Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75424 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75424 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“Yeah, well, you know how things are with the team right now.” I force a laugh as I discreetly glance around the couch, my heart leaping into my throat when I see one of Evie’s tiny white socks on the carpet by the coffee table.
I stretch, making a big show of flexing my fingers to hopefully distract Derrick as I cover the sock with my foot and drag it closer to the couch.
“Yeah, that’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about.” He settles into the leather couch across from the upholstered couch where just moments ago I was sucking his sister’s nipples.
God, this was too close. Evie’s right. We need a safer location.
Maybe the Bronx is a good idea after all. Or Connecticut. Or Outer Mongolia. Could we get there and back in a day?
“Okay,” I say, forcing my thoughts back to the here and now. The sooner I talk through whatever’s bothering Derrick, the sooner I can get him out of here. “What’s on your mind?”
“Would it be cool to grab a beer?” he asks, nodding back toward the kitchen.
“Yeah, sure, grab me one, too,” I say, cursing inwardly as he rises from the couch. Beer means at least twenty minutes until I can rescue Evie from her hiding place. But at least Derrick’s back is turned long enough for me to tuck her sock between the cushions and assure myself the rest of the living room is all clear.
By the time Derrick settles back into his seat and passes a Brooklyn brewery IPA across the coffee table, I’m feeling a little steadier. I can do this, and hopefully Derrick will assume any weirdness on my part is due to a combination of our recent fight and the fact that I allegedly just woke up from an exhaustion-induced nap.
“Senior management called me in for a talk today,” he says, twisting the cap off his bottle. “They’re already considering the team-building camp a wash.”
“It’s only been three days,” I say, surprising myself. I don’t feel all that hopeful about the camp solving our problems myself, but I hate to see other people giving up on us so quickly. “And we had the weekend in there breaking up the momentum. They have to give everyone time to find their footing.”
Derrick takes a pull on his beer. “I agree, but they’re at the end of their ropes, Ian. They knew starting a third NHL team in a city with two already established teams was a risk, but I don’t think anyone thought the call would be coming from inside the house.”
I grunt and drink deeply from my own bottle. “Yeah. It’s pretty fucking disappointing. The first few years were so good and then…”
“And then things started going to shit,” Derrick says with a defeated sight that isn’t like him. He’s a problem solver, the guy who always has a new tactic or alternate approach. “Maybe group therapy and art therapy were a bad idea. Maybe we should have just focused on running plays and docked anyone caught fighting even more of their pay than they’re losing already.”
“I don’t know about that. I think Evie and Sandra are both doing a great job, but…” I shrug. “Maybe the damage runs too deep for some of these guys, both in their past and with their history with the team.”
Derrick nods, studying the label on his beer for a beat before he adds in a softer voice, “Senior management agrees with you, but they aren’t on the same page about what to do about it. Some of them want to push through a bunch of last-minute trades, giving up some of our better, more expensive players for a few promising drafts and hope a year out of the headlines for fighting will be worth the possible mediocre performance on the ice. But the others, especially those with partial ownership…” He brings his free hand to his face, rubbing at the tops of his eyes before he adds, “They’re talking about selling the team, Ian. At a loss if they have to, just to get out from under it.”
My throat goes so tight my beer has to fight its way down to my stomach. “What? You’re kidding.”
He shakes his head and takes another drink, his gaze still fixed on the coffee table. “They’re fed up. A couple of them even think the team is cursed.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Pro-sports people are superstitious, you know that. And season ticket sales are at an all-time low for this time of year.” He picks at the top of the label, peeling it away from the glass. “Some of that could be the economy and how damned hot it’s been lately—maybe no one’s in the mood to think about hockey yet. But it could also be a sign that the people who loved to watch you guys fight it out on the ice are getting sick of the same old bullshit. That they’re going back to their old hockey team or looking to another sport entirely for their loyalty fix. Fans are tribal, and once they’ve found another tribe, it’s hard as hell to win them back.”