The Season: Rush (Austin Arrows #1) Page 4

  And then, if I’m lucky, my dad will come find us and we’ll live happily ever after.

  4

  Kingston

  Monday, October 10th

  As is my usual routine, I was up at six o’clock this morning.

  For the most part, except for when the team travels, it isn’t much different than any other practice day. I went for a run along Lady Bird Lake Trail, came home, showered, then hopped in my truck and headed to the rink for practice.

  Rather than having a smile planted firmly on my face as I generally do on the first day of practice after training camp is over, this time I’m battling the random nonsense running through my head. I’ve been dreading this since I heard that Phoenix is stopping by for a chat with the team, but even more so after my conversation with Spencer on Friday night.

  No way can I deny that today I would prefer to stay in bed and ignore all the shit that has been going down for the past few months. Since my job is at stake—being a professional hockey player might be my passion in life, but it’s a job nonetheless—I have to suck it up and go in. Face the music, as they say.

  Although I know what’s coming—translated to the verbal ass beating I’m going to receive—I can’t not go. The last damn thing that the Austin Arrows need is another black mark on an already tarnished reputation.

  And to think, a little more than two years ago, we were riding high from our Stanley Cup win.

  That damn sure isn’t the case anymore.

  Regardless, I owe it to the team and to myself to be at my best, no matter how fucked up we’ve allowed the situation to get. And Lord help us all, it is a clusterfuck of epic proportions.

  As I head across the parking lot, shouldering the bag that contains some extra clothes, I keep my eyes down, my attention on the asphalt beneath my feet. My brother once told me that if you do it right, you become invisible. Some people might think it’s cool to have fans who want nothing more than to meet you and get your autograph, but there are times when it becomes a nuisance. Like right now, when I want nothing more than to sneak inside and get this day underway.

  For about thirty seconds, it works … right up until I hear someone calling my name.

  “Mount Rushmore! Can I get your autograph? It’s for my son.”

  Stopping on the sidewalk, I smile at the woman sporting jeans and a faded, wrinkled T-shirt. If I’m not mistaken, that’s syrup over her left breast. I lift my eyes to meet hers. The first thing I notice is that there’s a huge thumbprint smudge on her glasses.

  Clearly she isn’t here to hit on me like some of the chicks I’ve encountered. She looks flustered and tired and, more than likely, really did hit the arena during practice just to get her kid an autograph.

  “What’s his name?” I gladly take the hockey stick from her hand, along with the Sharpie marker.

  “Carson,” she answers quickly. “He told me what you look like so if I did come down, I’d find you. Tomorrow’s his birthday. He’ll be fifteen.”

  I try to think what description the kid could’ve given her that would make me stand out. Brown hair, brown eyes, beard, six three… I look like damn near every other guy on the team, minus the beard, of course.

  I smile as I scribble a note on the stick. “Does he play?”

  “He does. He’s a goalie. Wants to play pro one day.”

  Her smile reflects the pride she has in her son. I like that.

  “And his grades?” Sure, it’s a personal question, but one I make a point to ask when it comes to kids and hockey. Natural skills, honed by practice, are good to have, but brains are more important, no matter what professional sport you want to play.

  “He’s a smart kid. All As and Bs.”

  “Tell him to keep those grades up.” I offer a quick smile. “And hang tight a minute, I’ll send someone out with some stuff for him. Cool?”

  “You really don’t have to do that.” Her eyes widen behind the thick, dark rim of her glasses. “But thank you so much.”

  “Sure thing.” I hand back the stick and the marker.

  As I move past the other loyal fans who have gathered outside to get a glimpse—and possibly an autograph—of their favorite Austin Arrows player, then into the building and down the narrow hall to the locker room, I mentally prepare myself for…

  “Rush! Conference room! Now! Everyone else, you’ve got thirty seconds!”

  That.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, dropping my bag on the floor with a resounding thud. I glance around, looking for someone who can take care of the woman outside. When the young kid who helps out with gear saunters by, I grab him by the back of his shirt.

  “Hey, Dixon. Do me a favor.”

  The kid spins around with a huge grin on his face. “Sure, what’s up, Rush?”

  “There’s a woman outside. Dark hair, ponytail, glasses. Her son’s name is Carson. Take her some stuff. Her kid’s birthday is tomorrow.”

  “Like what?”

  I shrug. “I don’t give a shit. Get some autographed stuff. Pictures, pucks, whatever.”

  “Autographed by who?”

  I cock an eyebrow as I watch the kid, trying to figure out if he’s serious. Surely not. Except, he doesn’t move, which leads me to believe he is. Christ.

  “By me.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Lord help us all.

  As the guys all pile into the hallway and head toward the conference room, I grumble good mornings as we bump one another. Not exactly the way I was hoping the morning would start, but these days, I don’t have much of a say in anything.

  However, a little ice time before we have our asses handed to us would’ve been nice.

  Well, that or breakfast.

  I take a deep breath as I step into the conference room, mentally preparing myself for what’s coming. Although the room is relatively big, stuffing twenty-three hockey players into it reduces the size drastically. It’s like trying to stuff twenty-three queen-sized beds into a closet.

  Just as I expect, Coach is at the front of the room, chatting it up with a smoking-hot redhead wearing a too-long skirt and impressive heels. Coach Darren Moen—we simply call him Coach—has been the absolute best thing that has happened to this team. No doubt, the Austin Arrows have been mediocre for quite some time. The big guys have made a few coaching changes over the years, pulled talent from the AHL and ECHL to strengthen our lines, but often, we just couldn’t get there. Then he came along and changed history.

  It was only about six or so years ago before we became anything to write home about. But I honestly believe we won the cup because of the brilliance of our owner and our head coach. Unfortunately, Coach also gets the credit for the absolute clusterfuck of a season for the past two years. But that’s the way it works; you take the bad with the good.

  Beside Red is a ginormous black guy sporting a suit—the infamous Mark Coleman—which, if I do the math correctly, means the ginger must be Amber North, the bane of Spencer’s existence. I’m thinking this season is going to get rather interesting because of that alone.

  I give Coleman a cursory glance. As usual, he looks more like a celebrity than a guy who spends his time with hockey players, but who am I to judge? He’s a nice guy, but I know there’s only one reason he’s here. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that before this is over, my day is going to go from bad to worse.

  Figuring it’s too early to give in to the trepidation curling around my spine, I opt to take a seat in the back, farthest away from the circus show gearing up at the front. The team is already riled up, and it has everything to do with the public relations duo, who are both currently scanning us one by one. The chick might be hot, but I suspect she’s working on a way to have every one of our balls in a vice.

  And definitely mine.

  I can honestly tell you, I’m damn sure not looking forward to that, even though I’ve been anticipating this for a while now. What has my nuts shriveled even more is the sight of the almighty Phoenix Pierce—the ow
ner/general manager of the Austin Arrows—talking to Spencer not far away from Red. Beside Phoenix is another guy in a suit. A guy who looks a hell of a lot like a lawyer.

  Shit.

  For some reason, I got the impression from Spencer that Coach was going to be the one delivering the message today. Apparently, I was wrong.

  I try not to stare at them, instead, scan the rest of the room, attempting to take it all in and pretend I’m not sizing everyone up, which I am. Aside from a shit ton of testosterone, there is a long, narrow table on one side, a small table with what appears to be coffee near the door, and too many fluorescent lights shining down from up above. Other than that, an abundance of chairs and a bunch of bodies that’ll be filling them any second now.

  “What’s up, Rush?” Colton Seguine, a.k.a. Seg, asks with a fist bump.

  I don’t answer; it’s not necessary. It’s a guy thing. The return bump is the answer to whatever the question might’ve been.

  Along with the players, it seems the coaching staff and the equipment team have made an appearance, as well. They’re all huddled in a corner, probably trying to ensure they’re out of range of any stray verbal bullets. The only people missing from this soiree are the other bigwigs, but I figure Phoenix’s appearance is enough. After all, he is the alpha of the pack.

  Speaking of alpha… Standing sentry in the far corner is a formidable-looking guy we all know to be Phoenix’s bodyguard/husband, Tarik Marx, also known as the Arrows’ spokesman. As much as I’m used to seeing him and Phoenix together, it’s a little odd not to see their wife at their side. Then again, I know Mia doesn’t have much to do with the team in this regard. She’s a smart woman.

  The last of the players arrives, and Coach closes the door, then leans against it. His attempt to appear laid-back is not quite working. Then again, it’s definitely going to be bad if Coach thinks we’re going to try and make a break for it.

  5

  Kingston

  As hurried as they’d been to get us into the room, it takes nearly half an hour to get everyone settled down. A few guys opted for coffee, all of them bitching that we weren’t treated to breakfast, which is the norm. I can’t say I blame them. My brain is a little fuzzy from lack of food, but I’m ready to get this show on the road so I can get on with my day.

  I watch as Spencer and Phoenix go their separate ways. Phoenix turns to speak with Coleman, while Spencer makes a beeline for the back, taking the empty chair right beside me.

  “What’s up, Rush,” Spencer greets quietly, clearly not expecting a response.

  I offer a curt chin nod, but I remain silent.

  “So glad you boys could show up on time today,” Coach says, still maintaining his position against the door.

  A few grunts rumble from the group, but no one speaks.

  “I’m sure every damn one of you would prefer to be out on the ice, but as you already know, we’ve got more important things to discuss before we can get this season underway,” Coach rattles, his eyes snapping from one player to the next. “Think of it as the first day of kindergarten when we gather around and go over the rules, because clearly no one has ever gone over them before. I’m hoping since we’re starting off this way, we’ll figure out how to not screw this season up the way we did the last two.”

  Taking a deep breath, I lean back in my chair, plant one ankle over the opposite knee, and give Coach my best fuck-off stare. I get it. This meeting is long overdue, even I have to admit that. Still, I can tell by the tone that it isn’t going to be pleasant. Sure, the coaching staff has the right to be worried about all the shit that’s going on specifically after our less-than-stellar seasons. The fact that we fucking came in last place two years in a row, while we managed to get into a heap of shit thanks to some individuals’ personal matters—of which I’m smack in the middle—a stern talking-to is certainly warranted. From the looks of this circus show, they’re hoping this year will be significantly different. Although they might not believe it, I’m on board with that plan. However, I prefer to be spoken to like an adult and not a recalcitrant child.

  Phoenix steps forward and all eyes go to him. “I’d like to introduce you to Phil Carson.” Phoenix nods in the direction of the suit standing a few feet to his right. “He’s the team’s general counsel, and he’s here as a personal favor today.”

  Great. Do we need a fucking lawyer? Especially one who makes guest appearances?

  “I’m going to get right to the point. I get it. No one’s perfect, shit happens, it’s not what it looks like, and all that bullshit. I’ve heard it all, as have you, so I’m not gonna stand up here and reprimand you like a bunch of fucking five-year-olds. You’re grown men. Man up and own your shit. It’s your responsibility.”

  Phoenix glances around the room slowly, meeting everyone’s gaze, including mine.

  “But what I am gonna tell you is that we won’t have another year like the last two. This team went from being on top of the world to being the fucking algae beneath the rocks at the bottom.” The frustration in Phoenix’s tone is thick. “The media’s been having a field day because, along with repetitive shitty seasons, many of you have provided them with enough broadcast ammunition to take out an entire fucking country. For some unknown reason, you’ve been acting like a bunch of children with no parental supervision, and you’ve embarrassed me and the rest of this team.”

  Pretty apt description, if I do say so myself.

  Phoenix takes a breath. “But that’s behind us. This year, we’re starting anew. If you’re sitting in this room right now, it’s because we want you to wear the Arrows jersey. You’ll probably notice there are several people who are no longer here, and as far as I’m concerned, they don’t deserve to be. That’s the way it goes. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us, and I’m only looking for guys who want to give me all they’ve got.”

  Phoenix glances toward the door. “Coach Moen has some ideas on a few changes in the lines. He knows what he’s doing, and with some of the young players we’ve acquired, it makes sense.” Phoenix pauses as he glances at all the faces. “But it’s not only about how well you play on the ice that counts. It’s also about the fans. In fact, every single thing you do should have the fans’ best interests in mind. If it weren’t for them, you wouldn’t be here right now. You wouldn’t get the chance to shine, because no one would give a fuck.

  “We’ve let the fans down in a big way. Not only did we not live up to our potential on the ice, but we haven’t been putting them first. In case you didn’t notice, I purposely worked training camp so that we kept practices local this year. I want you to be accessible to the people who matter most. And you need to make yourselves available to them. Whether it’s a simple acknowledgement to the arena when you’re out there or it’s doing something for the community… That’s your job. They come back for you, not for the fucking popcorn.”

  The mere mention of popcorn makes my stomach rumble, and I realize I probably should’ve had something more than a protein bar.

  “And because we’re focusing on the media aspect, I’ve asked for some help from Mark and the newest member of the Arrows organization.” Phoenix’s gaze darts to both of them, then back to the team. “The two of them are going to take on the difficult task of rebranding this team and getting us back to where we were two years ago.”

  Great. Rebranding. I seriously doubt that has anything to do with our logo or jerseys.

  “Mark? The floor’s yours.”

  Mark steps forward. “I’m sure a lot of you know me. I’m around a lot. Looks like I’m going to be around a lot more for a while. In case I am a new face for you, my name is Mark Coleman. I’m one of the greatest hockey players to have ever graced the ice.”

  I can’t help but smile. I’ve heard this one before.

  “Not really.” Mark chuckles. “I played on a mini mite team once. For a season.” His smile widens. “Okay, a week. Sucked pretty good, and the first time I was knocked on my ass by a scrawny white kid w
ith a stick, I said fuck this shit.” He’s all shiny white teeth at this point. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know hockey. More importantly, I know the fans. I know what they want because I make a point to listen to them. I’m the executive director of media relations for the Austin Arrows. I’ve been in this role for going on a decade now.” Mark looks around, studying all the faces. “I don’t expect to become your best bud, the guy you invite over for a beer … except for you.” Mark points at me, of all fucking people. “I expect you to invite me over for a beer, Rush.”

  I nod. Coleman and I go way back. I like the guy.

  Mark’s face turns solemn. “But seriously, I do want us to develop a working relationship that will be the most beneficial for this team.” Mark glances over at Red, then back to the team. “Because of the nature of this task, I’ve asked our director of community relations to join me. She’s new to the Arrows organization, but she’s not new to hockey. I’d like you to give a warm welcome to Amber North.”

  I’m tempted to look at Spencer, but I refrain. I’m sure he’s attempting to bite his tongue off right now.

  The redhead steps up and Mark takes a step back. “Thanks, Mark.” She smiles, but it falters slightly. “My name is Amber North, and as Mark said, I’m the director of community relations. I know for a fact that none of you know me, because I’ve spent the last decade with Florida working in their media relations department.”

  I mentally disagree with her, since I know for a fact there is one person who does know her.

  “I was born and raised in a small town not too far from here, but after college, I headed east. I’m glad to be back on Texas soil and to be part of this organization.” Her smile seems forced, and if I’m seeing things correctly, her gaze slides right over to Spencer before darting across the room again. “I hope going into this that you don’t see me as the enemy. If we can work together, I think we’re going to come out on top once again.”

  “I’d like her to be on top,” someone whispers from my left.