Page 9 of My Lucky Charm

“Got it.” This feels like after-school detention.

“Good.” He looks at Dallas. “When’s this sister of yours get here?”

“You hired your sister?” I look at him.

“She’s not my sister,” he says. “She’s my girlfriend’s sister.”

“Well,” I say. “That’s not going to work.”

“Why not?” Dallas asks.

I lean toward him. “Because when I go off on her—and you know I will—you’re going to make it personal.”

He leans back, his brow raised. “You’re right. I am. So you better make sure you don’t do that.”

I turn and grit my teeth, hoping it makes the point that I’ve been trying to make since I sat down in the coach’s office. I’m not okay with any of this.

But it clearly doesn’t matter.

I was traded. I’m practically starting over. New team. New city. New everything.

All of it sucks.

I’m not afraid of hard work—but not like this.

I don’t like to repeat myself. Or prove myself again. I’ve been playing long enough that they should know I don’t need to do any of this. I’m not the guy for charity events or parties. I’m not the one to talk to the drooling idiots in the media after a game.

I score. I win. That’s it.

What more is there?

“I think we’re done,” Rosen says.

I clap my hands. “Great. Good talk. Go team.” I stand and bolt out the door, aware that the three of them are probably exchanging pointed looks.

The Comets are a decent team and yeah, I can definitely make them better. I guess on paper, it makes sense, but nobody asked for my opinion before any of this happened. I walked into the locker room in Philadelphia and my stuff was gone and my name was stripped off my locker.

We’re professionals. We’re supposed to just accept that this is part of the game. The business part.

Screw that.

I was drafted by Philly when I was nineteen. First pick of the draft. Worst team in the league. It only took us two years to turn it around and win the Stanley Cup.

Ten years on the team and we’ve been back to the finals four times. Won twice.

They were calling us a dynasty.

And I walk in and find out I’m traded? Me? For what, a bunch of no names and some future draft picks?

I can’t wait to play Philly this season. I’m going to show them exactly what they traded.

I storm down the hall and into the locker room, and not even a minute later, Burke walks in.

He doesn’t say anything, just walks over to his locker, pulls off his shirt and starts changing for a workout. If the rumors are true, Burke is as dedicated as I am. That should make me happy—lord knows that wasn’t the case in Philadelphia.

But it doesn’t. None of this does.

I clamp my jaw shut. I know I’m being a tool, but a part of me doesn’t care and can’t switch it off. I know there’s a chance that he and I could take this team to the playoffs, and maybe even make a run at the finals. I know because I’ve played against him. I’ve studied him. He’s one of the best, and he probably wants this as much as I do.

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