Since I was a kid, making it into the World Hockey League was the ultimate goal. No relationship could match my first love, and after my rough childhood, I wasn't putting my heart on the line.
When Bellerive makes a successful bid to move the Califo...
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After practice, I'm exiting the building, headed toward the car waiting for me when I hear someone call my name behind me. My steps stutter, and I consider ignoring the male voice. It's not familiar to me, and I'm not in the mood for fan shit.
"I'm part of the Advisory Council," the man calls out, and while I can't remember exactly what the means, I think it's some government job.
I'm already at my car, the driver waiting patiently, and I open the back door, pausing for the dark-haired man to catch up. He's shorter than me and lean. Looks like a typical politician. Smooth in all the ways I'd never want to be.
I lean into the car to speak to the driver. "I'll be a sec."
At some point, I'll drive myself, but for now, I'm taking full advantage of the free transportation. The road system here is fucking confusing, even when I try to follow with GPS on my phone.
"Advisory Council?" I ask, drawing my head out of the car to face him.
"Government. We govern the country along with King Alexander. Played a big part in getting the team here at all."
That's probably the least impressive thing he could have said when I think forcing the team here is a dunce move.
"Dalton Worthington." He holds out his hand, breathing heavy.
I take his hand and give it a firm shake. Politics bore me, but given how small the island is, I already know this guy's opinion matters more than I'd want.
"Logan Bishop," I say.
"The hotshot player at the center of this franchise, of course I know you."
"What can I do for you?" I ask.
"Just wanted to introduce myself." He gives me a practiced politician grin, and I'm already wary. "It's good to have friends in high places."
I'm not sure if he's implying that my friendship matters to him, or that his friendship should matter to me. Not that I care. I can count my genuine friends on two fingers, and I sure as shit am not adding a third one, especially not a politician.
"Your physiotherapist is Sawyer Tucker, right?" he asks.
"Trainer, yeah." There's something about his question that rubs me the wrong way, so I don't tell him that she might not have the job for long.
"Jonathan Tucker and I don't share the same vision for the team, and there are several people on the Advisory Council who share my perspective."
"Meaning?"
"I've heard you'd rather be playing elsewhere."
I don't admit it, but I don't see the point in denying it either. I'm a big fish under their team salary cap, and my worth always draws opinions. Besides, before we were transferred from California to here, I didn't exactly hide my disgust at the league for agreeing to the location.
"I'm here now," I say, letting him interpret what that could mean. Hell, I'm not even sure.
"Thought I'd offer you a glimmer of hope." He smiles again, and I almost grimace at how charming he's trying to be. "The Michigan Moose have expressed interest in you."
It's the one team I'd give my left and right nut to be part of. Back playing with Chayton would be a fucking dream.
"Interest isn't a contract, and it's very fucking far from a deal," I say, feigning boredom. He's obviously done his research, and he's aware of the carrot he's dangled. But if there's one thing I've gotten really good at through all my media training, it's safeguarding my true feelings about anything.
Big deals like mine are complicated—for the team I'm leaving and the one I'd be joining. It's part of the reason I wasn't able to jump ship before we got to this island.
The Bellerive Bullets would have to agree to trade me, and the deal would have to be extra sweet for them to take a bite. I'm the franchise player. Every draft prospect has been built around me since I joined the organization at eighteen, and the only reason my team would trade me is if I stopped performing.
The risks around underperforming are no joke, and I haven't quite decided whether I've got that in me or not. To play like shit on purpose goes against every fiber of my being. It risks my salary at the next team, the endorsement deals I already have in place, but it has crossed my mind—too many times. I'm young enough that I could recover from one bad season.
"A mutual back scratch?" Dalton suggests, eyebrows raised.
"Sounds a bit too intimate to me," I say. "Guess we'll see how the season plays out." At this stage, making deals I'm not sure I can follow through on isn't wise. I have to get on the ice and feel it out—this place, my team in this place, my role on the team. Maybe I won't have to fake anything at all. When I can't get out of my head, I play like garbage, anyway.
"Consider this your warning then," Dalton says, the smile slipping, "that the end of this season might not be exactly what you expect."
"I'm just here to do my job," I say with a shrug. "I leave all the hockey politics to other people. As long as I'm on the ice, I'm happy. I don't fucking care where that is."
That's not exactly true, but it's as close to true as he'll get. The teammates I've played with, the coach I've had, the place I'm playing, have all mattered at various points in my short career.
He thinks he knows me based on whatever research he's done, whatever people he's spoken to, but at my core, it is hockey that I love—which isn't a place or a teammate or a coach. I could love this place as much as anywhere else as long as the hockey is good.
It annoys me that this glossy politician in front of me is the first to make the words I've heard from others land with some oomph.
Sure. Fine. Whatever, universe! If the hockey is good, I'll be happy enough in Bellerive.
I just wish I was sure the hockey would ever get where I need it to be with these people in charge. Especially if the ones making those decisions are bickering in the background. Fucking ridiculous. I barely hold back an eye roll. Amateur hour here.
"Must be nice to live such a simple existence," he says, an easy grin back on his face now that he thinks we're on the same side—whatever side that is.
"I suppose you wouldn't know what it's like to be the best in the world at your profession. Must be nice to be so ignorant." Then I climb into the car and shut the door, not even bothering to spare him a glance as we zoom away.
It's just like me, in a fit of annoyance, to burn a bridge I might need to walk across.
But if he's right and upper management is already fighting over the direction of the team, who the fuck knows which one of them I'd rather have in my corner? The unease in my gut tells me it's not Dalton Worthington.
Happy holidays to anyone celebrating! I'll see you back here on New Year's Eve. ♥
