Page 133 of Slapshot Baby

"You let me grind for two fucking weeks without telling me about the GM."

He turns from the window. "What the hell was I supposed to say? 'Keep training, but by the way, the man who actually decides doesn't watch practice film at five a.m.?'"

"Yeah. You tell me the truth so I can adjust my approach."

"Your approach doesn't need adjusting. Your game speaks for itself."

"Then why am I sitting here instead of on a roster?"

"Because Hargrove doesn't evaluate hockey players. He evaluates assets." The word comes out bitter. His jaw grinds. "Go upstairs to the fourth floor. He's expecting you."

"Since when?"

"Since nine this morning."

It's almost eleven. I've been on the ice since dawn.

"You knew he was waiting and you let me skate first."

"I let you skate because that's what you needed to do before this conversation. And because I wanted one more session on film to hand him before you walked in there."

"Did you fight for me?"

"I told him you're the best player on my roster and the most prepared athlete I've coached in twenty years."

I sigh. If Hargrove hasn’t already reinstated me, something’s up.

I run it backward; Brennan's dark monitor, his rehearsed delivery. He’s been managing a handoff.

"What's he going to hit me with?"

"That's not mine to tell you. Go find out." He catches my arm as I reach the door. His grip is hard. "Kai. Don't let that man rattle you. Whatever he puts on the table, pick it apart."

The elevator climbs two floors from coaching level to executive level. The smell shifts from industrial cleaner to recycled air and carpet shampoo.

Framed jerseys line the hallway. I pass mine without stopping.

Hargrove's corner office looks down at the practice rink through floor-to-ceiling glass. The players below are tiny figures cutting patterns on white. You can't see who's leading the drill and who's coasting behind it.

This is the altitude where decisions get made about people who exist at ice level.

He's standing when I enter. In his mid-fifties, Hargrove is wearing a charcoal suit. His handshake is brief.

"Kai, thanks for making the time."

Making the time. Like I had somewhere better to be than the office that controls my career.

"Let's get to it."

"Fair enough."

He sits. I sit. His chair is higher than mine, and I notice it because details are the only weapon I have in a room where I don't control the rules.

"Your medical team has signed off. Your conditioning is where it needs to be. Coach Brennan's evaluation is unambiguous." He opens a manila folder. "I'm clearing you to return to the active roster for training camp."

Warm relief hits my bloodstream fast. The muscles along my neck release tension I've been carrying since Brennan's office, maybe since the hospital.

For a few seconds, I’m the man I was before the hit.