Crosby (Paperback)

Chapter 1

Crosby

The practice facility is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Touted as the most state-of-the-art and luxurious in the league, the esteemed owner of the new Portland Wildfire apparently spared no expense.

Then again, Patrick Rowe is a fucking billionaire a few times over, so why should he go on the cheap when outfitting his new hockey franchise?

The facade of the one-hundred-and-sixty-thousand-square-foot building is dominated by sweeping walls of glass and steel panels in muted slate and graphite tones. The main entrance is recessed beneath an overhang of glass and metal, the doors framed by towering windows that flood the lobby with natural light during the day. The team crest is etched directly into the stone, a massive twenty-foot-diameter circle of the Cascade Mountain Range, bordered by evergreen trees and wildfire flames.

The facility sits in Beaverton, Oregon, close enough to downtown Portland to be considered convenient, far enough to keep the noise out. It gives the team space to work without an audience, and I chose to purchase a home here rather than in the city. I’ll spend far more time here than I will at the actual arena for games.

Rowe definitely gets bragging rights over the sheer enormity of the place. It has two full ice rinks—one regulation size and a secondary development rink—housed in the center portion and flanked by two outward wings. The eastern side of the building houses the main locker room, the medical and rehab suite, the strength and conditioning gym, and a full-size sit-down restaurant called The Blue Line where, rumor has it, the chef will prepare meals for you to take home if you ask nicely.

The western wing houses the executive team—coaches’ offices, the general manager’s suite, as well as video review rooms and a sports science and analytics center. I heard there’s even a leadership office suite for whoever is elected captain and assistant captains of the team. There’s also a team meeting auditorium, assorted conference rooms and a media zone for interviews and press conferences.

I’ve been around this league long enough to know when a facility is meant to inspire and when it’s meant to impress. This one does both and I consider it a massive perk for coming to this team as a free agent.

The sun is barely up, and the September air has an early-morning bite. I glance to the southeast and while I can’t see it today, I’ve been told Mt. Hood is often visible.

Training camp starts in a few days, but the entire team meets for the first time today. Most came in the expansion draft held at the end of June whereas others like me were free agents. Because we’re an expansion team, we’re comprised largely of players the other teams didn’t want, which means we’re ragtag at best.

At worst, we might be a hot mess, but it’s way too soon to know that.

I check in at the security desk and step through a turnstile after I scan my badge, which had been hand-delivered to my house yesterday, along with a welcome gift package from Patrick Rowe. It was a matte black box with the Wildfire logo embossed on the top and a soft velvet lining. Inside was a Ferragamo travel bag, a Jaeger-LeCoultre watch, and a set of Bose QuietComfort noise-canceling headphones. I’ve always been great at math, and some quick calculations led me to believe our new owner probably dropped three hundred grand on these player gifts.

Not too shabby.

I move past the security checkpoint and head left to the west wing, following signs to the team auditorium. It’s not my first time here, as we all got tours upon our arrival last week, but it’s no less mind-boggling. It’s built like a private cinema with stadium-style, tiered rows that rise gradually from the front of the room to the back. Each chair is wide and padded, upholstered in mocha-brown leather with black piping, built-in armrests, and the Wildfire logo in the team colors of burnt orange and forest green embossed into the headrests.

At the front of the room spans an enormous wall-mounted video screen that stretches nearly wall to wall and floor to ceiling. It can operate as one massive uninterrupted display or split into three independent panels, allowing coaches to run multiple video feeds simultaneously.

At the front corner of the room sits a low coaching podium and integrated control station. From here, staff can control video playback, lighting, audio and screen configuration. Additional monitors are mounted discreetly around the room for presenters, ensuring coaches never have to turn their backs on the team.

I’m the first to arrive and I take a seat in the tenth row, direct center. Not because I need to be seen, but because it’s where I can see everyone else as they enter.

As a goalie, that’s habit.

It’s my job to read a play before it happens and you can’t do that if you don’t have the best line of sight as well as understand angles.

I consider my journey here and what I left behind in Winnipeg, where I was a team leader and one of the top-performing goalies in this league. Oliver Kemp, the Wildfire GM, sought me during free agency because I’m steady and consistent under pressure. They came for me with a pitch that didn’t include ego stroking or promises of “being the face” of the new team. Instead, Kemp signed me not only with a ridiculously large sum of money—which was important—but with the lure of a challenge.

“We need a backbone,” Oliver had said to my agent and me during a Zoom meeting. “We need an ambassador of hockey culture… someone who the room will follow even when the room isn’t sure it wants to.”

He said more, and it was all right on point. I came because this sport is my life and I know how quickly things can go sideways when there isn’t a center of gravity. I believe I can be that stabilizing force for this new team and I believe Patrick Rowe is doing all the right things to make us great. I want in on the ground floor of this machine. That’s the real reason I’m here.

The doors open and players start filing in. I know almost all of them either well enough to shake hands or just enough to give a chin lift. Spend enough years in the league and relationships form across team boundaries.

Arch Hewitt spots me and heads my way. He drops into the seat beside me like he’s done it a hundred times, which he has. We played in Winnipeg together and he’s my closest friend in the world.

Arch bumps my shoulder with his, then hooks an arm around the back of my neck and pulls me in hard so he can rub his knuckles over the top of my head.

“Jesus, Hale,” he says with a laugh. “You trying to set a record for earliest arrival?”

“Someone has to establish a standard, you toddler,” I deadpan, shoving him off me.

He snorts and leans back, stretching his long legs out in front of him like he owns the row. Arch is the kind of guy who can turn his switch on and off. He can grind on the ice for sixty minutes and still crack a joke when it’s over, and it’s a boon to me that he’s here. A measure of familiarity in a new world.

Arch followed me here from Winnipeg, not because he was recruited, but because he was left exposed. In an expansion draft, every team in the league is allowed to put a certain number of players on a protected list. The rest are “exposed” and can be picked to fill slots on the new expansion team.

I was protected but Arch was not. As the third-line center, that was a position the team was willing to let go, whereas the starting goalie… not so much. But Winnipeg couldn’t match the offer that Portland made for me as a free agent, so here I am with one of my best mates, starting a new career journey.

He tilts his head toward the front. “You nervous?”

“Fuck no,” I scoff.

He gives me a look like he doesn’t fully believe that but he’s probably projecting. Nervousness is an emotion I rarely feel. I don’t get nervous about hockey or the pressures surrounding it, but I do get… aware.

Hyperaware, actually.

There’s a difference.

More players filter in—some in small groups, some alone. The room fills with subtle energy, the kind that comes from a bunch of men who all know they’re being evaluated, even when no one is holding a clipboard.

I scan faces, more chin lifts, a few fist bumps.

Boss Calloway comes in with first-row energy even as he takes a seat in the row behind me. Big grin, easy confidence, the kind of guy who could sell out an arena on charisma alone. He nods at me on his way up the aisle, a little more serious than his expression suggests. He’s an incredible right-winger and my guess is he’ll head up the first line.

Luca Marcelli arrives behind him. He’s a solid center with a blistering wrist shot. His posture is relaxed but his eyes are sharp, taking in the room and sizing up the competition. Yes, we’re all teammates but we’ve got training camp looming, and everyone’s going to be fighting for the coveted first-line positions.

The room quiets when Locke Donovan stalks in like he’s looking for something to hit. The defenseman picked up in the expansion draft from the New Jersey Wildcats is the biggest risk Patrick Rowe is taking. Jaw tight, shoulders broad, and black Harley-Davidson T-shirt pulled across muscle like it’s one deep breath away from tearing, Donovan doesn’t smile at anyone.

Doesn’t acknowledge anyone.

The vibe rolling off him isn’t arrogance.

It’s volatility.

He has a distinct reputation in this league and Locke’s the type who can change the outcome of a game in ten seconds—either by leveling someone clean or taking a penalty that makes the coach want to strangle him.
Then I see the one guy I really wish I didn’t have to deal with in coming to this team. I’d rather face a hundred Locke Donovans than a single Miller Parks.

I can’t fucking help myself, but my eyes drift down to the wedding band on his left hand.

I keep my face neutral and my eyes moving, as if Miller is just another player in the room.

Arch’s head turns slightly, and I can feel him clocking the change in me without even looking directly at my face. He knows my tells because he’s one of the few people who’s spent enough time around me to notice them.

He leans closer. “You sure you’re okay with this?”

I’ve been asking myself that same question ever since I found out Miller got picked up in the expansion draft.

I keep my voice low and controlled. “Totally good.”

Arch’s brows pull together. “Gotta be weird though, right?”

“I’m totally good with him,” I say, tapping my pen on my armrest. He’s not the real problem. “Going to be a little weird at social events though.”

“That’s the fucking truth,” he mumbles.

The weirdness stems from the fact that Miller Parks recently married my ex-fiancée. I’d heard it through the grapevine a few months ago and didn’t think twice about it. I parted ways with Cherry without a backward glance and have zero regrets about my decision to end things.

Admittedly, when I found out Miller was coming to Portland, I had a bit of a “what the fuck” reaction, mostly because I didn’t want to deal with her. Unfortunately, hockey teams end up becoming family units, complete with frequent social events, and it’s inevitable.

We’re going to cross paths.

“I wonder if she’s changed any,” Arch says pensively.

“Don’t give a flying fuck one way or the other,” I reply, and he chuckles.

Arch knows there’s no love lost between me and Cherry, just as he knows there’s no sadness, regret or anger. I don’t feel anything for her, even if I can unequivocally call her the greatest mistake of my life.

“You definitely dodged a bullet with that one,” Arch says with a smirk.

“Truth,” I reply, and we fist-bump.

I’ll have to deal with Miller and Cherry at some point. It will be an in-my-face reminder that I once trusted the wrong person and paid for it with headlines and assumptions and a private life that stopped belonging to me.

The lights dim a fraction, conversation softens, and the room settles into a collective attention that feels almost unnatural for a group of hockey players.

Then Patrick Rowe walks onto the stage.

If the building looks like money, Rowe looks like the man who made it.

At forty-eight, Rowe’s tall, broad-shouldered, immaculate without being flashy. Dark suit, no tie, collar open like he’s not interested in pretending he’s someone who asks permission. He wears his salt-and-pepper hair a little long on top and short on the sides with a silvery beard trimmed to razor-sharp perfection.

He’s one of the wealthiest men in the United States and I doubt anyone ever tells him no.

He rests his hands on the podium, his gaze sweeping the room. When he speaks, his voice is slightly cultured, calm and absolute. “I’m not here to give you a lecture,” Rowe says. “You’ve heard enough speeches in your lives.” A few quiet chuckles and Rowe offers a candid smile. “I’m here because we are about to do something people will tell you can’t be done.” He pauses, lets the words sink in. “They’re going to call you an expansion team like it’s a handicap. They’re going to judge every action like it’s an excuse.” His eyes narrow. “I didn’t pay to buy excuses.”

The room is utterly still, all attention rapt.

“Every one of you was brought here for a reason. Not because you were available. Not because you were leftover. Because you fit what we’re building.”

He steps away from the podium, slow and controlled, all eyes glued on him. “This franchise doesn’t get a grace period. We don’t get a cute first season where everyone pats us on the head and says, ‘Good effort.’” Rowe lifts his chin. “Three months ago, the Pittsburgh Titans raised the Cup in one of the most dazzling final rounds of playoff hockey I’ve ever seen. They did that only two years after their organization lost nearly everyone in a plane crash.”

If possible, the room gets even quieter because there’s rarely been as good a comeback sports story as the Titans rising from the ashes. It’s a story that’s offered not as tragedy but as proof that anything can be accomplished with the right combination of leadership and talent.

“They were told they needed time. They were told they needed patience. They were told they needed a rebuild.” Rowe’s gaze sweeps again. “They chose to be winners anyway.”

He points, not at anyone in particular but at the room. “That’s what we’re doing. From the start.” He glances around once more, tucks his hands in his pockets. “Being new doesn’t make you weak. It makes you hungry, and we’re going to make the league regret every assumption they’ve made about us.”

And with that, he pivots and exits the room. It’s only after he’s out of sight that the stranglehold breaks and a rousing cheer shatters the silence. Rowe isn’t here to acknowledge it, but I’m sure he can hear us down the hall and is smiling at the knowledge that he’s lit a fire under everyone’s ass here today.

Colter Monahan, our head coach, takes the stage, and the energy changes again. He doesn’t carry billionaire confidence but rather an earned authority. He was an assistant coach on the Florida Spartans, who won the championship season before last. He’s young for a coach at thirty-three but battle-tested. I think he’s a great choice for this team.

Monahan isn’t known for speeches or emotional rallying. He’s known as a brilliant strategist, meticulous with systems and structure, and deliberately standoffish with players. He doesn’t try to be liked, doesn’t blur lines, and doesn’t concern himself with morale beyond whether the work is getting done.

Moreover, he’s got a great support team—assistants covering forwards, special teams and goaltending. I personally think the best score came with Van Turner. Fresh off a playing career with the Pittsburgh Titans, he’ll be handling defense and systems. His reputation in the league has been built on his ability to read plays before they develop. But the depth he’s really going to bring to the team is his reputation for earning trust. A veteran, he’s a Cup champion from his time with the Carolina Cold Fury and again with the Titans, and now a mentor for the young defensemen coming up.

Monahan doesn’t waste time. “You’re here. That part’s done.” A pause. Not for effect, but because he’s finished that thought. “I don’t give speeches. I give systems. I will work you hard and make no apologies for it. I expect you to give me everything, but if you need motivation, you won’t last long here anyway.

A few guys straighten instinctively. The rookies look downright scared and Arch and I exchange a smirk.

“We’re going to win games because we’re prepared, not because we want it more.” He rests one hand on the podium, the other loose at his side. “I’m a simple guy and I care about three things: structure, accountability and execution. Everything else is noise to me.” His gaze moves, assessing, like he’s already sorting pieces. “I don’t care what you were on your last team. I don’t care what fans think you are. In this building, you earn your ice every day.”

Arch grumbles under his breath. “That’s some hardcore shit.”

“Yup,” I mutter back, but internally, I’m excited about his coaching style. It’s exactly what an expansion team needs.

Coach scans the room. “You follow the system, you’ll play. You don’t, you won’t. It’s that simple.” He glances briefly toward his assistants, then back to the room. “If you’ve got questions, bring them to the staff. If you’ve got excuses, keep them to yourself.”

“Oh damn,” Arch whispers. “Guess we’re not going to be best mates.”

“You already got a best mate,” I point out, and he snorts.

And with that, Monahan picks up a piece of paper from the podium. “As you know, you were all asked to cast votes to elect a captain and two assistant captains for the team. These players will represent our interests both on and off the ice. They will be your leadership.”

A ripple moves through the room and guys shift in their seats.

Monahan doesn’t draw it out. “Captain,” he says. “Crosby Hale.”
No applause explodes because this isn’t a pep rally. But hands come together in a respectful clap with nods passing between teammates. Boss leans forward and claps me on the shoulder.

I don’t move. I don’t smile. I don’t lift my chin like I’m accepting a crown.

Inside, the weight settles into acceptance.

Monahan continues, “Alternates—Carter Nichols and Halo Barnes.”

More applause. Those are excellent choices. While I’ve been named captain, part of that title is honorary. While I’m on the ice during a game, I’m not allowed to leave my net to deal with the refs. But both Carter and Halo can handle that. They’ll have no problem taking the heat and managing the little in-game storms that I can’t deal with.

Monahan sets the paper down and looks first to me, then over to Carter and Halo. “Those letters don’t mean you’re above anyone else. They mean you’re responsible for everyone else. Act like it.”

I nod and know I’m more than up to the task.

Monahan shoves both hands into his pockets. “One more thing… the league is partnering with the Wildfire on a behind-the-scenes documentary this season.”

A buzz of hushed chatter fills the room. A few guys laugh, already imagining camera time. Some guys straighten like they’re picturing endorsement deals.

“The film crew will be given full access,” Monahan continues. “It goes without saying Mr. Rowe expects everyone to be on their best behavior. He demands professionalism at all times. I imagine it might be a little jarring with the cameras constantly on us, but you’ll get used to it. This is a tremendous opportunity for the Wildfire, so don’t fuck it up.”

Opportunity. That’s one word for it, but another is exposure. Patrick Rowe wants eyes on his new dynasty.

I’m not happy about this distraction. I’ve built my career on shutting out noise. Media has always been part of the job, but I learned early the difference between answering questions and letting people inside your life. I vow to be diligently aware of where those cameras are and do my best to stay the fuck out of their way.

The meeting ends and players rise to funnel into the aisle, voices lifting, energy turning restless. Guys start talking about camp, about housing, about the city, about dinner plans.

It’s normal.

It’s the start of something.

Arch stands beside me as we join the flow toward the exit. He bumps my shoulder again. “Captain,” he says, the corner of his mouth tilting. “Look at you.”

“Don’t,” I toss back.

“Maybe I’ll call you Your Highness,” he quips, and I roll my eyes.

We hit a bottleneck at the door as the hallway outside fills with bodies. The jam forces us to slow, and that’s when Miller ends up directly in front of us again.

He turns slightly, and his eyes meet mine. For a second, there’s a hardness there. Not exactly anger—more like he’s bracing for the punch he expects me to throw.

I give him a nod. “What’s up, man?”

He nods, a slight chin lift, then pushes into the hallway before disappearing into the crowd. I’m guessing he doesn’t like the fact he’s on the same team with his wife’s ex, but that’s not my problem.

Arch whistles under his breath. “Yeah. That’s going to be fun.”

I don’t answer immediately because my mind isn’t on Miller. Not really. He’ll either get over it or he won’t.

Instead, I wonder about how this documentary is going to pan out and what will be expected of us. I know we have an entire media department, and I expect we’ll get a briefing of some sort.

To say I’m not happy about this is an understatement.

A camera in this place will be a spotlight, and spotlights have a way of finding the exact thing you’re trying to keep hidden. That’s the biggest lesson I learned from my failed relationship with Cherry.

I step into the hallway with Arch, and the noise of the building swallows us. Training camp hasn’t even officially started yet and Portland already feels like it’s getting too bright.

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