This cannot be happening.
Fate wouldn’t drop such a massive turd on me like this, not when things have been going so well. As far as I can remember, I haven’t done anything that would draw the ire of Karma to make her demand retribution like this. Although, speaking to the man who is, for all intents and purposes, my boss like that probably hasn’t put me on the top of anyone’s “nice” list.
It was kind of bitchy.
Borderline cunty, if I’m being honest.
But I couldn’t help it.
I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve way, and even though I should be acting more deferential and professional right now, this is absolute insanity that calls for something less appropriate.
The man must have totally lost his marbles to be considering this. I would wonder if maybe dementia hit, but Bob seems very clear of mind. At least, he certainly seems to be reacting to my snarled response appropriately—with a giant frown and deeply furrowed brow.
He sighs, a deep, labored sound, and leans forward in his chair to rest his forearms on his desk between us. “Look, Greer, I understand your position, but—”
“But nothing.” I cut him off without even caring how rude it is anymore. I don’t have the patience for placations from a man who made me certain promises to get me here. “When you hired me as head coach, you told me I would have control of my team. Full control. And I'm telling you right now, I don't want a dirty player like Bash Fury wearing a Scorpions’ jersey or taking the ice under my watch.”
Bob offers me a look that could either be condescending or sympathetic—maybe both. Soft, droopy lids hang low over pale-blue eyes surrounded by wrinkles that show his age. He may not be quite up in the years where we need to worry about his mental faculties, but Bob Harmon has been around the block a few times.
More than a few.
He’s smart. He was a great coach, and now he’s an amazing GM. One of the best, even though this is only his first year. But he’s also under a lot of pressure to make the Scorpions successful in their inaugural season. It practically crushes me, so I can only imagine what that feels like bearing down on his shoulders.
He holds up his hands. “I understand your position, but it's a done deal. Sebastian Fury’s suspension is up today, and the trade is complete. He will be here by practice tomorrow. And he'll be your new starting winger.”
Son of a bitch.
That wasn’t a request. That was a statement of fact.
A done deal.
He went ahead and took Bash without my knowledge. No amount of arguing about what I want can change Bob’s mind now. But maybe, just maybe, I can appeal to his desire for success for this team instead of my personal feelings. Maybe there’s a chance we can get rid of Bash before the trade deadline in a few days.
“What happened to my controlling my own team?”
Complete control is the only way we’ll continue winning. I can’t have players who go off at the drop of a glove and spend more time in the penalty box or suspended than on the ice. We’ll spend half the game killing off his penalties, and Marty and I will constantly be rearranging the lines while he’s serving his time on suspension.
The man who has helped me bring this team this far rises to his feet behind his desk and slowly lumbers around to sit on the edge in front of me. “On the ice, you make the calls, but as GM, I'm the one who makes the big decisions for the team. That's the way it is for every NHL team in the league. You just need to make it work with Mr. Fury.”
Make it work? What a fucking joke.
Bob is setting the team up for failure by bringing on a guy like Bash Fury. He may be one of the best wingers in the league, but he’s also the biggest liability we could have on the Scorpions right now.
An expansion team in a position to make the playoffs in its first year.
Unheard of.
One coached by a woman.
That sure as hell has never happened before since I'm the first in the league.
We’re making history on two fronts.
Which means all eyes are on me.
Everyone's waiting for me to fail so they can point the finger and say, “See, women shouldn't be coaching men in this sport.”
There’s no doubt I'm a test case, and Bob put a lot of faith in me by bringing me on. He took a massive risk. There were any number of male coaches, coaches with more experience in the NHL, who would have leaped at the chance to coach this expansion team in Vegas. But he came to me. He sought me out for this position and talked me up to the media. He lifted me up to head coach after only a year as an NHL assistant coach.
It never would have happened if we hadn’t already worked together so much. He knows me better than just about anyone.
After three Olympics coaching me, then bringing me on to help coach the men in Pyeongchang during the last games, we’ve worked together so much, Bob is basically a father figure to me. That makes times like this frustrating because I don’t want to insult the man who has almost singlehandedly brought me to where I am today.
But he doesn’t seem to see the big problem here.
I've already stuck it to the naysayers and demonstrated I know what the hell I'm doing. We're sitting at number three in the division, with only two months left until the playoffs.
We’re in shape to do something unheard of—make it to the Stanley Cup Playoffs in our inaugural season—which is precisely why today’s news has me so rattled.
We’re a well-oiled machine. We’ve worked out all the kinks that happen when a team is cobbled together from leftover players no one wanted to protect, many of whom have never played together before. We’re plowing through our opponents left and right. And now, a giant wrench like Bash Fury is being thrown into the mix.
I sigh and scrub my hands over my face, not even caring if I smear the remnants of my eye makeup and end up looking like a crack-whore raccoon. I’m not trying to impress anyone here. “And what about when he starts up with his usual crap, Bob? The penalties. The suspensions.” I raise an eyebrow. “What then?”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “Then we deal with it. Bash knows the Scorpions are taking a big risk picking him up after he just had his third suspension this season. My hope is that he'll calm down a little bit, but to be honest, part of the reason I brought him on is how passionately he plays the game.”
I snort-laugh. “Passionately? What he does isn’t passion. The man is out of control. He's going to hurt somebody really badly one of these days.”
And people seeing I have no control over him will only hurt me. It will be the proof the haters need to say I don’t belong, that the guys don’t respect me to captain this ship.
Bob shifts to his feet. “We can only hope that doesn't happen.”
Hope. I'm resting the remainder of my fucking season on hope?
I blow out an annoyed breath and stand.
He reaches out and places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Try not to worry so much, Greer. From what I hear, he's not all that bad of a guy actually.”
Yeah, right. Not that bad of a guy.
That's what everyone said about Shawn, and he ended up cheating on me with a cocktail waitress while I was away in Pyeongchang for the Olympics.
Sebastian Fury is nothing but a problem to be solved.
And I know how to handle him.