Page 70 of The Rebound Plan

“Yeah.” He doesn’t even bother to look sorry for that accurate jab.

“I’m not going to say anything to him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s not just him. Just…forget the whole conversation.”

“Done. And about the rest of it?—”

“What about it?”

All right. I’ve tried. He doesn’t want to talk about it. “It’s buried.”

“Good.” He cranks up his music and we don’t talk again until we get to the golf course.

We divide up into a couple groups, and Max puts himself in a group that isn’t with me. Fine. Great, even. I don’t want to spend a second more with him than I have to, and I have to spend a lot of seconds with him already.

I’m with Calhoun, Zondi and Dodaj, and they’re all buzzing after a good night out, and a good weekend with their teammates.

They’re all so fucking young. So eager and full of hope for the season ahead.

I don’t have a lot to say, so I keep my head down and focus on my swing. I have a couple of sweet birdies, and a beauty of an eagle on the eighth hole, so when we get back to the clubhouse, I’m the clear leader on our card—and when the others join us, it turns out I’ve beaten the whole crew today.

Max ispissed, and he takes it out on Mason and Hale. “This is what happens when you don’t fucking understand the mission.”

“To beat Armstrong on a course he’s played five times in the last week?” Mason doesn’t back down, which is both fucking brave and really fucking stupid for a rookie to snap back at his captain.

On the other hand, it’s not like Mason’s actually making the team as a 20-year-old D-man, and maybe by the time he does mature into the NHL, Max will be off in Ice League stardom.

Or he might be the punchline to a joke about Icarus flying too close to the sun.

I choke on an unexpected laugh, drawing confused looks from my teammates. “Nothing,” I say, smothering my face in my hands. “Fucking nothing.”

“Let’s go. I don’t want to get stuck in traffic heading home,” Max growls.

“Glad we’re driving back in separate vehicles,” Haler mutters to me as we head back to the parking lot. “What’s his malfunction?”

I shrug. “He doesn’t like to lose.”

Maybe that’s why he’s more pissed about me overhearing the fight about the Ice League more than the fact I made his wife come on my face. It doesn’t even occur to him that he could lose Shannon. She told him she wanted a divorce and he just kissed that out of her.

His career, though…

There is a certain confidence that carries men like Max deep into their career never having to grapple with what I have known since I was twelve years old: there is always someone to step into your skates, to take over your stall, who is a better, faster, smarter hockey player than you.

Even number one draft picks don’t always turn into generational talent.

Maybe Max Tilman hasn’t gotten over the fact that New York exposed him in the expansion draft, rejecting him as the generational talent he thought he was going to be for them.

I wasn’t looking forward to being trapped in the car with him again for the drive back, but with this new thought in my head, I hop into the passenger seat.

Regardless of what personal issues we might have, understanding my captain better can only be good for the year ahead.

But where he wanted to talk about business—and how his is none of mine—on the drive to the golf course, on this return trip, he’s moved on to stewing about what should have been his top priority: how fucking good I made his wife feel last night.

“We’re going to head out as soon as I get back,” he says.

“For sure.”

“Last night won’t happen again.”

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