Page 3 of The Rookie
“Great. What have you got for me, Les?”
Les has been a mentor to me in a lot of ways. He manages the front office of the Boston Titans hockey team, and I interned for him when I was still in college, studying sports management. He was the one who got me this job—which is to track down a promising rookie who’s trying to blow his entire season by fighting everyone who looks at him the wrong way.
Logan was suspended for eight games and has to get the written approval of a therapist before he can return. I’m one of three team-approved therapists. But Logan isn’t returning my phone calls, and he’s yet to make a decision on a therapist.
So, here I am. On the other side of the country, chasing down a rogue rookie with an anger-management problem. I guess this is my life now.
“Logan is definitely there,” Les says. “He arrived yesterday, but no one on the team has been able to reach him.”
“Thank you. I’ll be there by late afternoon. I’ll see what I can do.”
“You clinch this one, kid, and you’ll have it made.”
I don’t know about that, but if I succeed, at least I’ll be able to make my rent next month.
“I sent you over an email with everything in his file. It’s not much.”
“I’m sure it’ll help. Thanks, Les.”
He chuckles. “You haven’t met Logan yet. You’re going to need all the help you can get.”
Logan Tate is a twenty-three-year-old rookie defenseman who was signed to the Titans last year for $2.6 million, but I don’t really know much about him. What I do know is that he’s six foot two, one hundred ninety-five pounds, and built like a bull—all muscle and brawn. I watched a few of his clips online. His speed was impressive.
I also learned that Logan lost his father unexpectedly this summer, and has had some family turmoil that’s distracting him from the game. The gossip sites have plenty of compromising photos of him leaving various bars and clubs at all hours of the night. And he got into three fights in his first two games of the season, one of which was with his own teammate. The final straw was a major penalty for misconduct against a player from the Avalanche.
All of this bad publicity doesn’t look good on a rookie, especially a high-priced newcomer with a lot of unproven talent. The organization is ready to release him, and they will if I can’t get through to him.
But if I do? There’s a nice paycheck waiting for me. Not to mention the credibility it will bring to my business. And that’s why I decided to track him down, which led me to his family’s property in the mountains of Colorado.
“Has he been in counseling before?” I adjust the strap of my overnight bag on my shoulder and climb the stairs to board the plane.
“Nope. Not to my knowledge,” Les says. “Unless you count the intake interview all players are required to complete prior to signing the contract. It’s all in the file. Very standard stuff. As a defenseman, he has strong protective instincts. But his assessments showed him to be a team player, which is why his behavior on the ice is so strange and very unexpected.”
“Gotcha. Well, that’s a positive.”
I board the plane, ignoring the annoyed look from the stewardess as I take my seat in the third row of the tiny aircraft and push down an uneasy feeling.
“So, what’s your plan?” Les asks as I buckle my seat belt and settle in.
“That’s easy. Find Lost Haven, fix your broken hockey player, and get the heck out of here before the snow arrives.”
Les made a mocking sound. “You make it sound so easy.”
I have no choice but to succeed. I have student loans out the wazoo, and no fallback plans.
Another annoyed look from the flight attendant prompts me to say my good-byes to Les.
“See you soon,” I say, confident I’ll be back in Boston before the end of the week.
• • •
The scene painted before me is like a postcard, and I take it all in as the shuttle van carries me through Lost Haven.
Towering pine trees surround me, and a winding river runs alongside the gravel road that winds through a canyon carved between two mountain ranges. The air smells like pine needles, and the sky is a bright robin’s egg blue. It’s breathtaking, and I drink in every detail. This may very well be the most beautiful place I’ve ever visited, and I can’t ignore the little voice in my head whispering that I wish there were more time to explore.
“Are we almost there?” I ask.
The driver nods. “Just about.”
