Page 12 of A Whole New Trick

Coach Miller lifts a brow. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”

“No, sir.”

“Glad to hear it.” Coach nods at Justin. “Please take Dane to Dr. Gaines’ office.”

“Of course.” Justin tilts his head toward the door. “This way.”

I follow him out of Coach Miller’s office.

I wait until we round the corner so our voices won’t carry to growl, “What the hell, Justin? How about a little warning before you throw me under the bus?”

I respect the guy a lot, but what he just did wasn’t cool.

Justin frowns. “Don’t be dramatic, Larson. It’s nothing personal.”

“Really? Shit-talking my performance seems pretty personal.” I glare at the trainer. “Who brought up the conversation first, anyway?”

Justin looks at me from the corner of his eye when we reach the stairwell.

“The owner called a meeting last week to discuss playoff strategy,” he reveals. “Some staff was invited.”

He pushes past the door and begins to climb.

“And you all talked about my performance?” And clearly found it lacking.

“We talked about a lot of different ways to improve the team’s chances of making it to the finals. It wasn’t just about you.”

I shake my head but keep silent as I follow Justin to the next floor and through a room filled with tall cubicles that conceal their occupants.

Fluorescent light is drowned out by the bright sun shining in through floor-to-ceiling windows. Offices with glass walls line the edges of the space. Men and women in business suits sit behind mahogany desks, typing away at computers or speaking emphatically into phones.

Aside from the coaches’ offices, I never ventured beyond the training facilities in the Rancher’s facility. Running a hockey organization requires a lot of manpower, but I never considered what that looked like. There are a lot of people working here, and this is just one floor of the facility.

Justin turns down the farthest row of cubicles and heads toward the back corner office. This one has a foggy glass wall, which allows more privacy than the other offices. A bigwig must sit there.

We reach the door, which has an etched nameplate that reads, “Dr. Gaines, MS, RD, LD.”

Justin knocks.

An aged voice from inside calls, “Come in.”

The trainer pushes open the door and steps inside. I take a deep breath, mentally preparing myself to keep a level head as I hear out whatever this guy is about to say. In my younger days, I was known as a bit of a hothead. I’ve gotten a better grasp of it these days, but irritation still snakes under my skin from this entire situation.

The first thing I notice when I enter the office is it’s nice. Like…reallynice.

The view of the Dallas skyline a few miles away is incredible. The dark oak furniture is polished to a shine, and the red leather armchairs angled in front of the desk make me think this is an office fit for the team's owner —not some nutritionist. No offenseintended; I just didn’t think the position would warrantthislevel of extravagance.

The second thing I notice is that the white-haired man standing by the bookshelf filled with textbooks with gold lettering on the spine isn’t the only person in the room. Anger sparks in my chest at being, once again, surprised by another unexpected witness to a conversation I don’t really want to have in the first place.

But then the woman with a sleek braid turns, and all the air rushes out of my lungs.

“Morgan?”

4

MORGAN

“Come on, Morgan,”Joshua Chen, the first baseman for the Texas Lonestars, whines in my ear. “Have pity on a guy.”

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