Page 2 of Game Misconduct
“He’s not hiding. He’s weighing his options.”
“What options?” I snap, running out of patience for this fucking runaround Peter seems hell bent on giving me. “He’s a free agent with no active offers except mine, and the clock is ticking.”
“I wouldn’t say no active offers?—”
I close my eyes and silently count to ten. If I lose my shit, the next thing I’ll read about is howemotionalI am.
Fucking patriarchy.
“Don’t play semantics with me. If he had a real offer, he’d have taken it. This is his shot. I gave him a lifeline, and all he’s done is stall.”
“Sloane, come on. He’s just—he’s been through a lot, okay? He needs time to make sure this is the right move.”
I pause, tapping my nail against the phone screen, watching the seconds of the call tick by. “You told me three weeks ago it wasn’t about the team.”
“It’s not.”
“Then what the hell is it about?”
Peter exhales like I’m the difficult one. “He doesn’t like change. He’s quiet, methodical, set in his ways.”
“So am I, but I still manage to get shit done.”
“Sloane, he just needs more time.”
“He doesn’t get time,” I say coldly. “He gets a choice. He either wants to play hockey or he doesn’t. And if he wants to sit in Boston brooding over his past, fine. But not on my timeline.”
Peter sighs. “You’re putting a lot of pressure on him.”
“Damn right I am. Because I’m not running a charity, Peter—I’m building a franchise. And right now your client is the only thing standing between me and the season opener without a goalie the team needs.”
“I’ll talk to him again?—”
“You know what? Don’t bother. I’ll talk to him. In person. If Maddox has a problem, he can say it to my face. I’m not negotiating through his silence, and I’m not giving him another week to play hide and sulk.”
Peter sighs. The kind of sigh I’ve heard a lot since my father died. The patronizing kind. “Sloane, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Well, lucky for me, I didn’t ask for your opinion. And, Peter? Let your client know, I won’t be coming to play nice.”
I toss the phone onto my desk and drop into my chair. Pressing my fingers into my temples, my stomach twists with a mix of rage and something colder.
Something sharper.
Doubt.
I glance at the framed jersey on the wall. The one with my father’s name stitched into it. With his signature scrawled across the fabric in black Sharpie—fading at the edges, like he’s slipping out of reach even now.
“You asshole,” I whisper. Not with venom. With something else. Something that coils tight and stings behind my eyes. “What were you thinking, Dad?”
The question lies heavy in the silence.
I push out of my chair before the ache can settle in too deep and walk over to the frame.
My fingertips hover over the glass, not quite touching; like maybe if I don’t make contact, I won’t fall apart.
“You started this expansion team to beyourteam. Your legacy. And you handed it to me like I’d know what the hell to do with it. Like I’d know how to finish building it.”
I stare at the name, the number. My throat works around the grief I can’t swallow.
