Page 4 of Play Your Part

Only long enough to consider stripping off my suit in front of my new employer’s mansion.“A couple of minutes.”

I stuck out my hand to my new coach, Erik Pomroy, who immediately took it in his firm grasp. Erik looked impeccable, as always—perfectly tailored suit and dark, styled hair with a distinguished peppering of gray. He had wide eyes that always made him look wild, and a nose that had clearly been broken several times.

We’d met plenty of times before, but tonight was the first time since I signed a one-year, one million-dollar deal with the Palmer City Wolves. Some called it a redemption deal since the price fell way below the numbers I would produce for them, but given my history, my agent said I should be grateful. Sometimes I wanted to punch my agent in the face.

“Good to see you again, Coach.”

He released my hand. “Call me Erik.”

I nodded an acknowledgment, still a bit stunned Erik Pomroy was my coach. And I could call him casually by his first name. I grew up watching him play, loving his grit and toughness and how he never hid his true emotions. I remembered seeing him thrust the Stanley Cup in the air as captain of this franchise fifteen years ago when it was still in Maine. Erik coaching me was what I focused on, ignoring all the reasons why I didn’t want to be on this mediocre, small-market team.

“Shall we?” He opened the front door to the Wolves owner’s house without knocking or ringing the doorbell. Erik had told me to wait outside for him so I wouldn’t disturb the big preparations for tonight’s season-opening party. I’d played on many teams, but never had I been invited to the owner’s home. Behind the open door, people rushed around the enormous space—cleaning, carrying furniture, and decorating anything they could with Wolves’ colors, black and forest green. The noise from the activity echoed off the high ceilings. No one looked at us.

“Is it like this every year?” I asked, following Erik down a long hallway.

“More or less.”

He stopped in front of a set of black double doors and knocked. A voice called for us to come in, and soon enough, I stood in front of the man who would cut my checks, Cale Cole. He sat behind a large wooden desk in a massive chair, pounding his keyboard. He hadn’t acknowledged us, only watched his computer screen from behind thick black frames. I scanned his office as we waited—from the bookcase covering one entire wall to the muted TV tuned to ESPN to the picture of the Wolves’ arena, which bore his name.

“Alexei Volkov.”

My gaze landed on Cale Cole again. He stood and gestured to two seats in front of his desk. Cale’s blonde hair was buzzed close to his head, and his smile didn’t reach his eyes. He was about half a foot shorter than Erik, who matched me at six foot four; but in that power suit of his, he was no less intimidating. Maybe it was because, in this situation, he held all the cards.

“It’s good to have you in Palmer City.”

Not everyone felt that way. Fans bombarded me on social media to let me know how much theydidn’twant me on the Wolves… or in the league. About half the messages came from trolls, telling me to go back to Russia, even though I hadn’t lived there in ten years and was a US citizen. The rest ran the gamut from telling me I sucked at hockey to saying I was the greatest player in the league to wanting to fuck me. Your standard array of internet garbage.

“Happy to be here,” I said as I took a seat.

If it were only the rivalry between Ward, their captain, and me, the fan base would have gotten over it. Fights in hockey were as much a part of the fabric of the game as the ice, so Ward and I hooking off every time our teams played each other could be forgiven as soon as I wore a Wolves uniform. But there was all the other shit that people objected to—yelling at refs, hard hits bordering on dirty, taunts at the opposing team and its crowd, blunt postgame interviews. I played hard, and I didn’t apologize.

Except for the last incident, the one that got me dropped by my former team. Apparently, decking your teammate on the way to the locker room was one step beyond what could be tolerated.

Never mind that the teammate and I had squashed the entire thing within a day. Some asshole in the crowd captured it on video. The collective angry fan reaction plus management’s desire for an excuse to let me go landed me without a team for the final two months of last season.

No teams showed interest, not until the Wolves called my agent. Pussies, all of them, for being too scared to sign me over potential bad PR. For the last seven seasons, I’d more than proved my worth on the ice, but none of it meant anything because I washotheaded. The Wolves heard me out, and what I said was good enough, even if the rest of the hockey world wanted to crucify me.

“I trust you’re settled?” Cale said, dancing around whatever he wanted to discuss.

“Yeah, Matt helped me find a place.” Matt Harris and I played on the same team five years ago, before he was traded to the Wolves. He remained one of the only strong players for this organization, his stellar defensive skills sometimes the only thing preventing embarrassment on the ice. “It’s a couple houses down from him.”

Cale nodded. “Good, good. We called you here to set ground rules. You know, expectations for how you should behave this season, and we’ll go over all that, but—”

“We traded Justin Ward,” Erik cut in, clearly exasperated by Cale’s slow delivery.

A grin spread across my face before I could stop it.

“You should work on not looking so gleeful before you’re around anyone else tonight.”

“How he looks is the least of our worries,” Cale said. “The news broke this morning before we could get ahead of it, and Justin’s already made a statement. Your name came up.”

Fucking Christ.Justin Ward was probably the teammate least thrilled about my signing. Our history went back to junior hockey days, but thankfully, we’d only crossed paths as opponents since then. Which meant I could go as hard as I wanted at him without repercussion—at least, withoutseriousrepercussions. Penalties and a suspension had been worth it. Our intense rivalry generated interest from fans and was deemed “good for hockey” by commentators. By signing with the Wolves, I would have to find a way to coexist with him. I tried not to think too much about it, because again, I wasn’t supposed to complain about anything. But with him gone, maybe there was a God.

I leaned forward in my chair. “What did he say?”

Cale picked up the remote. “Better if I show you.”

After flipping to a recorded program and unmuting the TV, Justin Ward’s nails-on-a-chalkboard voice blared through the quiet office. He sat in front of a white wall, wearing the colors of his new team, talking with the host of a hockey fan video channel. The maroon clashed horribly with his ice-cold blue eyes, something he would hate, but it brought me a petty sense of joy.

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