“What do you need from me?” I asked.
“A statement?”
“Do I have to?”
Her nails tapped a nervous rhythm on the iPad. “No, but it’d be good to hear from you.”
“Why? What else are you reporting?”
“Nothing but rumors, as usual.” Her voice soured. “Got a couple sources saying there’s a handful of players begging to be traded. Other stories about fighting in the locker room. Problems with playing as a unit. Any truth to it?”
She had eyes, didn’t she?
“Am I on the record?” I asked.
“Do you want to be?”
Someone had to be.
I was supposed to be the captain, the leader of the team.
The future of our franchise was my responsibility.
And instead of facing it head-on, I was creeping into the shadows with a media informant, dreading the moment she’d tell me what I already knew about my own team.
What sort of piss-poor leader was I?
No fucking wonder the guys couldn’t pull their heads out of their asses for ten goddamned minutes to run a drill or formulate a play.
I was never a man who pitied myself. Never let the world fuck me over without a fight.
If I didn’t have Clover, then the team was my only salvation. Someone had to save them from themselves.
“Yeah, I’ll go on record,” I said. “The rumors are all true.”
For a reporter getting the scoop of the season, Magnolia groaned in disappointment.
“Adrian, be careful. You have no idea how desperate my network is for something juicy like this.”
“Then run with it. Let them know the truth.”
I stared at the frosted blue which accented every rug on the floor, brick in the wall, and stripe on my uniform. I’d resented it, blaming the color, the team, for my misfortune.
Wasn’t like me.
Wasn’t how I fixed problems.
And it changed now.
“The Forge are disorganized, dysfunctional, and in desperate need of a leader to step up and unite these men,” I said. “Maybe this isn’t where we imagined ourselves, but this was the hand we were dealt. And there’s nothing better to build character than facing a challenging situation.”
“And you think the team is a challenge?”
“This can be anything we make of it. But until each man on this roster figures himself out, we won’t know the team’s destiny. But I’ll tell you this—I’ll be the one who leads the Forge from an expansion team full of league bad boys, rejects, and problem players, and turns us into a successful organization. And if it takes a fight, all the better. The ice isn’t a place for weak men.”
Magnolia gestured toward the iPad. “What about the video? We can wait until tomorrow for a statement on that.”
“I’ll do you one better. I’ll get you an apology.”
Her laugh was the warm cadence of the woman whose career didn’t allow her to giggle nearly enough. “Beau Beckett doesn’t seem the type of man to apologize for anything.”
“If he wants to be a part of my team, he will.”
And it was time each man in the locker room learned that they’d only stay a member of the Forge if they gave the franchise the respect it deserved.
I left Magnolia with her story and returned to the locker room, slamming the door against the wall as I entered.
The team silenced. Beau cracked a smile.
“Uh-oh,” he said. “Looks like the captain regrew his balls.”
I whipped off my helmet, casting it into my locker. The crash reverberated through the locker room, stunning Beau. I hauled him onto the bench by his collar.
“Rookie, for the first time in your life, you’re going to shut up and listen to every goddamned word I say.” I studied the locker room, earning stares from the stunned team. “That goes for all of you.”
The edge in my voice was enough to silence their conversations, but I didn’t want a cursory glance. I demanded their attention—spat each word as if I aimed it like a punch to their guts.
I shouted at Vasha, dancing with his hands holding his earbuds instead of the towel slipping over his ass.
“Turn down the fucking music.”
“I—”
“Now.”
I ignored his broken English before he could pretend like he didn’t understand me. Then I turned to the three knuckleheads on the bench. My stick clattered to the ground, startling Leo, Oz, and Thorn as they scanned their phones.
“You tweet a goddamned word of this, and I’ll shove the phone up your Twitter.” I smiled with teeth. “And trust me—it doesn’t feel good.”
The locker room quieted, and only the shuffling of pads and the dripping of the showers competed with my voice.
I didn’t need to yell.
Just needed to make sure they understood.
“They expect us to fail.”
A long silence followed my revelation.
Cash rested his towel over his shoulders. His locker had been decorated with a macaroni picture—some monstrosity crafted of pink glitter that shed everywhere and made the locker room look like it’d been blown by a twenty-dollar stripper. But it was a present from his daughter, so he proudly displayed it.
“Who expects us to fail?” Cash asked.
“Everyone,” I said. “The fans. The media. The rest of the league. And…the organization itself.”
Oz took great offense to this—if only because his narcissistic paranoia hadn’t allowed him to declare the obvious himself. He staggered off the bench.
“The hell you mean the organization?” Oz spoke through gritted teeth. “You mean the Forge expects us to fail?”
No one wanted to hear it. Even fewer would believe it.
“The Forge—the owner, the coaches, the management—created this team for one purpose.” I circled the room, ensuring everyone knew the truth. “Scandal.”
“You’re full of shit,” Leo said.
“Scandal sells tickets, earns ratings, and keeps us relevant. We might not win any games, but we’ll be the most entertaining team in the league…or the most hated.”
Cash wasn’t used to confronting an opponent he couldn’t beat to a pulp.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes.” They didn’t need to know of my conversation with the team’s owner. My word would suffice. The Captain’s word. “This franchise wasn’t created to be a team—they meant it to become a spectacle. And for every thrown punch, drunken night, easy woman, and on-ice fight, we gain more and more notoriety. It’s not about championships. It’s about rumors and outrage.”
Beau never thought before he spoke, not when he had the wit and luck to escape a bloodied nose. He slowly stood, tugging a t-shirt over his jeans instead of the required suit and tie.
No wonder the coaches never enforced the uniform rule. Looked worse for us when the superstar rookie refused to coordinate with his team.
“You’re telling me that the Forge is fucked up on purpose?” Beau asked.
“We drafted you, didn’t we?” And I wasn’t about to spare his feelings. “You—a hotshot rookie with severe attitude problems, getting in fights at a bar during last call.”