappy happy about Lacey. When I got to my office and looked around, and the enormity of what I had to accomplish crashed over me, I realized I couldn’t get involved with her. And by “involved,” I mean bone her. This isn’t a real marriage and it’s not going to last; it’s only until she needs to go back to Vegas, and then I’ll tell my family things didn’t work out and we’ll all move on. So getting warm, squishy feelings about her can’t happen.
I decided to tell her when I got home, even though I knew it was going to be uncomfortable and not only that, I’m sort of punishing myself too because she’s sweet and sexy and I want to bone her so bad it hurts, and she’s apparently down to fuck also…but I strengthened my resolve, determined to focus on my job because if I screw this up I’ll pretty much have to give up using the last name Wynn and move to South America to live in a hut and ride a donkey.
I need to focus. As GM, I’ll be facing tons of pressure from all directions—Grandpa, the players, the fans, and the media. I did the presser when they announced I’d been hired, and yeah, the media barraged me with questions, many of which focused on my lack of experience.
I figured the best strategy was to be honest. I don’t have a lot of experience managing a team. I also want to be realistic about the team’s potential, because not only is my job managing the team, it’s managing expectations, and that includes the players’ expectations and the fans’ expectations. We’re not going to win the Stanley Cup this year. We’re going to need a long-term plan to get there.
I pull my laptop closer on the desk.
Not only is there pressure from everyone else…I’m putting huge pressure on myself.
This morning I’m meeting with Grandpa—my boss—and the head coach of the Condors, Joe Daneck. I wanted to get here early and work on a few things before that. I dive into numbers and the lists I’m compiling.
Others arrive at the office closer to nine o’clock—admin staff, Brock Thurlow, our director of hockey operations; Brenda Laurent, our chief human resources officer. I greet everyone and chat with them, sensing their wariness despite being friendly enough. I’ll need to get to know all these people too.
I’m a numbers guy, so dealing with people isn’t a strength, but I know that and I’ve worked on it. Managing means managing people…it’s that si
mple. Getting the best roster possible on the ice. Making sure team staff are competent. Communicating with ownership—in this case my grandpa. Maintaining good relations with fans and the media.
And since I played hockey most of my life, I know what it’s like to be on a team. Hockey is a team sport, and building the team that’s off the ice is as important as building the team that’s on the ice.
Grandpa arrives first, striding into my office with a big grin. I stand up and move around my desk for a hug and backslap. “Hey, old man. Or should I call you Mr. Wynn now?”
He laughs, a rough dry laugh. “Maybe you should call me that. Or how about Bob?”
“That’s weird.” I pause. “I’ll call you Bob to other people. To your face I’ll call you old man.”
“Fair enough.”
I gesture to the round table in the corner of my office and Grandpa takes a seat. He moves slower and more stiffly than I remember. I feel a clench in my gut at the idea of him getting older. Jesus, he’s only seventy-two. Only.
I pick up the cup of coffee I got from the break room, my Starbucks beverage long gone, and join him.
“I bet you’re chomping at the bit to get going,” Grandpa says.
“I’m ready.”
“I wanted to talk to you before Joe gets here. He has to go.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“He’s a losing coach.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have fired Uncle Mark.”
Uncle Mark had been the assistant coach for the Condors until he and my dad accused Grandpa of stealing money from them and sued him. I’m not making this shit up.
Grandpa scowls. “Are you fucking kidding me? How can I keep a man working for me who’s suing me? He knew he was going to get canned when he did that.”
Probably true.
“It may not be Joe’s fault the team is losing.” I sit back in my chair and regard Grandpa thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s the roster he’s got.”
Grandpa narrows his eyes. “I’ve lost faith in him. He has to go.”
I tip my head to one side and narrow my own eyes. “That’s my decision.”
Grandpa frowns. “I own this team.”
Fuck me. Are we really going to start off like this?
Okay, he’s my grandfather and I’ve known him my whole life. I’m not intimidated by him, as some might be. I love him and respect him.
On the other hand, this is my job, and I won’t put up with interference by team ownership, no matter who they are. That caused a bit of friction in Vegas, but somehow I managed to take a stand and keep my job.
I need to do that now.
“And I’m the man you hired to run this team,” I say to him, my voice low but forceful. “Full control. You said that. Remember?”
He scowls. “I never said that.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “You did say that. Your exact words were that I’d have complete autonomy to rebuild the Condors as I see fit.”
“Bullshit. I’m not turning complete control over to anyone. This is my team.”
My jaw slackens and my heart drops. What the fuck?
I have a pretty damn good memory. I didn’t imagine he said that. My fears that I’m being conned roar back, making my blood run hot. “I didn’t take this job to be your happy-to-be-here yes-man.” My hands clench around the armrests of the chair. “If that’s the case, you can find someone else to be your yes-man.”
I meet his eyes and lift my chin.
Grandpa stares back at me, and his expression shifts from belligerent to puzzled. “I don’t want a yes-man,” he says gruffly, quietly. “I want you.”
I give my head a mental shake and inhale slowly. “You hired me to manage this team. If you don’t want me to do that, I’m out of here.”
“I do want you to do that.”
I close my eyes briefly. What the fuck have I gotten myself into? “Then you have to let me do that, Grandpa. We’ll talk and I’ll listen to what you have to say because I respect your knowledge, and I’ll take your opinions into consideration, but you told me I’d have autonomy. Do you trust me to manage this team or not?”
Now he looks bewildered. “I do. Of course I do. That’s why I hired you.”
“Okay.” I suck in another long breath. “So you’re giving me control to make decisions as I see fit?”
“You have to run things by me first.”
I tip my chin down, then up. Does this mean we’ll be arguing over every decision I make? Or is this a courtesy? Fuck, I’m so confused right now. “Fair enough.”
At that moment, Joe arrives. He extends a hand with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Good morning! Welcome!”
We shake hands and I motion for him to take another seat at the table. I move across the room to close the door. I feel off balance. I don’t know what to think. Grandpa said he wants Joe gone. Then he said I just have to run things by him. As I take my seat again, my gaze shifts back and forth between the two other men, my nerves jumping as I wait for Grandpa to tell Joe he’s fired.
Jesus.
“Tell us what you’re thinking, Théo,” Grandpa says, sounding clearer and stronger than he did moments ago.
“Sure.” I nod, taking a few seconds to collect my thoughts. “So. This franchise has had a rough time the last few years. We need to change that around. We need to be a winning franchise. It’s good for the community, it’s good for the state, and it’s good for the sport. Hockey’s growing in popularity here in California, but it’s important that we have a team we can be proud of. It’s important to our fans, our organization…and it’s important to me. I’m excited to be part of this.”
Joe and Grandpa nod.
“I’m not one to make snap decisions,” I say, although Grandpa knows this. “I plan to do a lot of analysis. Watch a lot of video. Run a lot of numbers.”
“We already run a lot of numbers,” Joe says.
Was that defensiveness? I eye him, keeping my expression neutral. “Great. I’m glad you’re on board with that.”
He starts talking about Corsi scores, and I hold up a hand. “I know Corsi used to be important, before we had a lot of other analytics, but I’ve found there are other stats that give us better information.”
“Such as?”
“Such as, scoring chances. Scoring chances factor in shot quality.”
Joe frowns.
“Scoring chances give us more insight into which teams are playing better than Corsi does. And they can also be used for more in-depth player valuation. Take Wyatt Bell, for example. He took only a hundred eighty shot attempts, but most of those have been scoring chances—like eighty-one percent.” The numbers roll easily off my tongue; numbers have always stayed in my brain. “And more than half come from the slot or the crease.”
“Uh-huh.” His eyes narrow. “So you’re saying we should judge players solely on their ability to produce and prevent scoring chances.”
“Of course not, but it does give us much more quality information than Corsi does. You as a coach obviously want your players to create scoring chances, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Especially high-quality chances in the slot or crease, as opposed to unsuccessful attempts from the blue line. But those count in the Corsi metric, which makes it less effective.”
Joe doesn’t look convinced but he shuts up. I feel like I need to take a stand here so he knows who’s in charge, just like Grandpa, but also like Grandpa, he doesn’t look happy about it.
I swallow a sigh. “I also plan to talk to a lot of people, including you, Joe.”
He nods.
“Everyone here in the front office. The players, although I’ve talked to them already. The scouts. The draft is coming up in June, and we need to be read
y to make some decisions. We have thirteen guys with contracts coming up. We need a plan to deal with that. Who we want to keep. Who we don’t want to keep. And how we keep guys here that might be interested in jumping to a different team.” I wait a beat. “A winning team.”
“They’re tired of losing,” Grandpa says gruffly. “I don’t blame them.”
“You going to make a lot of changes?” Joe asks.
“I don’t know yet. Change is hard. I think we’re going to have to do some things differently, though. Maybe pursue some avenues that are less traditional than others. But we need to do the right things.”
“Rebuild,” Grandpa says with a sigh. “You’re going to tell me draft and develop, aren’t you?”
I smile. “Probably, yeah. There’s no magic bean that’s going to make us Stanley Cup champs next year.”
“I know. But Christ, I’m seventy-two years old. I don’t have a lot of time left.”
“You have lots of years ahead of you,” I assure him, even though I feel that pang again. “But I know what you mean. And even if our plan is to build slowly through drafting and development, I know we have to balance that with our needs right now.” When the rules on the ice and on the business side of NHL operations changed in 2005, player development became even more important. With the salary cap, young players with entry-level contracts are now a key to success.
“That’s why you get paid the big bucks,” Joe jokes.
I do get paid big bucks. But I’m worth it.
Our meeting continues until nearly noon. Grandpa offers to take me for lunch, but I’d rather eat a sandwich at my desk and keep working.
Halfway through my turkey and avocado on sourdough, someone knocks on my open door. I look up see Everly, my aunt. Everly’s about a year younger than me. I know, it’s weird.
“Hey!” She smiles tentatively. “I just came to say welcome.”
I smile back at her. There’s always been tension between my family and her family. As I kid, I was kind of oblivious to it, but became more aware of it in my teenage years. Now things are even worse because of the big feud between Dad and Uncle Mark and Grandpa. My dad may be feuding with Everly’s dad, but I’m working for her dad now and we need to be adults and get along. “Hi, Everly. Thanks. I’m stoked to be here.”
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