This weekend has come with a lot of firsts.
My first trip on a plane not sitting in economy, my first time being picked up at an airport by a man dressed in an expensive suit driving a blacked-out Escalade, and my first time being wined and dined by someone who could potentially offer me a chance to live my dream.
It almost seems backward being schmoozed by those who could give me everything I’ve ever wanted instead of the other way around. I feel like I should be the one taking Harvey Anderson, the general manager of the Minnesota Woodmen, out for dinner and pulling tricks out of a bag in hopes of impressing him.
Harvey is only one of several GMs that my agent and I have agreed to meeting with before the draft, but he is also the only one who has flown me out to him instead of coming to Vancouver to see me.
Dougie is more than just my agent. He’s also my friend, and I trust him as well as I really can, I think. He warned me that this meeting isn’t of the usual variety, which could make it a ploy of some type. Seeing as how his wife just gave birth to their third child, he couldn’t come with me like he wants to. That’s why he wants me to stay sharp tonight, and I plan on doing exactly that.
This morning, I woke up nervous, and as the day went on and I was paraded around the Woodmen arena and locker room like a show pony, I only grew more antsy. There’s a feeling nipping at me that I just can’t shake, like something isn’t right. It’s probably ridiculous—it feels ridiculous—but I’ve always trusted my gut, and right now, it’s telling me that something bad could happen tonight. It has me in knots.
I check the time on my phone before firing off a text to my mom, letting her know that I’m going to dinner in an hour and to wish me luck. In half that time, I’m showered, my hair is gelled back for the first time in forever, and my face is shaved bare.
My phone starts to ring from the mattress, and I rush to grab it, not caring anymore how desperate that makes me.
“Hello?”
Ava’s laugh feels like coming home as it flows through the speakers and sinks deep in my chest. “One ring. That’s got to be a new record.”
I sit on the edge of the bed and grin. “You just caught me at the right time. Don’t get cocky.”
“Never. That doesn’t sound like me at all.”
“Riiight. I’ve got you all wrong,” I tease.
“It’s got me thinking that you haven’t really been paying attention.” I would bet money that she’s smirking right now. Her eyes are probably glimmering the way they do when she’s trying to rile me up.
“Oh, baby. I pay attention. Probably too much.”
She blows out a long breath like she’s annoyed, and it makes me smile. “You can’t say stuff like that to me when I’m not there to kiss you.”
“Shit, my bad.”
“How are you feeling about dinner?”
I fall back on the bed with a sigh. “Nervous. Dougie’s put all these things in my head that are messing with my aura or something. I’ve felt uncomfortably wary all day.”
“They’re trying to impress you, Boy Scout. Let them pull out the big guns and woo you. What’s the worst thing that can happen? They force you to eat salmon and drink draft beer?”
I shudder. The two worst things to exist. “You have a good point.”
“What are the odds of Minnesota picking top three in the draft?”
“High, but it’s impossible to know.”
The Woodmen might look like they’ll finish the season at the bottom of the league, but the draft lottery hardly ever goes to plan. They could end up picking in the middle of the pack for all we know.
“So try not to overthink this meeting. Have dinner, and then come back home. Everyone misses you.”
“And you?” I ask, needing to hear her say it.
“And me what?”
“Do you miss me?”
“Yeah. I really miss you,” she murmurs, and for the first time tonight, I feel ready to do this.
Fifteen minutes later, my driver is pulling up in front of a restaurant with a glowing white sign and a lineup from the door, all the way to the crosswalk at the end of the way.
My suit feels scratchy, even though I’ve worn it so often I’m sure it’s molded to my body. I step out of the SUV and give a quick thank you to the driver before my dress shoes hit the pavement. The door of the restaurant is opened for me by a young-looking guy in a pair of wrinkled slacks and a white button-up. I flash him a smile as I walk inside.
The hostess is already on her way to greet me by the time the smell of garlic and wine hits me. Her high heels tap the floor at a hurried pace, the long skirt of her sunflower-yellow dress smacking her ankles. I pull my shoulders back and shake out my hands.
“Oakley Hutton, please, follow me to the table. Everyone is already waiting,” she says in a rush.
“Great, thanks,” I reply, my voice too stiff. Knock it off.
She leads me to a table at the back of the restaurant, sectioned off from the rest of the customers by a massive fish tank full of colourful fish and a snail suction cupped to the glass. As soon as we round the tank, three sets of eyes zone in on me.
I recognize Harvey straight away. He’s an older guy at fifty-three years old, with a receding hairline and a scar across his right cheek from his time in the NHL. He was hit by a puck in his third season—it split that fucker right open and cost him most of his teeth on his right side.
He was a decent, solid defenseman through most of his career but was known for throwing around some questionable hits whenever he felt like the time was right. It’s been over a decade since he played.
“Oakley Hutton! I’m so excited to meet you in person. I apologize for my absence earlier today—a meeting popped up I couldn’t get away from.” Harvey moves around the table with an easy confidence and a sly smile. I shoot my hand out in front of me when he offers me his, and we shake quickly.
“It’s nice to meet you, sir. Thank you for taking the time and for flying me out here,” I say. My voice is strong now, confident. Thank fuck.
Approval flicks across his face before he grabs my shoulder and starts to introduce me to the other two people at the table.
“You’ve already met our head coach, Jonathon Laredo. He had nothing bad to say about you after showing you around today.” The coach smiles at me and lifts his crystal glass in the air before Harvey turns me to face the opposite end of the table, where a woman is sitting beside an empty chair. “And this is my daughter, Ronnie. She’s working for the organization alongside me as I prepare her to take over after my retirement. The Woodmen owner wanted to be here, but he’s out of the country at the moment.”
The woman—Ronnie—parts her lips on a coy smile when I nod my head in greeting. She’s tall, dressed in a deep red dress that swoops down far enough I refuse to find out where it ends. I shift on my feet when she wraps long fingers around her wineglass and stares at me with swooped eyelids as she tips it back and drinks the red wine.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, looking away.
“You too, Oakley. My father hasn’t stopped talking about you for weeks.”
Harvey squeezes my shoulder, hard. “What can I say? It’s not every day we have the chance to meet a future franchise player. Especially one of your calibre.”
Ronnie sets her glass down on the table and twirls her finger around the rim. She waves a hand over the empty chair beside her. “Sit, Oakley. You’re making everyone nervous.”
Jonathon laughs, the sound gruff. “What do you drink? Beer?”
I shake my head and stiffly lower myself into the empty chair. “I don’t drink.”
“You’re not twenty-one, but they won’t ask here,” Harvey says, sitting in his chair across the table.
“It’s not my age, sir. I don’t drink at all.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Call me Harvey, please.”
I nod.
“Water it is, then,” Jonathon grunts and waves his hand in the air for the server.
My eyebrows knit together at the slur in his words, but I don’t touch on it. I don’t even have the chance to before a server scurries over and Harvey starts spouting off dinner orders. It doesn’t bother me much to have my food ordered for me as long as it’s not salmon, which, gratefully, it’s not. I wouldn’t know what to order in a place like this, anyway.
Once the server leaves, Harvey looks at me. “So, how has your stay been?”
“Good, si—Harvey. Thank you again.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. My pleasure, really. The Woodmen organization wants you to stay in luxury while you’re here. Have you gotten a chance to explore the city yet?”
There’s a water already sitting in front of me, and I grab it, taking an eager gulp. “Not yet. I hope to do that tomorrow before I leave.” I don’t plan on exploring because I don’t plan on playing here in my entire career unless I’m given no other choice.
“Good, good. What did you think of the team? I know we haven’t been a playoff contender in a few seasons, but we can see the light at the end of the rebuild. You would be the missing piece.”
Ronnie laughs lowly. “Dad, don’t overwhelm him.”
“From what I’ve seen, he doesn’t get overwhelmed easily. Do you, Oakley?” Harvey asks, his expression open. I swallow at how obvious his interest in me is.
“No, I don’t. I thrive under pressure.” It’s the truth.
Ronnie shifts her body slightly, just enough for our arms to brush. I inch further away.
“Your agent tells me you favour going to Vancouver or somewhere in Alberta. Is that right?” Harvey asks.
There’s something in his voice that sounds off, like me wanting to stay close to home is more of an annoyance to him than anything else.
“Yes. I would prefer to stay close to home if possible.”
“Vancouver is doing well this season. It’s not looking like they’ll pick very high,” Jonathon says, his words slurring worse than just minutes before.
I stare at him, unblinking. “I’m aware.”
Ronnie leans toward me and purrs, “Vancouver is having a surprising year, but who’s to say it isn’t a fluke?”
Harvey makes a noise of agreement before clasping his hands in front of him and leaning forward. His eyes are intense as they keep me locked in their sights. It’s borderline uncomfortable.
He taps his hands on the table. “I’m going to be honest with you, Oakley. Wherever you land in the draft, you have options. I’m sure your agent has done a good job of letting you know that, but when it comes to Minnesota, nothing is off the table. I mean that. There are no chips we wouldn’t move in order to see you in green and red. Absolutely nothing.”
I stiffen. Yeah, Dougie has told me what my options are after the draft, but I also know there could be repercussions that follow the decisions I make.
No player has to sign with the team that drafts him. But if you don’t? That’s a grey area—or more like a murky black one. Not signing with your draft team makes you look stuck-up, like you’re too good for whoever chose to take a chance on you. That’s not the kind of player I want to be known as. That’s not who I am.
Having a team’s general manager hint at me not signing with my draft team and coming to Minnesota instead? Gracie would tell me that’s an obvious red flag. Not to mention if I were to risk turning away my draft team for any other, it sure wouldn’t be the Woodmen I chose.
A hand on my knee has me popping out of my seat. There’s a flash from somewhere behind the fish tank, but when I spin around to see where it came from, Ronnie grabs my hand, pulling at me to sit back down.
“What’s wrong, Oakley?” Harvey asks tensely. He glances at his daughter with a scowl before looking back at me with a phony smile.
“I have to use the bathroom.” It comes out in a rush.
My hands are sweaty, and I use that to my advantage as I pull away from Ronnie and head for the bathroom. Eyes and voices follow me, but I don’t focus on that.
Maybe I should have.
I collide with someone and fumble backward, trying to shake it off. Another flash and I rub at my eyes from the close range.
“Oakley Hutton! Are you here for business or pleasure?” The question is shouted at me, and I blink rapidly to try and push the stars out of my eyes from the flash. “Are you dating Veronica Anderson?”
“No.” I glare at the human shape in front of me and start back for the bathroom. My elbow makes contact with the reporter’s stomach, and he groans.
“Ouch! Are you a violent guy, Oakley?” he asks, still following me as I swerve through the tables, my vision finally clear. His fingers latch around my arm, and I stop, spinning around to face him.
“I will be in about five seconds if you don’t get your hands off of me,” I spit through gritted teeth.
The reporter’s shitty brown eyes widen. “Can you say that again?”
“No.”
The bathroom is close, so I hightail it through the rest of the restaurant, the reporter still on my heels. I don’t recognize him from around Van, so he has to be from here. If he works for someone, he’s done a great job of hiding his badge.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I let it go to voicemail. A shaky exhale slips between my lips when I quickly open the bathroom door and move inside before locking it. Only then do I try to calm my racing pulse.
The first thought I have is to call Ava and ask her to talk to me and calm me down, but it’s illogical. Dougie is the only one who would know what to do right now, so I slip my shaking fingers into the front pocket of my slacks and pull out my phone.
He answers on the fourth ring, his voice thick with sleep. Right, the baby. Shit.
“Lee?” he mumbles. The reporter bangs his fist on the door, and I gulp.
“God, man. What the fuck is this place? I need your help. Shit, I think I’m losing it right now.”
Whatever it is he hears in my voice wakes him up. His next words are more alert, sharp. “What happened?”
I put the call on speakerphone and explain to him everything that’s happened tonight while listening as he curses words I’ve never even heard before. He’s angry, and his anger only adds to mine, helping dull the feelings of dread and anxiety that are running wild inside of me.
“Who’s the reporter? Is he still there?”
“I don’t know. He’s stopped banging on the door.”
“Okay. Stay in there while I call Harvey. For the love of God, please tell me you didn’t agree to any of the shit he was selling you.”
I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “No.”
“Good. I’m going to call you back in a few minutes, yeah?”
“Okay.”
I stand in front of the sink and turn on the cold water. Once it’s had a minute to run, I set my phone down on the counter and use my hands to cup the stream in my palms before throwing it at my face.
Man up, Oakley. It’s going to get a lot worse than this once you’re drafted, I try to remind myself. One reporter won’t compare to what you’ll face then. But if that were the case, why does this feel so different?
I need to get out of here before I lose my mind.
“Be right back,” Dougie says before hanging up.
Tipping my head back, I close my eyes and grip the countertop with wet hands. I want to kick myself in the ass for coming to this dinner and ignoring my gut when it told me something bad was going to happen.
Glancing down at my hands, I grimace at the memory of Ronnie’s touch on them. I quickly wash them, scrubbing and scrubbing until they burn beneath the cold water. My pants need to be torched, too, as soon as I’m out of this hellhole.
If only I could torch this entire trip from my memory, too. But of course, that would be way too easy.
