Page 3 of Brace and Chase

The Atlanta Revenge has, simply put, always been a badly run organization, and they kept me around—well paid too, so I don’t have a lot of room to complain—mainly because I was always the best player on the ice.

I hate myself whenever that fact flits through my thoughts, but it’s undeniable.

There are other amazing players on the team for sure, but none with my experience or tenure, so of course me retiring is shitty for them.

So clearly, there’s no reason for any of them to call me.

After thinking about it for another long moment while the damn thing is still going crazy on the table, I snatch it up and answer when I see it’s my agent.

“What’s up, Woody?” I answer, trying to sound pleasant.

“You’re never going to guess who just called me.” I roll my eyes at his excited tone.

“Look, Woody. I don’t care if Michael Jordan himself called so I can collab with him and Nike, I don’t even care if it’s Paul fucking Wayne calling. I already told you I’m not ready to commit to anything. And honestly?—”

“It was Gabrielle Darnell.” He interrupts me and leaves me fucking speechless. “Exactly,” he says triumphantly,interpreting my silence correctly. “She wants your number. I don’t know for what, I didn’t ask and I doubt she would’ve told me. But she called me herself. I damn near pissed myself when she told me who she was. So what do you say, can I give her your number?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say in a low tone. I’m so out of my depth here. What the hell else am I supposed to do? “Give her my number,” I murmur, dazed.

My mind is already running through all the possibilities of what this could be about when I hear Woody’s quick goodbye and then the dead dial tone of the call.

I stay frozen, with my phone in my hand and my gaze lost on the blank wall. Trying to figure out what the most successful woman in sports wants to talk to me about is probably a waste of time, but that doesn’t stop me.

It could be a number of things, but my bet is that she wants me as some kind of defensive coach. I don’t think that makes any sense, though. Not only does she have Tomir Lane as her head coach, a retired defenseman who beat me to the James Norris Memorial Trophy two times, but she also has some of the best d-men on her team. Nikolay Brotnik, Anders Haugen, Philip Von Bruun, are all veterans and still playing like they’re in their prime, not to mention there are some younger guys with real talent and potential if they don’t hit their heads too many times.

And sure, Brotnik is as old as I am, but I’d still be playing too if I were with the Pirates, and I’d be in just as good a shape as him. I am, actually. Or I was... whatever. Ialso know for a fact I have a better attitude than that sourpuss. He doesn’t even talk to fans. I get not wanting to talk to the press, there are a bunch of players who loathe press conferences with a passion, but the fans? I mean they’re the whole reason why we can do what we do. But he just straight-up ignores everyone in the arena except for the players.

I know for a fact everyone around the league is low-key scared of the dude, and though I don’t blame them, I’m only cautious of him when he’s gunning for me on the ice. Off of the ice... well, I barely even think about him there, and mostly ignore all the insinuations that we have some epic rivalry.

We don’t.

We’ve never even talked off the ice.

In any case, Gabrielle Darnell sure as hell doesn’t need me when she has all those very good defensive minds over there, so what the hell else could she need or want from me?

My phone rings with an unknown number, but it’s the Las Vegas area code, so it’s only then that it actually sinks in. I’m about to have a conversation withGabrielle Darnell.

“Here we go,” I whisper to myself and hit answer. “Hello?” My voice sounds raspy and scratchy, so I clear my throat, hoping she doesn’t hear for some reason.Because she makes me nervous, that’s the reason.

“Mr. Heart?” she asks. Fuck, even just her voice sounds freaking smart. Also calm and collected, like she doesn’t have one single thing to worry about in this world.

“Y-yes,” I stammer and mentally curse myself for it. “Gabrielle Darnell?” I ask tentatively.

“Please, call me Gab, or ma’am if you must,” she tells me. She sounds prim but quickly changes her tone to friendly and familiar, conversational almost. “So, how’s retirement?” Yes, she’s talking to me as if we’re just two friends catching up, not like this is the first time we’ve ever spoken and have never met face to face.Weird.

“It’s going okay,” I say, trepidation coming through every word. “What can I do for you ma’am?” It feels... I don’t know,wrongto call her Gab.

“Well, I’m wondering if one season, one shot at a Stanley Cup, and a four-million-dollar payday is worth one favor?”

I choke on air.

“You certainly don’t beat around the bush, huh, ma’am?” God, talk about a way to startle someone.

“No. I don’t.” A no nonsense tone that time, and I can picture her sitting back, reclining a little on a chair, sitting in front of an impressive mahogany desk. “I’ve got about a million different jobs so time is of the essence. What do you say?”

Around a million different thoughts flit through my mind in what feels like a millisecond, and since the chance of calling my mom for help is out of the question, I go with my unsettled gut.

“Depends on the favor,” I tell her. I walk over to my couch, the one thing I still haven’t moved besides the table,and sit my ass down to try and get my bearings and my breath back.

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