Page 28 of The Big Puck

His strength is seemingly impossible to overcome, but I know better. I know how to work against long odds. If I didn’t, I’d never have gotten here. I’d never have played professional hockey. I might not even still be alive.

He snorts. “You’re welcome. Not that it’ll do you any good.” His grin disappears, and I can see the spark of fear, the crack in his arrogance for a second before he shoves back his desk chair and stands. I don’t smile, though my urge to do so hasn’t been this strong in a long while. Not sure what that says about me, except I know how to use my game face and know how to maintain control of myself. It’s all I have control of, but it’s enough. It’ll have to be enough.

I stand and lean forward, getting in his face and unabashedly using my substantial height and size advantage over the older man. I extend my hand to shake his, knowing full well he’ll need to shake it or look like a scared pussy for backing down. Also knowing full well that he’ll feel threatened physically because he’s the kind of guy who understands physical threats.

But we’re alone in his office, and he can’t rely on security to beef up his confidence.

He takes my hand, and I crush it, just short of breaking his small, pitiful bones. He withstands it because his tough-guy ego demands it. I calculated correctly that he wouldn’t do what a normal businessman would do—call me out and make legal threats—not that a normal businessman would get themselves into this situation.

I let go of his hand and walk out of his office without looking back when he shouts obscenities at me before he can call security.

The line between us has been drawn bright and wide. There’s no pretense that we’re on the same side this season. You’ve carved out a fucking tough road for yourself.

I console myself with the knowledge that it was mostly Gavonza doing the carving. Mostly. But insisting on the pie-in-the-sky clause in my contract is what really set the stage for us to be enemies, at least in his mind.

Reaching my office, I shove the door open, the blank nameplate mocking me.

* * *

After working on the administrative side of my job for a couple of hours, meeting with public relations and human resources, I prep for the late afternoon session with the team, which includes film review and shooting drills. We’re going to be a high-scoring team because that’s our strength, and we’re going to lean into it. Afterward, we have a team meal, and it’s late when the guys disperse to go home.

I encounter a group of the guys on the way out of the facility. Rafe is with them, holding court as they listen to him.

“You’re from around here, Coach,” Sabien says as I walk by and nod. “Know of a good bar we can crash tonight?”

I raise my brows. “You’re in training.” I don’t elaborate that I expect them to get to bed early to sleep.

Rafe slaps the kid on the back. “It’s team bonding,” he says to me. “No more than two beers. In fact, you should come along, Spence—Coach Logan. Coach Kap, too.” He nods at my assistant coach Bobby Kapinski, who joins us.

“I’m in,” Kap says. I frown, unable to hide my reluctance. Kap adds, “For one beer and a chance to get to know you lugheads better.”

Rafe grins a real grin and glances at each of the men in the group, about seven of the younger guys, including Jason and Sabien.

“What about you?” Rafe asks me again point blank.

The line between coach and player is a real one, comprised mostly of respect and authority, but there’s also a need for understanding and familiarity to get to the next level, and a need for actually giving a shit. As much as this game is a business, it’s still a game first and a family at best.

“I’m in,” I say. “But for the record, I’m not going to enjoy it.” My frown encourages a split-second pause where no one is sure how to respond. But Rafe knows better and laughs, slapping my back, giving all the guys license to laugh as well.

“If that’s your story, we’ll stick to it.”

Even as I walk with them a few blocks to an out of the way place I knew from back in my high school days, I replay Gavonza’s threat about my personal business being my undoing in my head and pull the ball cap down over my face in the twilight, telling myself it’s a healthy thing to be on the paranoid side in this age of social media and cell phone cameras.

Not that I’m recognizable by anyone except a very few of the nerdiest hockey fans. Like Lainey Hall.

* * *

Because I know how to nurse a beer, it’s late when I get home, almost midnight, and of course, Lainey is in bed, likely fast asleep. I move quietly up the stairs and open Krissy’s door to look in on her. It’s more than guilt or duty that moves me. I have to admit I miss her and the sense of peace and wholeness she gives me, that sense innocence. Preserving that and making her life as perfect as possible is what’s important. She’s not even five months old, and she’s already becoming the center of my universe.

Watching her sleep, I touch her face when she fusses. In the next minute, she wakes and starts to cry.

I pick her up. This is the first time I’ve been left alone to deal with a crying baby in the middle of the night. Aunt Hildie took care of Krissy at her house while I was getting the place together, right up until she had her doctor’s appointment two days before I met Lainey.

Alarm seizes me at her distress because I have no idea what to do, no motherly instincts to draw on.

Do I wake Lainey? I reject the idea as soon as the thought arrives because I can’t think of anything more cowardly to do, even as my shoulder muscles bunch, and I hush Krissy quietly, wondering if she needs changing or if she needs a bottle. The paralysis of indecision of what to do first and a shameful lack of confidence make me walk in a useless circle while she quiets, though not completely. Whimpers issue from her with each breath, and each time the sound tears through my heart.

“Tell me what to do, little girl. Please.” I whisper the words and wish to hell she could answer me.