WE WALKED down to ice level. One of the assistant coaches skated over to us.
“I want the team in front of me in the next minute,” my dad spoke without lifting his eyes up from his notes.
The whistle screamed, and I watched as the players all stopped whatever drills they were running.
“Team meeting, 30 seconds. Hustle!” the assistant coach yelled.
I could feel my heart pound as the players and coaches skated over to the gate where we stood. My dad didn’t even look up as 32 players and eight coaches skated up and formed a semi-circle on the ice in front of us. I was so nervous I had to work to keep my legs from shaking. I glossed over the team and saw a sea of sweaty faces and wet hair beneath helmets.
I did not understand how to radiate power but decided that a good pissed off vibe was better than a scared vibe. I tried to think about world hunger. And how I didn’t want to be here.
Get angry. Find that inner bitch.
My dad bent down and spoke into my ear while everyone stood and watched. I knew this tactic. He was holding everyone captive. This was one of his classic moves. His message was that they could stand and wait until he was good and ready.
His instructions in my ear were clear. “I will introduce you. Then you call #33 out and instruct him to come up for a meeting after practice.”
I nodded, dying inside. I did not want to speak in front of these men. I worked to wipe all expression off my face. The less they could read of me, the less chance these men would realize that I was a big fraud.
My dad began his speech. “My name is Mark Ashford. I’m the owner and GM of the Vancouver Wolves. We will cut nine of you before submitting our opening day player roster to the league. I respect and appreciate the input I get from the coaching staff here, but make no mistake, I make the final decision on who stays and who goes, so work hard.”
He stood there for a moment, letting that threat sink in.
I watched as players shifted on their skates, straightened up, looked more alert.
“I’m proud to introduce my daughter, Rory Ashford, who has returned from studying in New York. She is being groomed to be the next GM of this team. Do not underestimate her. She has been attending hockey games since birth and no one knows more about hockey and this game than her. I wouldn’t be training Rory to take over this job if I didn’t think she could handle it.”
I felt 40 pairs of eyes move to me.
No emotion. Show no emotion. I stared back hard. No pun intended, but it felt like I was trying to stare down a pack of wolves. I tried to infuse anger and hate in my gaze, but I had no idea if it was working.
“I’ve put Rory in charge of monitoring your progress. She’ll be at every single game this season including all away games. She’ll be traveling with the team. She’ll be my eyes and ears on your performance, your stats, your ability to get along with your teammates, and your off-ice antics. At this moment, she holds all the power, so don’t piss her off.”
Laughter rippled through the team and then died off when they realized my dad wasn’t joking.
“Rory?” my dad focused on me.
Oh my god. This was it. This was the moment that would decide whether these players respected or mocked me for the rest of the year.
I stood, paused, and looked over the entire group and collected my thoughts. My voice rang loud and clear.
“Number 33.”
The entire group froze while everyone glanced around. Movement from the back and the players in the front parted so the player could skate to the front.
Holy fucking fuck.
I stared at Max.
Max was here. None of this was making any sense. How was he here? On the ice? He was a hockey player? For the Wolves?
He stared back at me. Dripping sweat. Impossibly big in his uniform. Stupidly hot. Defiant. If possible, more pissed off than me.
You hurt me. You left me in a hotel without saying goodbye.
The entire group held their breath while we stared at each other, neither of us blinking.
I didn’t have to channel any emotion. It was all there. Like a red haze in front of my eyes.
“You’ll report to a meeting in my office after practice.” My command was crisp, edged with scathing scorn and a heavy dose of indifference.
His nostrils flared, but he didn’t speak.
I added, viciously. “Make sure you shower.”
I turned and walked up the cement steps. Dad moved with me.
“What’s the meeting about, Rory?”
Max’s tone was challenging, taunting and arrogant.
My dad stiffened beside me, but before he could respond, I spun around in Mom’s $800 heels.
“Thirty-three, you’ll address me as Miss Ashford. Is that clear?” My voice dripped hate. Because right now I hated him. On so many levels. With all my heart.
“My name is Max Logan.”
Blue eyes challenged me. He hated being called by his number.
I took pleasure in responding with an arctic tone. “When you earn my respect, you’ll earn your name. Until then, you’re just a number. Don’t be late.”
I glanced over the faces of the group of men. Shock, surprise, and respect showed on their faces. And then I turned away.
DAD, not big on praise, said nothing about that little moment, but he puffed up with pride. I had shown the world my Ashford backbone and my dad loved it.
The minute I got back to my office, I shut the door. My entire body trembled. I put my hands on my burning hot face while tumultuous emotions churned through my body.
Max was here.
He was a player on this team.
We would work together this year.
Fuckfuckfuckfuck.
I was now his boss.
I paced the length of my office, freaking out. He knew I was a fraud. He knew I didn’t want to be here. Worse, he had an intimate, carnal knowledge of my body.
Flashes of the night in the hotel blinded me. The things he had done with his mouth. Cold sweat washed over my body. If my father ever found out I had fooled around with one of his precious players, hell would know no fury. It’d be the end of Max’s career on this team.
I stood at the window and stared down at the ice below. Practice was winding down. I couldn’t make out players’ faces but I had no trouble tracking him. He was one of the largest players on the ice and the fastest.
My dad had made a good choice in buying his contract out, any idiot could see he would be an asset to the team, but all the other stuff? That would be an issue.
My issue.
He could call me out to the world. He could degrade me in front of the team, put me in my place, make me small. But that would put him at risk. If my father ever found out about our history, Max would be gone. So, I felt reasonably confident that Max wouldn’t tell anyone about our time in North Dakota.
But this situation was a nightmare.
Judging by his cocky and defiant response on the ice, I knew he hated the power I held over him. I understood his response. That is how I behaved when Dad put the screws to me.
How would this meeting go?
The skaters were leaving the ice.
I needed to prepare.
I returned to my desk and pawed through the files until I found the one with Max’s name on it. I flipped open the cover and read. Max was 26 years old. He stood 6’4” tall and weighed in at a solid 220 lbs. His stats on ice were impeccable. His performance off-ice were dismal.
He got drunk at a gala event and got into a brawl with one benefactor, who pushed him into a chocolate fountain. An incident that left both Max and two women covered in chocolate. That had made front page news.
He picked fights with reporters.
He picked fights in bars.
There was photo evidence of him with multiple puck-bunnies who seemed to enjoy posting pictures of him in their social media accounts in various states of dress in random hotel rooms. I studied each photo with my heart in my throat. The implications of those pictures were clear. I was not the only one who had enjoyed the Max factor.
Mortification burned the back of my throat.
There was a knock on the door.
Dad opened the door and surveyed me.
“So, what do you think?”
I dropped the file on my desk. “I think I need your help.”
