Page 5 of Ice Daddy
Lance Couture
Two Years Later
Boston, Massachusetts
Lance Couture's bright red Lamborghini Murciélago roared to a stop at the entrance of the player's parking garage. The door of the Italian supercar opened, rising straight up into the air, and the athlete stepped out.
Lance tossed the keys to the garage attendant, Wally. He was a slight, older man with age spots visible beneath his wispy, graying hair. Wally had held this job since before any of the current Brawlers were even born; in fact, he'd personally parked the Brawlers' players' cars dating back to the days of the great Bobby Orr.
“Careful with her—” Lance began, the same thing he said every time he handed off his car.
“—she's my baby,” Wally said, completing their ritual.
Lance was one of the fastest, most explosive skaters in the league—and it showed. His powerful thighs bulged beneath his snug-fitting blue jeans as he walked, entering the arena. His heather green t-shirt was distressed to aesthetic perfection, and glimpses of his solid pecs and chiseled abs showed through the intentional rips and tears.
Both items he wore, despite their simplicity, were designer clothes that sold for over a thousand dollars. His leather loafers had cost even more. The only thing he wore thatwouldn't feed a small family for a month was his hat: a black baseball cap, turned backwards and adorned with the Brawlers logo.
Lance worked his way through the arena with his trademark swagger. It was the confident step of a man who, at age 24, had established himself as one of the league's premier superstars.
He stepped into the VIP elevator and shot up to the top floor. He emerged down a long hallway with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the giant sheet of ice below. Eyeing the empty ice, Lance could still hear last night's raucous Boston crowd chanting his name after his overtime heroics.
At the end of the hallway, Lance pushed open the set of mahogany double doors emblazoned with the black and gold Brawlers logo. Waiting in the conference room inside were the Brawlers' general manager, Mr. Tremblay; Lance's agent, 'Slick' Rick Audette; and finally, Brawlers team captain, Shea Ellis.
“Hey, everybody,” Lance said as he entered. The two older professionals wore suits. Shea was in his street clothes, like Lance; today was the athletes' off-day.
“Hello, Lance,” Mr. Tremblay said, gesturing for the athlete to take a seat.
“So what's this all about?” Lance asked as he settled into a chair next to his agent. He half-expected to be congratulated on his performance last night—a barn burner in which he brought the building down by scoring a game-winning hat trick goal. But then they wouldn't call him into the team office on hisoff-dayto do that … nor would Shea or his agent have to be here. Still, he'd kept his nose out of trouble and knew that this meeting, whatever it was about, it couldn't possibly be a bad thing.
Right?
Mr. Tremblay gave Shea a glance. “I suppose you should start.”
Shea nodded. “Well, Lance, it probably won't come as a big surprise, but I've told Mr. Tremblay that I'll officially be retiring at the end of this season.”
Shea was right. It wasn'tmuch of a surprise—the defenseman was 37, and although he could still play the game, it was obvious that his body had begun to slow down. The captain had been a soldier throughout his career, but he'd started dropping hints that he was thinking about the next phase of life.
Lance rose to shake his teammate's hand. “Congratulations, Shea, you've had a hell of a career.”
“I ain't done yet,” the grizzled veteran said with a flicker in his eye.
“That's right,” Mr. Tremblay began. “There's still plenty of hockey left to be played before Shea hangs up his skates at the end of the year. In the meantime, we've asked Shea to take you under his wing. Lance, we need to make sure you'rereadyto be the team's next captain.”
Lance's heart raced. When he was a young boy, he spent countless hours on the frozen pond imagining himself as an NHL captain, carrying his team to victory.
“I'm ready,” Lance said soberly. “I've been waiting for this my whole lif—”
“Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves just yet.” Mr. Tremblay held up his hands. “The captaincy comes with responsibilities, Lance. You wouldn'tjustbe a leader of the team. You'd be an ambassador of this franchise. As captain, you are the face that represents our image, our corporate brand. What you say and do off the ice also reflects on this organization.” Mr. Tremblay sighed. “The world's changing, Lance. Social media is so important in this day and age, and—”
Lance's eyes narrowed knowingly at that last bit. “Wait, what's this about?”
“We've contracted with a public relations firm to smooth out your rough spots and ease the transition from Shea to you.”
“What rough spots?” he asked, growing annoyed.
“It'll be easier if I just introduce you.” Mr. Tremblay grabbed a remote and pressed a button. The lights in the room dimmed and a projector cast a video image on the wall. It was a Skype video conference call. A man in a suit, with slicked-back jet-black hair, appeared on the feed.
“Hello again, gentlemen!” he chirped, waving at the camera. He was in his early 40s. “And hello, Lance. It's nice to finally meet you.”
