Page 1 of Ice Ice Maybe
Chapter One
Nolan
The owner of the San Diego Sea Lions hockey team, Everett Dalton II, leaned forward in his leather executive chair, his steely gaze locked on mine as he uttered seven words that hit me like a puck to the head, “I want you to date my daughter.”
I blinked rapidly, trying to process what he had said, but my thoughts were as clear as mud. “Pardon me?”
Before he could clarify, he held up an index finger and answered the cell phone that was sitting on his massive oak desk. “Yes?”
As Mr. Dalton’s one-sided phone conversation quickly crescendoed into heated shouting, I tried to make sense of what was happening. I felt like I’d been body-checked into a reality show, where billionaire hockey team owners played Cupid with their employees.
Date his daughter?
He obviously had the wrong guy.
When Mr. Dalton summoned me to his office, I thought I was about to be fired. As the Zamboni driver for the San Diego Sea Lions, my job at the wheel of this massive ice resurfacer was straightforward yet crucial. I meticulously smoothed out the ruts and gouges on the ice between periods, ensuring a safe,fast surface for the players. I took pride in my work and kept to myself. My role for the team was essential, so getting fired made no sense.
Still, Mr. Dalton had the power to do it.
Unlike most NHL team owners, he was one of the few who owned both the team and the arena outright. This meant that while I technically reported to the ice operations manager of the San Diego Arena, Mr. Dalton was the big boss of everyone under the roof. What could I have possibly done to warrant such high-level attention?
“This is a waste of my time!” Mr. Dalton barked into the phone.
I glanced across the desk at him as the veins pulsed on his forehead and neck. He caught my eye, but I looked away, scanning his extravagant office and pretending not to be listening or appear to be worried that he had summoned me there to the hot seat.
Larger than my two-bedroom apartment, his office high atop the Dalton Building in Downtown San Diego was a testament to both his success and his passion for the game. One wall was lined with signed and framed jerseys from NHL hockey legends like Mario Lemieux, Wayne Gretzky, Bobby Orr, and Gordie Howe. There were also enlarged framed images of our Sea Lions with trophies captured during the team’s few glory days before it became the bottom dwellers and laughingstock of the league. Mr. Dalton’s desk hosted a collection of four vintage humidors, all made of Spanish cedar, a fact I’d learned just last week at the dentist after reading an interview inForbesmagazine as I waited to get my teeth cleaned.
Mr. Dalton flared his nostrils as he continued his tirade at the mystery person on the other end of the line. “If the imbecile can’t do me a simple favor, he doesn’t belong in this organization. Get rid of him.” He ended the call, then glanced back across the deskat me with a grin, nodding, like he was eyeing his prey. “Now, where were we?”
I swallowed hard. “Something about dating your daughter … Sir.”
“Yes … that.” Mr. Dalton opened one of the humidors on his desk, pulling out two cigars and holding one in the air in my direction. “Cuban?”
“No, thank you,” I said as I perched uneasily on the plush leather chair, then, for some odd reason, I added, “I’m trying to quit.”
His eyebrow arched, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. He studied me for a moment, and I knew he could see right through my pathetic attempt at looking worldly. I’d never touched a cigar in my life, and we both knew it.
Mr. Dalton’s movements were slow, deliberate. He returned one cigar to the humidor, his eyes never leaving mine. I squirmed in my seat as he expertly clipped the end off the other, bringing it to his nose for a deep, appreciative inhale. With practiced ease, he lit the cigar and puffed. Smoke curled upward, hypnotic.
I tried to look away—anywhere but at him—but my gaze was locked. It was as if he had seized control of my mind, leaving me powerless to break free.
Puff. Puff. Puff.
Mr. Dalton’s eyes never left my face.
I could feel the weight of his gaze.
Puff. Puff. Puff.
The silence stretched between us, broken only by my restless movements and the soft crackle of burning tobacco.
Was he trying to intimidate me?
It was working.
This whole scene felt like I’d been thrust into some bizarro hockey-meets-mafia movie, and I was woefully unprepared formy role. I half expected to hearThe Godfathertheme music start playing in the background.
I cleared my throat. “I’m confused, Mr. Dalton, as to why you would want me to date your daughter.”
