Page 27 of On Ice

She gives a polite smile. “Oh, I don’t mind at all. In fact, you remind me of my son, Evan.”

“That’s great,” I say, trying not to choke on the huge lump in my throat. “He’s a lucky guy to have you as his mother.”

And I mean it too. Maybe she doesn’t know who I am half the time anymore, but she was still the best mother I could have asked for. She loved me with the fierceness of a lioness, and I’ll protect her to my last dying breath.

Whether she knows who I am or not.

****

Luca has summoned me to his office.

I’d love to tell him to go fuck himself, but I don’t dare. I’ve managed to avoid him since our little run-in in the janitor’s closet, but I knew I couldn’t avoid him forever. As I walk toward his office, construction noise echoes through the halls. Luca has kept his promise to begin renovations. Still, as loud as the jackhammers and drills are, the blood pounding through my veins seems louder.

I’m dreading this meeting because I’m sure I know what it’s about. Tomorrow night is our game against Chicago. I know in my gut the bastard is going to want me to throw the game. We just came off a four game losing streak and have one win under our belt. We need more wins before we lose another game or our chances of being in the playoffs will be lost. I need to talk him out of this somehow, but I have no clue how.

His door is open, but I knock anyway. “Come in.” Luca stands at the window overlooking the practice rink, hands clasped behind his back. His reflection watches me in the glass. “Close the door.”

I do, noting the new furniture, and the lingering smell of paint. The previous owner’s office is undergoing a metamorphosis. The familiar floor-to-ceiling windows dominate one wall, offering a commanding view of the practice rink below, but he’s replaced the pine desk that was there with a massive, dark walnut monstrosity.

A vintage bar cart holds crystal decanters of what I’m sure is top-shelf liquor, while construction supplies clutter one corner. The old trophy case still displays team memorabilia, though now it shares space with an intricate bronze wolf statue that looks like an antique. I frown at that odd addition, wondering why it’s there and what it’s supposed to symbolize.

There’s a big oil painting of Italy on the far wall, and directly to the side of it the wall is stripped bare to the studs, wires hanging loose like veins. A ladder leans against a corner where a crew must’ve been working on a light fixture before knocking off for the day. The carpet’s been ripped up, exposing raw concrete, and there’s a faint smell of sawdust in the air.

I’m surprised to see an old Ice Hawks jersey draped over the back of his chair. It’s not new merchandise, it’s vintage, thekind of thing a true fan wouldn’t part with easily. The fabric is faded, the team’s logo a little cracked from age. Is that jersey his or was it left behind by the old owners? As disinterested as Luca is with our team, I decide it must be the old owners property, until I spot a hockey playbook half-hidden under a blueprint for what looks like a bar renovation. Is Luca actually interested in hockey?

He turns and notices I’m staring at the hockey playbook. “Research,” he says brusquely.

I scowl. “Why would you need a playbook? You gonna start calling plays for us? You replacing Coach Baker?”

He sighs and walks toward me. “There’s nothing wrong with understanding the sport.”

“Why would you need to understand anything? We’re the ones doing all the work.”

“Because, Evan.” His tone is like something you’d use on a toddler who’s throwing a temper tantrum. “Then I have a better idea of what you’re doing out there on the ice. If I don’t understand the plays, you could lie to me too easily.”

“You’re the only liar in the room,” I say coldly.

His cheek twitches, but instead of coming back at me harshly, he says, “We need to discuss the game against Chicago.”

“What’s to discuss? We’re going to go out and play our asses off like we always do.” I life my chin, challenging him to dispute what I just said.

He studies me, his eyes dark and unfriendly. “I don’t know why you think you’re the one calling the shots. You’re not.”

“I’m the one playing hockey, so if you want to lose the game, get suited up, grab a stick, and throw the fucking game yourself because I ain’t doing it.”

His jaw clenches. “So I guess you’ve decided Noah is expendable?”

A chill goes through me as I hold his gaze. “No, of course not. But I don’t think you’re going to actually murder one of the most valuable players on our team. That could hurt our chances of winning games you want us to win.”

“Maybe I’ll just worry about that later. I want you to lose against Chicago anyway, so not having Noah around will just make that easier.” He moves closer, and my heart rate inches up.

“We play to win,” I say through gritted teeth. “Don’t you understand? It’s in our blood. We don’t lose on purpose, Luca. We’re not built like that.”

“I don’t give afuckabout how you’re built,” he growls. “Two goals. That’s the spread we’d prefer. A regulation loss by at least two goals.”

“No.” I wince at the furious glare he throws at me. He inches even closer and I feel sweat beading on my forehead. “Let us throw some other game, not this one. This game is important, Luca.”

“I have millions riding on this.” Despite his enraged expression, his voice stays eerily calm. “A decisive Chicago win won’t raise any flags. They’re first in the conference, we’re barely holding onto ninth place.”

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