Page 103 of Bad Teammate
All patched up, I left the exam room with Hathaway and Dane in tow. We took the elevator to the top floor of the arena, hurrying to General Manager Bowfield’s office.
At the end of a long hall was a set of giant wooden double doors. Behind those doors lurked a sense of impending doom, growing stronger with every step. I hated it. I knew this was probably the end of my time as a Dallas Devil, but hell. What else could I do?
At last, we arrived. Steeling myself, I pounded my fist against the door and waited.
A moment later, Coach cracked the door open.
“Boys,” he said, sweeping his eyes over us. “One sec.” He turned around and made a gesture at his boss—ourboss—Mr.Bowfield. Then Coach slipped through the door, keeping the door as shut as possible. Whatever was going on in that office was top secret, and he didn’t want us to see or hear about it.
Coach leaned against the door, folding his arms, guarding that office like a gargoyle.
“Reavo,” he said, the seriousness of his scowl aided by his big and grey mustache.“Tell me what the fight was about. Now.”
“Well, I haven’t gotten a chance to talk to Niko yet, so I don’t know forsure,but—”
Coach peeked impatiently at his watch. “Spit it out.”
“I’m guessing it’s because Niko’s sister has been staying with us for the past few days, and—”
“You fucked her?” he asked, straight to the point.
I sighed, wondering how I could explain to Coach that I’d fallen for Katerina. “Well, it’s more complicated than that.”
“It’s a simple yes or no, Reavo. Did you fuck her or not?”
“I guess it’s a yes, then.”
His eyes sparkled with the hint of a smile. “Thank you. That’s all I needed to know.”
He turned around and started to head back into the GM’s office, but I grabbed the back of his shirt.
“Wait.”
He whipped around. “What?”
“I know you and Mr. Bowfield are probably working the phones right now and trying to trade me. I get that. But before you pull the trigger on any deals, I just ask that you give me some time—see if I can’t fix things with Niko.”
Hath chimed in. “It’s worth a shot to salvage this roster, Coach.”
“Yeah, Coach,” Dane agreed. “Give Reavo some time.”
“Look, it’s not up to me,” Coach said. “It’s up to Mr. Bowfield.”
A measured but firm voice spoke from inside the office.
“Send ’em in, Joey,” Mr. Bowfield said to Coach.
Coach pushed the door wide open and waved us in.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Bowfield greeted us as we entered.
“Hi, Mr. Bowfield,” we said in unison.
Mr. Bowfield sat in a leather executive chair at his expansive solid wood desk. We pulled up three chairs and sat across from him. A former hockey player himself, Mr. Bowfield still kept himself in spectacular shape. During team workouts, he often stopped by the weight room to crush a few reps and show the young guys that he could still out-lift them, even in his early fifties. He’d put on a few extra pounds from his playing days, of course, but his ox-like strength was still something of a legend around our locker room.
“So, you have something you’d like to say, Reavo?” Mr. Bowfield asked.
Usually, the surface of Mr. Bowfield’s desktop was pristine and orderly, but today a patchwork of brightly colored sticky notes, each covered in hastily scrawled ink, littered the surface. Briefly glancing at his notes, I saw the names of other players and prospects from around the league. They were trade offers.
