Page 2 of Scoring Position

“Tell me I’m dreaming,” he said instead of hello.

To her credit, Diane didn’t sigh. “I’m sorry, Ryan.”

Fuck.He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the skin between his brows. “The Fuel?”

They played in the Western Conference, so Ryan had only played them twice a year. Three years ago they’d drafted Nico Kirschbaum, a first-round pick who was supposed to be the new Hockey Jesus or something, but so far it hadn’t done them any good. Other than the fact that they were terrible, he didn’t know much about the team.

“On the plus side,” Diane said, “real estate is cheap?”

Fuck, he was going to have to sell his apartment.

Fuck, he was going to have to find anewapartment—with training camp starting in a week.

He pushed away his bowl of cereal, his appetite gone. “Can you… I mean, I’m obviously a little blindsided. You would’ve told me, right? If you’d known this was coming?”

“Thatismy job.” She had a real way of conveying meaning with tone, Ryan thought. It was just pointed enough to put him in his place for questioning her competence, but gentle enough to make him aware she understood he was hurting. Management didn’t always tell guys or their reps up front. “I didn’t find out until a few minutes ago. I just got off the phone with the Fuel’s GM.”

That seemed promising. Ryan was good at his job, but his job was solid third-liner and penalty-killer. He was never going to be the guy who rated a lot of personal attention from GMs. “And? What’s the situation?” He snorted. “Don’t tell me Indianapolis suddenly discovered a desperate need for some sandpaper.” Ryan wouldn’t exactly call himself a grit player, but that was mainly because he was too short. Still, hewasa pest—good for drawing penalties by pissing off the other team—but there were plenty of other annoying forwards in the league, and most of them were better at scoring goals than he was.

“I didn’t get that impression, no,” Diane said smoothly. There was a rhythmic, muffled tapping—ballpoint pen on a legal pad. “It was weird.”

Okay, not so promising. Ryan’s heart sank further. “Weird how?”

“Justweird. He wanted to verify what school you went to, asked about your major, that kind of thing.” Maybe the guy was a college sports fan. Ryan had gone to the University of Michigan. Their fans were on a whole other level. Weirder things had happened. “Listen, I don’t know what’s going on, but you saw the details,” she continued. “There’s more to this than meets the eye.”

Ryan had hoped he was only being paranoid. He’d heard a few rumors, but gossip from Indianapolis didn’t filter reliably all the way to Montreal. “Locker room problems?” The Fuel wouldn’t be the first team to struggle with developing a winning culture, and while Ryan might not be the most knowledgeable man on the team about how towin, he was a pretty good hype guy. Morale he could do.

At least, he had in Ann Arbor and Montreal. Though from the outside, the Fuel resembled the Pit of Despair. So maybe not.

“Maybe.” More tapping. “I’m not sure. I just don’t want you going into this unprepared.”

Just heartsick and bitter.

He let out a long breath. He had to get used to it. Sure, this was the first time he’d been traded, but he was twenty-six. It wouldn’t be the last. It probably wouldn’t even be the most painful. Having his home ripped out from under him was just never not going to suck. “Thanks, I guess. I appreciate it.”

“Hey, just doing my job.” There was the sound of paper shuffling. “With that out of the way, I want to give you a few details about the transition. They’re going to want you to come in for entry interviews, PR, all that stuff. Most of it should be scheduled during training camp, but you might want to think about getting to town a couple days early. You know anybody on the team?”

“Kind of. I played at Shattuck with Tom Yorkshire, but he was younger than me. We didn’t exactly keep in touch.” Boarding school was almost a decade ago. Yorkie had had to grow up fast when he became a dad at nineteen. Looking after a bunch of sweaty players was probably child’s play after that.

Heh. Child’s play.

“The captain’s not a bad guy to know, though, if you only get to know one person.”

“Yeah, I guess. I’ll track down his number.”

“Good,” Diane said approvingly. “Okay, I’m going to let you go. Expect front office to call sooner rather than later. Keep your eyes open for shenanigans and call me if something smells weird.”

Despite himself, Ryan smiled weakly. Knowing Diane had his back was cold comfort, but it was better than no comfort at all. “I will. Thanks, Diane.”

They hung up, and Ryan gingerly pulled the phone away from his ear and glanced at the notifications.

Twenty-seven.

He hadn’t gotten that many since he signed his first contract—a one-year, two-way deal that saw him play the first half of the season with Montreal’s AHL affiliate. But there was no time to get nostalgic now.

He needed to pack.

Updated Preseason Rankings

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