Page 4 of Scoring Position

Rees waved him toward a chair. “Sit, sit. You want a Gatorade or something?” He had a mini fridge in the corner.

At least that would give Ryan something to do with his hands. “That’d be great, thanks.”

Rees handed him a yellow one—strange choice, but Ryan wasn’t about to complain about it—and got himself a sparkling water, which he cracked open and took a swig of before setting it aside. “So let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we?”

Ryan wasn’t sure how to answer, but before he could bullshit something appropriate, Rees continued.

“You’ve probably heard a rumor or two, or read an article about how I’ve lost my mind.” He offered up a smile that was almost lost in the mustache. “I was particularly fond of the one that suggested I’ve been replaced by a pod person. Does any of this ring a bell?”

He didn’tlooklike an evil villain, but something about the words felt like a trap anyway. Ryan sidestepped as best he could. “Well, sir, I try not to read too much of my own press, so I’ve avoided looking into it too closely. But now that you mention it….”

“Why did I trade a twenty-year-old right-handed defenseman who basically shits takeaways for a forward who might score fifteen goals in a good year?”

At least he was a straight talker. Ryan relaxed a little. Whatever else was going on, Rees seemed to have realistic expectations of him… so far. Maybe he did actually know what he was doing. “It’s been on my mind,” he said diplomatically.

“Sure, sure. I get it.” Rees took another sip of his water. “Do you know Nico Kirschbaum?”

And just like that, Ryan’s newfound optimism evaporated. Nico Kirschbaum was a guy with hockey in his blood—his father had been the best German player in the league, once upon a time—a guy who should have been tearing the league to pieces. “Not really. I mean, we haven’t met or anything, but I obviously know who he is.”

Rees opened his top desk drawer, pulled out a tablet, thumbed it, and slid it across the desk to Ryan. “His highlight reel.”

Okay, so they weren’t here to talk about Ryan.

Still, curious in spite of himself, Ryan hit Play.

On the screen, the player in the orange 17 jersey toe-dragged the puck off an opponent’s stick—a move Ryan would have said was next to impossible. Then he weaved through four white jerseys before taking a shot. The goalie blocked. Number 17 picked up his rebound and passed across the net to a teammate who’d finally caught up with him, and that player tipped it into the wide-open net.

No wonder they wanted a therapy dog for this kid.Jesus.Ryan had goose bumps.

The rest of the six-minute clip featured more of the same—absurd takeaways, goals from ridiculous angles, plays Ryan never would have believed in a million years.

And this kid hadn’t even comecloseto winning Rookie of the Year—hadn’t even been part of the conversation. Because hecoulddo this… but most of the time, he didn’t.

Ryan stopped the video and pushed the tablet back. “Impressive.”

“Oh, I agree.” Rees nodded. “And frustrating. You can see why I’ve taken it upon myself to make that”—he gestured to the paused screen—“the rule rather than the exception.”

If he wanted Ryan’s help with that, he was going to have to spell out how. What was he supposed to do, exactly? Wave a magic wand and get rid of Kirschbaum’s yips? “Sure,” he said cautiously.

Rees narrowed his eyes slightly, assessing. He tapped his fingers on the desktop. “I can see you play things close to the chest. No jumping to conclusions. I like that. So I’m going to spell it out for you.”

Here it comes.

“You’ve got a reputation for taking the younger guys under your wing. Pretty admirable since you’re only, what, twenty-five yourself?”

“Twenty-six.”

Nodding, Rees went on, “I don’t pretend to know what’s going on in Kirschbaum’s head, but it’s obvious he’s wound tighter than an eight-day clock. I want you to get to know him, be his friend. See if you can’t figure out what’s bothering him. God knows we’ve tried getting him to see our mental-skills coach without any damn luck, but maybe he’ll open up to a peer.”

Put like that, it sounded almost reasonable. Rees hadn’t said something stupid likehe needs someone who knows what he’s going through. And Ryan did genuinely want to help, if only because being on a team with a guy who could play like that would be amazing. He’d struggled with his own self-doubt enough that he was comfortable nudging other players out of theirs.

He didn’t think Kirschbaum would be too thrilled to find out management had instructed Ryan to be his friend, but there wasn’t anything Ryan could do about it. He was here now, and he’d be at management’s disposal until they decided they were done with him. Just like Montreal had.

So he pasted on a smile he didn’t feel and said, “I’ll do my best.”

Rees beamed. “That’s the spirit!” He stood up, and they shook hands again. “Sorry to give you the bum’s rush, but I’ve got half a dozen other meetings today. Why don’t you take a look around, get familiar with your new home?”

Ryan had been planning to do that anyway. “That sounds good, sir. Thank you.”

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