I’m done with memorial services and grief.
I just want to get back to my life in Phoenix.
I had positioned myself near the back row in case I wanted to leave early. In safe places where I’m familiar with the terrain, I can walk without my forearm crutches. But I have them now, not only to navigate around the arena and masses of people but because my legs have been weak with grief and shock since the crash.
I quietly move away from the seated mourners to an exit that will lead me to an elevator, which will whisk me to the main level where I’ll call an Uber. My flight back isn’t for another six hours but sitting in the airport’s club lounge is far preferable to this. I made my appearance. I grieved with everyone else.
And now I’m done.
“Mr. Oulett,” someone says before I reach the exit.
I stop, glance over my shoulder, and see a man in a dark suit striding toward me. I turn to face him.
“Mr. Oulett,” he says again when he reaches me, keeping his voice low. “I see you’re getting ready to leave, but Ms. Norcross was wondering if you would have time to talk to her. I know she was going to approach you as soon as the service concluded.”
My eyes about bug out of my head. There’s only one Ms. Norcross he can be talking about, and that’s Brienne Norcross, the co-owner of the Pittsburgh Titans. She was not on that plane, but her brother Adam—the other co-owner—was.
I have no clue how she’d even know who I was much less why she’d want to talk to me. It’s well known across the league that while she owned fifty percent of the Titans hockey team, it was her brother who handled everything. She was more of an heiress owner than a hands-on type, although I imagine right now, she’s got no choice but to take over.
On the flip side, what in the fuck is left to manage? The entire team is dead.
“I’m not sticking around for the end,” I say to the man, presumably one of Ms. Norcross’s assistants.
“I understand, sir,” he says with a slight bow. “I can escort you to the owner’s box and you can wait there. I believe the service should be done in about fifteen minutes.”
I really want to leave, but it would be rude to do so when I’ve been specifically requested for a talk with the now-singular owner of a dead team. So I nod and follow the man as he leads me to the owner’s box.
♦
Brienne Norcross is a beautiful woman, but I don’t know much about her other than she inherited ownership with her brother, Adam, when their father passed away two years ago. I don’t know her age, but I’d guess early thirties. She’s dressed appropriately in black, her pale-blond hair pulled back into a tight knot at the nape that accentuates every curve and angle of her face. Her eyes are a deep blue, but they’re rimmed red from tears, and dark circles indicate she hasn’t been sleeping.
Can’t blame her.
“Mr. Oulett,” she says as she strides into the owner’s box, the assistant who brought me up here on her heels. He hangs by the door. “I’m Brienne Norcross.”
She holds out her hand, and I take it, having ditched my crutches in favor of leaning an elbow on a tall table. “Ms. Norcross, I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”
“Please call me Brienne,” she says, and then politely asks, “May I call you Baden?”
“Sure,” I reply.
Our hands release, and she steps to the other side of the table, leaning her forearms on it and clasping her hands so she can face me.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, needing to get those condolences out. I have no clue what her relationship was with her brother, but by the tears swimming in her eyes, I’m assuming they were close.
She nods, faintly smiling. “Thank you. It’s still sinking in. I understand you were quite close to Wes Hollyfield.”
I’m shocked she knows such a personal tidbit about me, and it must show on my face.
“Forgive me,” she says softly. “I talked to Dominik Carlson yesterday about you, and he told me about your friendship with Wes. That’s how I knew you’d be here.”
Now I’m really fucking confused, and given the toll the last week has taken, I’m not in a good mood about it. “You talked to Dominik about me? Why?”
“I’ll need to rebuild the team, of course. And—”
I snort, hard and loud. It’s rude, and I’m unapologetic. “In case you haven’t noticed, my legs don’t work quite right. I get you need a new team, but I’m sure not your best choice for a goalie.”
Brienne’s cheeks flush pink, and she apologizes. “I’m sorry. I’m not very good at what it takes to run a professional hockey team. Yes, I understand fully about your medical situation, but I’m not looking for a new goalie.”
“Then what are you looking for?” I ask tentatively.
“A new goalie coach.” Her eyes bore into mine, and there’s no apology now. “While Dominik would not give me any information on your current medical status, I’ve read a news summary of your condition. I have no clue whether you can return to play, but I wanted to offer you an alternative.”
“An alternative?”
“As the goalie coach for our team,” she adds, because I can see she’s unsure if I understand the offer.
“I’m not a coach,” I say, the denial of my potential immediate.
“You’re not a player either,” she replies coolly, and I wince. That was harsh, but accurate.
“Why me?” I ask, needing to know if I’m a charity case, needing to know if she’s making stabs in the dark, maybe not even truly caring about this team.
“Actually, my brother Adam had his eye on you.” The mention of his name causes a tiny sound to warble in her throat. She looks down at her hands until she regains her composure. When she looks back up, her eyes are watery but determined. “He was going to reach out to you to see if you wanted an assistant goalie coach position. Our current coach—I mean, our coach who was on the plane—was going to retire at the end of this season. Adam was considering bringing you on as an assistant to groom you to take over next season.”
“Oh.” My gaze cuts left to look out of the owner’s box. We’re too far back from the railing to view the entire arena floor, but I can see it’s mostly emptied out.
“I know this is a lot to process, especially after losing your friend. My goal is to rebuild the team as quickly as possible, and I’m going to need an answer soon. I have a written offer for you—”
“Rebuild?” I exclaim, interrupting what sounded like a very rehearsed speech. “How in the hell can you rebuild an entire team?”
I’m angry at the notion that they could be replaced so easily.
Or rather, that Wes could be replaced so easily.
“We’ve called up most from the minors,” she says flatly. “Others out of retirement.”
“The plane crashed a week ago,” I snap. “Maybe give people time to adjust.”
Her eyes flash with fury. “My brother died on that plane, and while I envy your luxury of taking your grief at a measured pace, I not only have a brother to mourn but I have an organization to run. I have hundreds of people relying on jobs, and this company has bills to pay. I have to get a team on the ice, or this entire organization will be dead forever.”