Rush: The Season (Austin Arrows Book 1)(11)
“Tell him to keep those grades up.” I offer a quick smile. “And hang tight a minute, I’ll send someone out with some stuff for him. Cool?”
“You really don’t have to do that.” Her eyes widen behind the thick, dark rim of her glasses. “But thank you so much.”
“Sure thing.” I hand back the stick and the marker.
As I move past the other loyal fans who have gathered outside to get a glimpse—and possibly an autograph—of their favorite Austin Arrows player, then into the building and down the narrow hall to the locker room, I mentally prepare myself for…
“Rush! Conference room! Now! Everyone else, you’ve got thirty seconds!”
That.
“Fuck,” I mutter, dropping my bag on the floor with a resounding thud. I glance around, looking for someone who can take care of the woman outside. When the young kid who helps out with gear saunters by, I grab him by the back of his shirt.
“Hey, Dixon. Do me a favor.”
The kid spins around with a huge grin on his face. “Sure, what’s up, Rush?”
“There’s a woman outside. Dark hair, ponytail, glasses. Her son’s name is Carson. Take her some stuff. Her kid’s birthday is tomorrow.”
“Like what?”
I shrug. “I don’t give a shit. Get some autographed stuff. Pictures, pucks, whatever.”
“Autographed by who?”
I cock an eyebrow as I watch the kid, trying to figure out if he’s serious. Surely not. Except, he doesn’t move, which leads me to believe he is. Christ.
“By me.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Lord help us all.
As the guys all pile into the hallway and head toward the conference room, I grumble good mornings as we bump one another. Not exactly the way I was hoping the morning would start, but these days, I don’t have much of a say in anything.
However, a little ice time before we have our asses handed to us would’ve been nice.
Well, that or breakfast.
I take a deep breath as I step into the conference room, mentally preparing myself for what’s coming. Although the room is relatively big, stuffing twenty-three hockey players into it reduces the size drastically. It’s like trying to stuff twenty-three queen-sized beds into a closet.
Just as I expect, Coach is at the front of the room, chatting it up with a smoking-hot redhead wearing a too-long skirt and impressive heels. Coach Darren Moen—we simply call him Coach—has been the absolute best thing that has happened to this team. No doubt, the Austin Arrows have been mediocre for quite some time. The big guys have made a few coaching changes over the years, pulled talent from the AHL and ECHL to strengthen our lines, but often, we just couldn’t get there. Then he came along and changed history.
It was only about six or so years ago before we became anything to write home about. But I honestly believe we won the cup because of the brilliance of our owner and our head coach. Unfortunately, Coach also gets the credit for the absolute clusterf*ck of a season for the past two years. But that’s the way it works; you take the bad with the good.
Beside Red is a ginormous black guy sporting a suit—the infamous Mark Coleman—which, if I do the math correctly, means the ginger must be Amber North, the bane of Spencer’s existence. I’m thinking this season is going to get rather interesting because of that alone.
I give Coleman a cursory glance. As usual, he looks more like a celebrity than a guy who spends his time with hockey players, but who am I to judge? He’s a nice guy, but I know there’s only one reason he’s here. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that before this is over, my day is going to go from bad to worse.
Figuring it’s too early to give in to the trepidation curling around my spine, I opt to take a seat in the back, farthest away from the circus show gearing up at the front. The team is already riled up, and it has everything to do with the public relations duo, who are both currently scanning us one by one. The chick might be hot, but I suspect she’s working on a way to have every one of our balls in a vice.
And definitely mine.
I can honestly tell you, I’m damn sure not looking forward to that, even though I’ve been anticipating this for a while now. What has my nuts shriveled even more is the sight of the almighty Phoenix Pierce—the owner/general manager of the Austin Arrows—talking to Spencer not far away from Red. Beside Phoenix is another guy in a suit. A guy who looks a hell of a lot like a lawyer.
Shit.
For some reason, I got the impression from Spencer that Coach was going to be the one delivering the message today. Apparently, I was wrong.
I try not to stare at them, instead, scan the rest of the room, attempting to take it all in and pretend I’m not sizing everyone up, which I am. Aside from a shit ton of testosterone, there is a long, narrow table on one side, a small table with what appears to be coffee near the door, and too many fluorescent lights shining down from up above. Other than that, an abundance of chairs and a bunch of bodies that’ll be filling them any second now.
“What’s up, Rush?” Colton Seguine, a.k.a. Seg, asks with a fist bump.
I don’t answer; it’s not necessary. It’s a guy thing. The return bump is the answer to whatever the question might’ve been.
Along with the players, it seems the coaching staff and the equipment team have made an appearance, as well. They’re all huddled in a corner, probably trying to ensure they’re out of range of any stray verbal bullets. The only people missing from this soiree are the other bigwigs, but I figure Phoenix’s appearance is enough. After all, he is the alpha of the pack.