Page 16 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
“It’s not just you, though,” Coach says. “It’s Braun too. They haven’t rallied around him as part of the team yet. And, well . . .” He sweeps his hand through the air, gesturing toward the ice and slowly shaking his head. “You saw for yourself how that’s going. He’s unstoppable, though. If they can find a way to click with him, with his grit, Braun could take this team all the way. He’s distracted. On edge right now. But I know he’ll be good again, once the team’s on board, probably. The hockey blogs aren’t wrong about that.”
My stomach turns inside out at the mention of the blogosphere.
It’s true, Alex Braun has been the talk of every sports podcast and fan site since we signed him a few weeks back. I can’t scroll through my Twitter feed without seeing Boston’s latest and greatest starting center, the six-foot slap-shot god the city is pinning their hopes and dreams on. If I’m the villain, he’s poised to become the hero.
As if it weren’t enough to see my ex everywhere I look, I’ve also had to see my own face next to his. Despite our breakup, we’re still a hot topic.
Everyone has an opinion, and every opinion is the same—if Braun is anything short of being the team’s savior this year, my mere presence is entirely to blame.
But I doubt that will be an issue. If I learned one thing about Alex during the years we were together, it’s that hockey will always be his first love. He’s an athlete through and through, a competitor, and nothing will get between him and the game. Even our breakup, or a trade to a new team that hasn’t quite accepted him yet.
Coach Wilder is right—Alex is unstoppable and will power through, one way or another. I just hope for our team’s sake that the bonding takes place sooner rather than later.
“Maybe they should hear from you.” Coach shifts, looking at me now. When I open my mouth but don’t respond, he tips his chin toward the dressing room. “They’ve got their reservations about you. But I think once they know you, once they know you’re serious, they’ll get their asses in gear.”
I straighten, brushing a loose blond strand back into my low bun and smoothing down my suit jacket. When I was named as owner, I sent an email to the entire staff and team, introducing myself, letting them know I was ready for a great season.
But maybe he’s right. Maybe I need to make a personal introduction. Show them I’m serious about this team, even if I didn’t plan to give a speech today.
“I’m game if you think it’ll help, Coach Wilder.”
“Please. Call me Wild. Everyone else does.”
“All right, Wild,” I say. “Lead the way.”
I follow him off the ice, racking my brain for the right words to motivate a failing hockey team. My failing hockey team. If we’re going to have half a chance at the playoffs this year, these men need to clean up their act. Fast.
We pad across the rubber floors to the locker room door, which Wild shoves open with both hands, hollering with a voice loud enough to make a tornado siren jealous.
“Pants up, men, we got a lady present. Team owner coming through.”
I can’t help but stiffen at the coach’s word choice. While I appreciate him making sure the men are decent, I can’t help but resent him calling me a lady first, and team owner second. But I tuck my bitterness away for another time. I have a pep talk to give.
As I pass through the door, the icy air gives way to a cocktail of sweat and men’s deodorant. Our facilities are top of the line and maintained by an expert cleaning staff, but no amount of bleach can chase away the unique cologne of a professional hockey team after two and a half hours of on-ice drills. But it’s a smell I’m used to. It comforts me in some small way.
I step carefully around the Titans logo on the floor, finding a spot close to the center amongst a line of half-dressed men. Half of them don’t even bother looking my way. They’re preoccupied with their gear, shoving helmets into cubbies and whipping practice uniforms into the laundry bin.
But they’re not the ones who bother me. What gets me is the other half, the ones who are staring me down like I’m the grim reaper. And in some ways, I might be. Because if these men can’t grow a pair and accept me as their new team owner, it’s going to be a death sentence for our season.
“Gentlemen.” I dip my head in a quick nod as I scan the line of players, trying to make eye contact with each and every one, if only for a second.
