Play to Win

by Kelly Jamieson

  “Ha.”

  “Sometimes our eyes lie…and the numbers prove it. But sometimes the numbers are misleading too.”

  “And you know hockey, so you can use your eyes too.”

  “Yeah.” He swings my hand and gives me that slow, sexy smile. “Even though I have one shitty eye.”

  My heart bumps. “But you can see fine with your glasses.”

  “Yeah, I can.”

  “Your mom said that kids bugged you about being smart when you were a kid.”

  He grimaces but shrugs. “Yeah.”

  “But you showed them.”

  The smile is back. “Yeah, I did. But you never totally lose that feeling of being…different. I felt like something was wrong with me.”

  “I can’t imagine you feeling that way.” I eye him. The sun is low in the sky, making his tanned skin golden, emphasizing his strong bone structure. Our shadows stretch long across the sand. “You seem so confident and together.”

  “Well.” For a moment he says nothing. “I am confident in my abilities. But I like to analyze things—maybe too much sometimes. I always want to understand why things happen. Why kids bugged me when I was younger. Then when I got injured, I couldn’t figure out why that happened to me. Why something I loved was taken away from me. Then it happened again…with Emma.”

  I flinch at hearing that he’d loved Emma. But I try to keep my face composed.

  “And with JP,” he adds. “He was my best friend. He…stuck up for me when kids teased me. He was there for me when I got hurt. I couldn’t figure out how he of all people could have done that to me.”

  My chest aches for him, for the hurt he felt.

  “So in the end, what I came up with is…I don’t deserve the things I want.”

  I stop walking, my mouth dropping open. His hand tugs mine and he stops too, turning to face me. “That’s crazy,” I announce.

  He gives a soft laugh. “You have a better explanation?”

  “No.” I frown.

  “I know, I know. It’s hard to stop those thoughts sometimes. I try not to want things too much, in case they get taken away. But…” His eyes shadow. “I really want this job. And I want to do well at it.”

  My heart squeezes almost painfully at the hints of vulnerability in his words, his fear that this too will be taken away from him, his hesitancy to even say it out loud. “You will.” I reach up to cup his face with both hands and go onto my toes to kiss him. “You will.”

  He clasps my waist and says lightly, “I appreciate your faith in me.”

  I wind my arms around his neck and kiss him deeper, the ocean breeze blowing my hair all around us. He pulls me closer against him and I exult in the feel of his big, hard body against mine and his arms around me. I can’t explain why I have faith in him. But I guess that’s what faith is, believing in something without any real evidence. I don’t really know if he’s good at his job, despite how smart he seems and how his family listened to his every word when he talked about hockey and how his grandfather hired him for a reason.

  But I do believe in him.

  Chapter 19

  Théo

  “Belmont has to go.”

  I shake my head at Grandpa. “I disagree.”

  “Are you kidding me? He was struggling at the end of the season. Hardly any goals.”

  I smile. I’d rather deal with exact numbers than “hardly any,” but this is one of those situations where you need your eyes and the math. “He was playing at about the same effectiveness in the offensive zone at even-strength as he did the year before, with similar scoring-chance numbers, but getting a higher percentage of his shot attempts from the slot on net, and a high proportion of them were off the rush. Part of the reason he didn’t put up points is the team overall wasn’t scoring.” I give Grandpa a pointed look. “At five on five, they scored on 5.04 percent of their shots on goal, the second-lowest in the league.”

  Grandpa frowns. “I think you’re trying to baffle me with bullshit.”

  I laugh. “No, I’m not. These are the things we need to consider.”

  “All that data shit just goes over my head,” he complains.

  Grandpa’s an old-fashioned hockey man, and cap compliance and statistical analysis aren’t areas traditional hockey men are very knowledgeable about. “His line mate wasn’t scoring either,” I add. “But the reason I’m not worried about Belmont’s lack of production is his dominance in gaining the zone. He’s an elite player at gaining controlled entries, and his attacking style off the rush makes him a dangerous player once the puck crosses the blue line. He’s also pretty decent at creating offense off dump-ins; I’ve been watching video of him and comparing him to some of the best scoring-chance producers off entries, and he’s right up there.”

  “Jesus. Are you serious?”

  “Serious as taking a puck to the nuts.”

  Grandpa barks out a laugh.

  “Look, he may have been in a slump, but I think we need to be patient with him because he does all the right things to create scoring chances. Now, Jablonski, on the other hand—”

  “I like him,” Grandpa interrupts.

  “Great. I like him too. But with him, the numbers don’t lie. He’s not worth the money we’re paying him.”

  Grandpa sighs. “Are you ever going to listen to me?”

  “I’m listening to you. If you’re asking am I always going to do what you want…then, no. Not always. Also, we have to talk about Joe.”

  “I told you he had to go.”

  “And he does. But not just because we were losing.” I rub the back of my neck. “He doesn’t respect me or what I’m telling him.” I’d had that feeling from our first meeting. “He doesn’t agree with the kind of analytics I want to use. We need someone who’s on board with that.”

  “Fuck. Like who? You got someone in mind?” He gives me a shrewd look.

  “Actually, I do. Dave.”

  Grandpa frowns. “Dave Martin?”

  Our assistant coach. “Yeah. We’ve talked a lot and I think he’s ready to move up.”

  “He’s too new here. I just hired him.”

  He hired him to replace my uncle Mark, who he fired.

  “You have other ideas? You wanted to replace Joe right from the start. Who did you have in mind?”

  “I was thinking about Ben Gardner.”

  My jaw drops. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “I like him.”

  I rub my forehead. “Grandpa, he got fired by the Blades for running an illegal sports gambling ring.”

  “He did?” Grandpa’s eyebrows draw together.

  I give him a long, searching, incredulous look. “You had to know about that. The whole sports world knew about that.”

  “Right, right.” He shakes his head. “Okay, never mind him.”

  Okay. Jesus.

  “When is Scott starting?”

  “Monday.”

  I hired an assistant GM the other day, after talking to a bunch of candidates and doing a lot of research. Then Scott flew to L.A. and we had lunch, which turned into nearly three hours because we got along so well. I can’t wait till he gets here and I’ve got someone I can delegate things to, someone who thinks the same way I do I can bounce ideas off. He also has tons of experience managing an AHL team and a few years working in the NHL as assistant GM in Vancouver.

  I get back to work in my office. I’m starting to put the puzzle pieces together. The contracts we want to negotiate and the ones we don’t.

  There are ten players I need to figure out what kind of future they have with us. Bertelson and Bell are definite cornerstones and we need to offer them big contracts. Bell has proven himself as a top four defenseman and will also need to be paid as one. The ot
her guys are all well regarded in the club, but there are better established players ahead of them, and up-and-coming prospects behind them. I’ve been watching video of our farm team too, and I’m impressed with a few of the young guys.

  Then there are the bigger contract veterans. To be honest, some of those contracts now seem at best cumbersome when it comes to the salary cap, at worst, terrible deals for us. I’m already looking at trading at least a couple of those contracts to make room for pending restricted free agent deals.

  It’s complicated as fuck, but I love putting the big picture together, moving things around, adding up the numbers and making it all work. I’m not there yet. But I will be.

  I immerse myself in my spreadsheets, plugging in numbers to see the impact, and time flies by. But I’ve set an alarm on my phone to remind me when to go home.

  I’ve never done that before. In the past, I’d stay in the office all night. Hell, that’s why I had a couch in my office—so I could grab some sleep, saving time by not having to drive home and back to do so.

  But Lacey’s at home. And that makes me happy to go there.

  It’s Friday night and I told her I’d pick up pizza and beer and wine on the way home. I grab my phone and check it as I walk out of the arena.

  Oh for…I have a text message from Emma.

  I still can’t believe you’re married.

  My feet come to a halt. I frown at my phone. I can’t believe Emma is texting me. Why is she doing this? Did I not make it clear to her that night at Mom and Dad’s that I wasn’t interested in resuming things with her?

  As usual, I sort through various options in my head. Do I reply and tell her not to contact me anymore? Do I ask her what she wants from me? Do I ignore her and hope she gets the message? What is up with her and JP?

  I still don’t know what to do. My usual problem-solving skills don’t seem to be working at optimum capacity when it comes to my brother and his love life. So for now I choose to do nothing.

  But when I’m starting my car, another message arrives.

  I miss you.

  Ignore.

  Do you miss me too? Remember the good times we had…

  Oh, for Chrissakes. She’s not going to stop. I need to deal with this. I’m just going to be blunt and to hell with it.

  Please stop texting me. We’re over. I’m married. You’re with JP.

  JP and I are done.

  What the fuck?

  I thunk my head back against the headrest.

  Cheating on me with JP was unforgivable, and I’ve also come to realize that I was more hurt by JP’s betrayal than by hers, but now I’m actually pissed off that she’s doing the same thing to him. Only this time it appears she actually had the ovaries to tell him they were done before moving on to another guy, unlike with me.

  I’m sorry to hear that. But the fact remains…you and I are done. I’m married. Bye, Emma.

  I tap a couple of buttons on the messaging app to block her number from being able to get through to me. There. That takes care of that.

  I sure hope JP isn’t crazy in love with her. But at least the awkwardness of family gatherings will be no more with Emma out of the picture.

  Ha! Who am I kidding? Emma was the least of the reasons for family awkwardness!

  I go pick up the pizza and booze. But when I get home and walk in the door, I’m greeted with loud music and laughter. I stand still for a moment, my hands full. What the hell is going on?

  I set the food and beverages down, noting a bunch of empties already on the counter, and follow the noise to the patio. There’s a fuckin’ party going on out there, with a whole bunch of people.

  I survey the group—Lacey. Taylor. Everly? For fuck’s sake. Also Manny and Wyatt Bell, who’s apparently back in town, and another guy I don’t know.

  “Hey! You’re home!” Lacey jumps up to greet me with a smile as big and sunny as California, coming at me for a hug. I set my hands on her hips and murmur in her ear, “What’s going on?”

  “Oh! I invited Everly over for a drink, and Taylor was walking on the beach so I asked her too, and then the guys heard us out here so they invited themselves over, but it was okay because they brought beer.” She laughs.

  She invited Everly for a drink. Doesn’t she know Everly is from the enemy side of the family? Although, I’m working for the enemy side of the family.

  I glance over at my aunt, who’s talking to Wyatt and wearing a look on her face as if she’d rather be eating cockroaches. I shake my head.

  “Grab a beer, dude!” Manny calls to me. “In the kitchen.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I turn back to the kitchen, Lacey following me.

  “Oh, you brought pizza!”

  “That was the plan. Although I didn’t bring enough for a party.” I thought it was going to be just the two of us.

  “We can order more, no problem.” She grabs a bottle of wine out of the fridge and refills her glass. “What kind of beer do you want?”

  I sigh. “A cold one.”

  With a laugh, she hands me one from the fridge.

  “I’ll go change.” I sure don’t fit in, in my tailored dress pants and shirt, when everyone else is wearing shorts and T-shirts.

  She gives me a cheerful smooch on the mouth and carries her glass and the bottle out to the patio.

  I stand there for a minute. Weirdly, I’m disappointed that it won’t be just the two of us. I’m also disgruntled. I hate last minute changes to my plans. I know this about myself, but it still bugs me. Lacey looked so happy—like she was having fun. She’s young and vibrant and sociable—I’m a boring number cruncher who plans his spontaneity.

  I also remember that her life hasn’t been a lot of fun lately, after caring for her mother, being the grown-up for her piece of shit brother, working multiple jobs to pay the bills and bail him out. She deserves a little fun in her life.

  So I swallow my aggravation as I trudge upstairs to change.

  A Friday night with pizza, Netflix, and…okay, yeah, sex, sounded good to me. But maybe I need to make other plans with Lacey. Maybe she’d like to go out to a club or a concert. Even a movie or a nice restaurant for dinner. Like…a date. We kind of skipped over that part.

  Back downstairs, I find Lacey in the kitchen just ending a call on her phone. “I ordered more pizza,” she says. “I hope that’s okay.”

  “Sure. Gotta feed our guests.”

  I’m not exactly an experienced host. Back in Vegas, even when I was home, I was usually working. I pick up the beer I left on the counter and saunter out to the patio.

  “Hey, Théo,” Wyatt calls, standing. We move together for a bro shake. “Good to see you.”

  “You too.”

  “Should I call you boss?” he asks with a smirk.

  “Yes. You absolutely should.”

  I don’t know Wyatt well, but we were drafted in the same year and met then.

  “This is my buddy Malcolm.” He introduces me to the guy I haven’t met.

  I grab an empty chair next to Lacey. She’s chatting away to Everly about the hat she started knitting after their trip to some yarn store the other day, but flashes me a smile. I had no idea Everly liked to knit. Apparently, they both also want to take a cake-decorating course.

  “What are you up to for the rest of the summer?” I ask Wyatt.

  “I’m working with Matt Heller,” he says, mentioning a former player who now runs an elite conditioning facility for athletes. “So I’ll be around. I may take one more trip back home before training camp.”

  “Matt has a great reputation.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he’s gonna kick my ass.”

  Conversation flows until our pizza arrives. I pay for it while Lacey carries it into the kitchen and pulls pla
tes out of the cupboard. She put the pizza I brought into the oven to keep it warm, so she slides it out too, then calls to everyone to come help themselves.

  She added a tossed salad to the order, which is good because the women all seem to want that. We all fill our plates and go back outside. The setting sun creates a magnificent view over the ocean and a mellow, relaxed feeling washes down through me.

  It’s an unfamiliar feeling. I’ve been told I’m wound a bit tight. I know I’m intense when it comes to my work, and I like structure and predictability. I’m not sure if I like feeling this way…

  “There’s no such thing as a shower or a grower. A guy’s penis is either small and gets bigger when it’s erect, or it’s big and it gets bigger when it’s erect. That shower versus grower thing is a myth.”

  My head whips around to see Wyatt smirking at Everly. What the hell are they talking about?

  “Hmm.” Everly taps her chin. “I’ll have to conduct some research on that theory.”

  Wyatt’s smirk slips.

  “The penis is just a muscle,” Manny adds. “When blood flows into it, it gets bigger. It’s all about elasticity. And it’s better to be a grower. Your junk is better protected when flaccid, but more impressive when erect.”

  Everly scoffs. “Come on. Every guy wants to be a shower. I have three brothers. You guys all get naked together. Are you telling me you don’t sneak a glance at each other and compare yourselves?”

  Lacey and Taylor are laughing their asses off at this conversation, and I shake my head, a smile tugging my lips.

  “So size does matter?” Wyatt challenges Everly.

  “Well.” She again presses a finger to her chin. “What really matters is functionality.”

  “True,” Lacey chimes in.

  “I agree,” Taylor says. “As a heterosexual woman, I do have an appreciation for the male organ and the pleasure it can bestow. But every woman has personal preferences when it comes to peen.”

  “Sure,” Lacey agrees. “Long, short, thick, thin…”

  “Circumcised or uncut,” Taylor adds.