Page 3 of Slew Foot
Mickey Krause settled into a seat in the room the team used for video review, then glanced over at Tanner Clayton with a frown. “What do you think this meeting is about?”
“I dunno,” Tanner said, frowning too. It was an odd expression on his typically cheerful looking face. “Must be big though, if Racine called it.”
“That was my thought too.” Mickey’s frown deepened as he stared at Gavin Racine, the team’s general manager and president of hockey ops.
He was deep in conversation with Hoyt Kent and Aksel Rasmussen—the team’s head and associate coaches.
Hmm.
Racine was a lot more hands-on than most GMs, but he wasn’t exactly known for calling sit-down group meetings. He liked to meet with guys one-on-one, to check in, but to address the entire team, he was more likely to pop his head into the locker room or even stop into video reviews and say a few words.
He liked to come across as casual and approachable.
But a formal meeting? That sent a shiver of unease down even Mickey’s practical and refuse-to-leap-to-conclusions spine. That didn’t seem promising.
The team was playing badly, no question about that, but surely that didn’t warrant a meeting like this.
“Maybe they’re going to sell the franchise,” Tanner hissed under his breath. “Like, to a new ownership group! Ooh, or maybe they’re moving the team to another city!”
Mickey rolled his eyes at Tanner’s dramatics.
After nearly five months, he should be used to his teammate and roommate by now, but Tanner was incessantly prone to coming up with the wildest theories and, unlike Mickey, leaping to conclusions before he had the facts.
Mickey’s eyes were getting more of a workout these days than the rest of him. And, since this was his rookie season in the NHL, that was saying something.
“Shit, we’re moving to another city?” Crawford asked—loudly—in his ear as he leaned forward.
At the front of the room, Gavin Racine’s head went up and he glanced around, brow furrowed. He was dressed in a pair of well-tailored black trousers and a black zip-front workout jacket with the team’s logo on the breast pocket.
“Guys!” he called out. “We’renotmoving the team.”
He sounded a little exasperated and Mickey knew the feeling. Mickey had begun to suspect all North Americans were prone to dramatics and leaping to conclusions. He’d expected better from the Canadians, but no such luck.
“Then what is going on?” Crawford asked, settling back in his seat and, thankfully, sparing Mickey’s eardrums more damage.
“Well, I’ll tell you as soon as everyone is here. But we’re definitely not leaving Massachusetts, so get that out of your head.”
“The only way the Harriers would leave this fuckin’ city is over my dead body,” Connor O’Shea said in his thick Boston accent.
Several other guys nodded, agreeing with their captain.
Mickey wouldn’t take it quite that far, but he couldn’t deny he was relieved. He’d finally started feeling settled here in Boston and wasn’t keen on the idea of going anywhere else.
There were low murmurs of conversation as a few more guys slid into the room, along with some of the other coaching staff.
Finn O’Shea appeared too, closing the door behind him, then taking a seat at the front of the room. His appearance made Mickey’s frown deepen. What was their captain’s brother doing here?
It wasn’t unusual to see the family around the practice rink or arena. Declan O’Shea—the patriarch of the family—was a retired Boston Harrier and he and his wife, Catherine, stopped by regularly. Connor’s older brothers, Finn and Pat, were also retired but here fairly often.
But theyneverattended meetings.
Odd.
But before Mickey had time to see if Connor seemed surprised by his brother’s appearance, Gavin held up a hand and cleared his throat. “Clearly you’re all wondering why I called you in here today,” he said. “Before the speculation gets too wild”—he shot Crawford a look—“let’s get one thing clear: the team isn’t going anywhere.”
Crawford kicked the back of Tanner’s chair.
“And no, we’re not beingsoldeither.”
