Chapter 1
Locke
I know before I even throw a punch that I’m going to get ejected from the game.
No one is going to want to hear a justification because there isn’t one. There’s no heat of the moment and there’s nothing instinctual. I simply see Morrow coming off the boards with that annoying curl to his lip, disdain for anyone in his way, and heading straight for me.
Christ, he fucking pisses me off.
Nashville’s agitator Leo Morrow is their team’s designated problem-maker, and we’ve played against each other enough to know the other’s secret tool kit. The elbow on the cycle or the slash across the back of the knee when the refs’ eyes are elsewhere. We’ve been chirping at each other the entire game, quiet enough that nobody else heard it. It’s a given that we’re going to drop the gloves. I should probably wait for him to instigate but fuck it.
I feel like fighting now because yeah… I don’t like that curl to his lip.
It’s the third period and the game is tied at two. The Portland Wildfire fans are going crazy, the arena practically shaking from the rafters downward. It’s been loud from the drop of the opening puck—new franchise, new arena, fans who are getting a team of their very own. They’re all here for the violence mixed within the sport, or at least that’s part of my justification for what I’m about to do. These fans aren’t generational loyalists who inherited the team because it’s who their father, and their father before them, rooted for. These people are on the inaugural ride of this crazy train and I’m about to deliver.
Morrow tries to circle past me, but I don’t let him. I ram my shoulder into him, knocking him off balance, and before he can even turn to give me that What the fuck look, I’m throwing my gloves to the ice.
The crowd roars with approval, the desire for blood whipping them into a frenzy. I let that fuel me—a reasonable justification even Coach would have a hard time arguing with—and I have one hand on his jersey, the other balled into a fist that connects with the side of his helmet before he can even get his gloves off.
Morrow’s good, just as big as me, and he strikes back with a vengeance. His knuckles clip my jaw, snapping my head sideways, and I taste the copper tang of blood.
Delicious.
Twenty-two thousand people who came here tonight to watch something happen are getting exactly what they wanted. Some might say I’m a fucking hero.
I manage to tuck in and drive my fist upward, catching the bottom of his chin and popping his head back. Morrow grunts but before he can retaliate, the linesmen get between us.
“That’s enough. Break it up.”
I don’t listen, trying to get my hands free to throw one more punch. The crowd screams out its approval.
“Enough, Donovan,” the official bellows. Morrow is trying to pull loose but I’m not letting him go.
“Jesus, you fucking psychopath,” Morrow snarls as I push hard against all of them.
Unfortunately, my skates slip out from under me and the momentum has me falling. Morrow somehow twists us and he lands on top of me, knocking the air from my lungs.
And then he’s gone, both linesmen pulling him off. He’s skating away from me before I can even get back upright.
“You fucking pussy,” I call out to the retreating Badger.
“Enough, Donovan,” a ref says as he skates up to me, laying a hand on my shoulder.
I shrug it off violently, pulling out my mouth guard out so he can hear me loud and clear. “I’ve played in front of better officials at a peewee tournament, you worthless piece of shit.”
His face mottles red and he points to the door that leads to the locker rooms. “That’s it… you’re out of here.”
“Peewee tournaments,” I snap back, pointing at him. “I’m sure you were fire there.”
The ref ignores me and skates to the glass where officials are eagerly awaiting the call. “At 12:34 of the third period, to Portland, number 18—five-minute major penalty for fighting. Number 18 also receives a two-minute minor penalty for instigating. And a game misconduct for abuse of officials.”
The crowd boos its disapproval, calling the refs blind and biased, although the language is a lot more colorful. I appreciate their devotion to me, but no doubt I deserve the penalties.
I slowly skate across the ice, taking my time. The crowd continues to jeer the refs. I glance up at the center-hung scoreboard—a massive four-sided video board that drops from the ceiling and makes you feel like you’re inside the play. I watch the replay of me attacking Morrow. LED ribbons running the full circumference of the lower bowl pulse in the team colors of burnt orange and forest green while rock music blares, indicating they’re cutting to a commercial.
Once I’m in the tunnel, the sound of the arena muffles and it’s an entirely different world. I lumber to the dressing room, by far the nicest in the league. The team’s owner, Patrick Rowe, was obsessive in the care and attention to detail for the comforts he put into it. The room opens into a wide horseshoe of dark wood cubicles, the configuration designed to make sure you can see every face in the room whether you want to or not. I remember hearing Coach once say that it was to help foster camaraderie. I want no part of that.
Above every stall sits a digital screen with the player’s team photo and number. I give mine a glance, noting the particularly dead look in my eyes despite the photographer trying her damnedest to get me to smile.
I throw my gloves into the stall and let my stick fall to the floor. I have no clue what’s going on in the game, even though there are TVs along the walls I could watch if I were interested. We’re defending a penalty right now and it might cost us the win.
Even though I project an attitude that I don’t give a shit about such things, I actually do care about winning. I mean, I want my team to win and there will be guilt if this stunt costs us the W. But right now, I can’t watch. I just want to go home.
The only person in the room is one of the equipment attendants, a kid in his early twenties who I’ve never spoken a single word to. He’s at the far end with a tray of sharpening equipment.
He looks up quickly, then averts his eyes again.
I sit on the bench and methodically strip off my gear, working through the same sequence I’ve been doing since I was a kid. They’re mindless motions, which is good, because the part of my brain that handles thought is preoccupied with tomorrow.
The headlines that will spotlight my reckless behavior. The same chatter that has followed my name around for years, no matter where I go, no matter how many organizations I move through, no matter how thoroughly I refuse to discuss it with anyone who asks.
I know I’m an enigma, but I don’t give a shit if people don’t understand me. They’re going to think what they want about me and the version that makes the rounds is never near the truth. I accepted that a long time ago and I don’t have the energy to say otherwise. The true version lives only in my head now and I’m okay with being the villain.
I peel off my elbow pads and set them in the compartment.
The anger is still there because it never leaves—a low simmer that’s an inherent part of me. I stopped pretending otherwise around the time I realized that pretending doesn’t make it go away.
If anything, it makes it burn hotter.
Yeah… it’s better to know where it lives. I don’t need to ruminate on the why because that’s a part of my life I’d just as soon forget. I merely need to accept it’s who I am.
The door opens but I don’t look up, assuming it’s one of the trainers coming to have a look at whatever damage Morrow’s knuckles did to my jaw, which is throbbing like a son of a bitch.
“Sam.”
That’s Patrick Rowe’s voice, quiet and commanding.
My head jerks up, as I have no clue who Sam is. I find Patrick standing there, looking over at the equipment guy, who’s staring back at him with wide eyes. “Mind giving me the room?” he asks.
“Yes, Mr. Rowe,” he says, even offering an awkward, bobbing bow.
“Just five minutes,” Rowe says, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. He offers the kid a reassuring smile and only after he’s gone does he turn his attention to me.
Rowe is a powerful man. He’s tall, broad through the shoulders, and carries an undeniably commanding presence wherever he goes. He’s a forty-eight-year-old, fiercely ambitious mogul who doesn’t impress me at all. He stands there in his immaculate suit with vivid blue eyes that are clearly sizing me up.
I note he doesn’t look angry, but that doesn’t surprise me. Over the past several weeks, I’ve never heard the man raise yell at anyone, but I also know he’s no pushover.
Which kind of sucks. Anger would be easier. Anger, I can work with. Instead, he looks like a man who has made up his mind but is here as a courtesy to fill me in on the game plan. The thought of it raises my hackles.
I keep working on my gear, ignoring my ultimate boss. The man who can make or break me.
Rowe moves into my peripheral vision and takes up a position standing a few feet from me. He doesn’t say anything right away, so I keep working on my gear.
He sighs, a sign of annoyance, and that actually makes me happy.
“You want to tell me what happened out there?” he finally says.
I bend over to unlace a skate. “Morrow ran his mouth. I responded.”
“Morrow runs his mouth at everyone. That’s his job. He does it every game and he’s been doing it for years.”
I have nothing to say to that.
“Third period,” Rowe says. “Tied game.”
And that strikes deep, a sizzle of guilt burning in my gut. “I’m aware of the score.”
“Good. Then you’re also aware, Locke, that we’re currently on the penalty kill because you’re sitting in here instead of being on the ice.”
I freeze, more off-kilter that he called me by my first name. It’s personal and I don’t like it. “Penalties are part of the game.”
“When they’re tactical,” he says bluntly.
“Like I said, just doing my job.”
“Is it really your job to put your team in jeopardy?” he asks.
It isn’t the question that gets me but rather the simple accuracy of it—the way he identified the precise thing I can’t argue with, and he did so without yelling or theatrics.
I really don’t like him.
I have no answer, which shouldn’t come as a shock since I’m a quiet guy. I keep to myself, don’t normally engage in pointless conversation, and I find this to be tedious and dull.
The exception is the pure game of hockey, and I never seem to be at a shortage of things to discuss in that respect. Give me video, give me strategy, give me a breakdown of why a defensive pair isn’t working, and I’ll give you back useful strategy. I can talk hockey all day and it’s usually the one place I’m never without an answer.
He’s asking me a simple question about the sport… about why I took the penalty. He’s giving me a platform to defend myself, and I could probably sell it if I tried.
But I have nothing because I didn’t pick a fight with Morrow for strategy, for optics, or even to give the crowd a thrill.
I did it because I felt like hitting someone.
Rowe seems to accept the silence and starts to turn away. I’m almost ready to let loose a breath of relief when he says, “I want you in my office tomorrow morning,” he says. “Eight o’clock.”
“For what?” I ask, my hackles rising again. “Because if you want to yell at me for what I did, I’m right here.”
“Eight o’clock,” he says again.
Like I haven’t spoken, he’s already moving toward the door.
I consider pointing out that I’m not the only one on this roster with penalty problems, that I’m not the only one who gets into it with opponents, that my numbers on the ice—the actual defensive numbers, the ones that determine whether this team can hold a lead—are better than anyone Rowe could have found in the expansion draft for the contract he paid.
I think about all of it, but I hold my tongue.
Because none of it touches the question he asked: Is it really your job to put your team in jeopardy?
The door closes and I sit in the quiet of the dressing room with one skate unlaced and the muffled sound of the game continuing without me in it.
I don’t think about what Rowe wants. Typically, when a player isn’t living up to expectations, that’s handled at the coaching level, and I’m sure Coach Monahan will have plenty to say after the game. If my job’s in danger, that would involve the general manager, but I haven’t spoken to Oliver Kemp since I signed my contract.
I brush those worries aside and refuse to think about Morrow or the fight or the blood I can still taste in my mouth. I don’t think about the score.
I bend over and work on my other skate, closing it all out and sealing myself off.
I’m a professional at that.
