Page 5 of Playoff
"Who is it?"
"I don't have any names. Allen says there's a trade, for a playoff rental. A goal scorer. That's all I know."
Allen was Ducky’s agent, and very well connected. If he said it, it was probably true.
"We could use someone to take your place till you're back, Ducky," Royster said.
Conversation jumped from potential trade acquisitions to who might be leaving the team. I kept my eyes on Justin till he set his phone down and shrugged. Not reassuring. If they were trading for a forward, were they willing to give up someone on defense, someone like Justin?
"I've got it!" yelled Crash. "Novak and Olsson for LA's Alek Denbrowski."
The noise of the bar faded and returned in waves as the name hit me. Denbrowski.
No. Way. Not him. Not here.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Justin swore, standing up and almost knocking his chair over. He winced at everyone staring at him in shock and turned away. "I'm hitting up the head."
He stalked off, but he wasn't coming back.
"You okay, Jess?" Katie asked.
I couldn't answer. I wasn't okay, but I also wasn't explaining. Not now. I needed space, quiet, and a chance to figure out how badly this was going to fuck up life for Justin and me.
I wanted to scream or hit something. “What a shitty day. Sorry to ruin the night."
I fled for the bathroom, escaping from the questions I’d have to answer. Later.
Chapter 3
I’ll do my best
Alek
* * *
Canada was fucking cold.
I’d flown on a direct flight into Toronto, first class, losing three hours thanks to the time difference. I wasn’t recognized by anyone, probably because of the drastic image change. I’d had hair down to my shoulders since my first season in the NHL and grew the beard not long after. Now, my head felt weird and I kept running my hand over my chin, not used to the smoothness. I hadn’t had my hair this short since…high school, maybe? My grade nine photos might have shown me with a short cut, but not shaved like this. I shouldn’t have done it. I liked the flow and the versatility it provided. Fucking Weasel.
We landed after dark. Shockingly, the teams had managed to keep the trade news quiet. Walking through Pearson Airport, TV screens flashed news headlines but none of them were about the Toronto Blaze. I’d been through here before with the LA team—no longer my team—and hockey news got top billing. I made it to customs before I was recognized. The agent’s eyes went wide but she didn’t ask anything personal. Still, this meant the clock was ticking—the news would be out soon.
My leather jacket, the heaviest one I owned, wasn’t enough to keep the bitter wind from biting as I stepped out of the airport to catch a cab to the downtown hotel the team was putting me up at. Thanks to the hair and lack of trade news, I managed without any recognition at all. It was freaky. In LA, no one cared much, but whenever we’d played in Toronto I was always recognized.
I’d played with guys who’d been traded in from Canadian markets, and they talked about how they were under the microscope up here in ways they weren’t in the southern states. Just playing for the Blaze should get me attention in Toronto. And that was without the other stuff.
I checked into a reserved room in a different hotel from where the visiting teams stayed. The team had sprung for a suite, which was nice. I had no idea how long I’d be here. The way they were playing, the season could be over in less than three months, when the playoffs started. But if I provided the scoring the Blaze had been lacking, and the rest of the team played like they had last year, taking it all the way to the finals would keep me here through June. I’d never been on a team that went that far. In any case, with my contract expiring June thirtieth, I wasn’t staying here long-term. There was no need to buy a place. But the thought of living in the hotel for a possible five months was depressing.
I unpacked the things I’d brought with me—toiletries and the warmest clothes I had. The Blaze were playing a game tonight, and then were off until the day after tomorrow. The teams would have arranged to get my gear shipped through, hopefully for morning skate, but it should definitely be here for the next game day. I pulled out my phone and opened Angelina’s email. She’d sent a list of rental agents I might want to consider, so I was clicking through their websites when there was a knock on the door.
I checked the time. I hadn’t bothered turning on the game, but the Blaze would be playing the third period so no one from the team would be visiting. I hadn’t ordered room service or extra pillows. That left one strong contender.
I stood and crossed to the door. A glance through the peephole confirmed my guess. I opened the door.
Agent Miller of the Ontario Provincial Police was standing in the hallway in a rumpled suit, hands in his pockets.
“What a surprise,” I greeted him.
“Mr. Denbrowski.”
