Page 3 of Wrong Score

As the players file off the ice and down the player's tunnel, I make my way to my office, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

I leave my office door open. A policy I started when I first started coaching here years ago to allow players, coaches, and any other Hawkeyes employee access to me whenever they need.

I settle into my chair, leaning back and glance around the bland beige walls of my office, Rowan's voice echoing in my head about the lackluster state of my office.

She wasn't wrong in suggesting that my office lacks a personal touch. Besides the large whiteboard that takes up most of the wall to the right of my desk, covered in blue and red marker from working out a play this morning with Powers, everything else was here when I took over for the coach who retired. Coach Lennox and the man who coached me for the years I played for the Hawkeyes until my injury.

He took with him all of his lifetime achievements he'd accrued over his long career in the NHL. His awards, plaques and signed memorabilia from all the players he coached through the years.

He boxed up the pictures of his wife and kids in Saint Barts for Christmas and the ones of them wearing Mickey Mouse ears in Disney World. The kind of photos I've never had since I chose hockey over a family life. There's no wife and kids waiting at home for me at the end of a long day—a tough game—or a championship loss like last year. Which means, no framed pictures of a family I don't have.

And now at forty-six years old, I've stopped looking for 'the one'. The one woman who could knock hockey into second place, giving her the top spot. If anyone had a shot at it, it was my ex-wife, Lily. Lily was my college girlfriend and the only woman I thought would have me racing home after practice and away games. But it didn't happen.

I'd stay late to practice to get in more time on the ice. I used my days off to watch replays, pouring over where I could be faster or more accurate. She got tired of being alone and homesick for London. She blindsided me with divorce papers, though if I hadn't been consumed with my rookie year maybe I would have seen the signs.

I barely felt a thing as I signed the divorce papers all while wondering if I could still make it back that night to the stadium to get in more skate time before the janitor locked the doors. When I looked up after signing in the last spot where her lawyer had put bright yellow tabs for me, I saw the tears in her eyes. I knew at that moment that I was the man responsible for breaking her spirit.

I didn't contest the alimony that her lawyer fought for, though she refused it stating that she didn’t want a penny from the career that ended us.

I did, however, deposit a large sum into her bank account to help her start a new life, paying to get her into a nice flat on the good side of London. She didn’t fight me on that. It was the least I could do after I stole two years of her life… and I guess more if you count the years we were together at university.

I made a pact with myself that day, after she closed the door with the divorce papers in hand, and the movers driving away with the boxes of her things they would ship off to her. I made a pact that I would never break another woman like I broke her. That I'd never settle down with someone again unless I found someone worth giving hockey up for.

Since then, I've dated my fair share of women, but it's only worked to reaffirm that 'the one' doesn't exist. Not for me anyway.

Coach Lennox clapped me on the back on his last day, and my first.

"Now this old girl is ready for new memories," he said, referring to the office space that only held an empty desk, a leather chair, a couch and a coffee table in it. "If the walls could talk about the conversations held here," he reminisced.

I knew a few of them since I used to play for him before I got injured and had to give up playing. Then, when Coach Lennox decided to retire, Phil Carlton called me up, offering me the position.

It took me all of five minutes to decide.

I wasn't done with hockey. Or maybe hockey wasn't done with me.

I didn't have a wife and kids to consider, just two brothers and our mum anxiously waiting for me to move back home and take my spot within the family business. An art magazine printing business that I don't know the first thing about.

My lack of personal mementos in the head coach office mirrors the same lack of personality and family that my penthouse in The Commons has.

The penthouse came fully furnished, and so did this office—both were given to me by the Hawkeyes. I didn't see a reason to change anything. After all, nothing is permanent. Not my first wife, not the team who signed me my rookie year and played me for three more years before trading me, and not the two other teams who would play me long enough to boost their rankings and then trade me, their best player, for two to three mediocre ones.

I was the golden ticket—the wild card in a game of billionaire hockey owners. I was hockey currency, but my contract was expensive, and once they thought their ranking would hold with the players they had, they'd unload me, thinking their team could sustain it, but they never did. Within a year or two, the team would suck again. Eventually, the Hawkeyes made a trade for me and those eight years I played for Phil Carlton were the golden days of the Hawkeyes, before Sam Roberts retired as our team captain and I tore a tendon in my shoulder and it was never the same.

I knew eventually I'd vacate both that penthouse and the office that I've used for the last several years.

A flash of blonde hair streaks across my open office door, causing me to straighten up.

Rowan.

Before I can process what I'm doing, I'm on my feet, moving towards the door. I shouldn't care if she's here. I shouldn't be curious about her whereabouts. Yet, here I am, following the path where I thought I saw that familiar blonde hair move in the corner of my eye.

As I step into the hallway, a faint scent wafts through the air—vanilla and citrus. I inwardly curse myself for recognizing her scent. When the hell did that happen?

I round the corner and stop short. There, at the end of the corridor, stands Reeve and Rowan. Deja vu from Thanksgiving. Their body language is tense, Reeve's face a mask of frustration while Rowan seems to be trying to calm him down. My eyes narrow as I watch their interaction.

What the fuck is going on here? If she's screwing with my players, Phil and Sam will have to see it my way. They'll have to demand a cease to the story withThe Seattle Sunrise, or at least demand that they have another journalist take over for her.

I take a step closer, straining to hear their conversation, but they're speaking in hushed tones. Reeve crosses his arms over his chest, a gesture to show he doesn't like the conversation they're having.

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