Page 4 of Break the Ice
Kai says the best of the worst, but my point stands. The Wolves can’t do shit to me when I’m their best shot at any hope of a comeback.
After three straight seasons where we’ve failed to make the conference quarterfinals, let alone win more games than we lose, we’re in piss poor shape. Last season, Walsh, our best blue liner, signed with the Brooklyn Blades. During the same season, we lost our best goalie, Sandoval, to his substance abuse issues.
That’s not even getting into the other scandals that have rocked the team—like the sexual assault allegations against Foley—or the tensions rising between certain players. The team’s been fumbling in recent times with no sign of improvement in sight.
I’m the MVP. The first line center every time. I’m the one that puts us on the scoreboard. I’m the one that plays defense when Morasca and Gilliam fall short, which is just about every game.
And I’m the one that’ll be a free agent at the end of this season—my contract’s up and there’s rumblings I might receive a few offers from rival teams. I’m still shopping around, and I haven’t made up my mind if I’ll stay or I’ll go.
But it’s too damn entertaining walking through the building with the knowledge Hawk and Oates can’t do shit to me.
It’s probably why Hawk’s called me in for a one-on-one chat. Probably wants to feel me out before the season ends and my contract’s up.
It won’t even matter that I fucked Tiffany and Morasca will be pissed.
They’ll make an offer anyway.
Because that’s what happens when you’re an asshole but too damn good to let go of.
I cut off a whole line of traffic speeding onto the highway, racing from Bellevue to our training facility in under fifteen. The other cars on the road quickly learn to get the hell out of my way. Some honk. I throw my head back and laugh at them as I slam on the gas and leave them coughing in my dust.
In the parking garage, I swing into one of the executive spaces—hopefully monotone Piazza who hates my guts—and I enter the facility without even bothering to put on my shirt. There’s no point when I’ll be changing into my gear once I hit the locker room.
Passing the huge no smoking signs plastered everywhere, I puff on my cigarette and then flick the butt to the ground for maintenance to pick up. I stroll through the building, making my presence known. The more the person can’t stand me—and I always can tell—the more I eat it up. The more I rub it in.
Anybody that really knows me would know there’s nothing I love more than getting under somebody’s skin. Most people hate being the villain; they don’t want to be the bad guy.
I couldn’t be more different. Being the villain, the bad guy, the one everybody hates, is the most fun you can have.
It’s a level of freedom goody-two-shoes assholes don’t understand.
From the time I was a kid, everybody always assumed the worst of me. They were always stuck on outrage, jumping to conclusions about me. Why not feed into the bad impressions? Why not take ’em from bad to worse?
Make them really hate me. When people hate you, you have control over them.
A valuable and addictive lesson I learned at an early age.
I wink at two Ice Girls in passing, both of whom I’ve fucked, and head toward the management floor where Hawk’s office is located.
Jerry, his personal assistant, lets me know he’s expecting me.
“Alpha, thanks for coming by. Have a seat.” Hawk sits up in his executive chair and reaches for the decanter on his desk. “I’ll pour you a drink.”
“Practice is about to start.”
He shoots me a toothy grin, his bright white mustache covering his top lip. “We all know the rules never applied to a guy like you. You’re just like your father. He never played by the book either.”
Though he’s got an ear-to-ear grin on his face, there’s a note of bitterness to be detected in his tone. Probably because, as a former player himself, he was around during my father’s pro days. They’re both NHL legends from the ’90s.
Dad was a Wolf. Hawk was a Trojan. Seattle and Portland, two teams that have been rivals for decades.
In Dad and Hawk’s case, they also had a personal feud. According to Dad, one that wound up ending both of their careers.
“How’s he doing, anyway? Good ol’ Eliot?”
“Why don’t you call him up and find out?”
Hawk’s expression remains frozen on his face. “You really are Eliot Golding’s son. You know your father was always a proud Wolf. So was your brother. It’s tradition for your family.”
