Page 50 of At First Smile
I look up and meet the gray eyes of Madeline Jacobson, the most powerful female team owner in the NHL. In fact, she’s the only one. After her father, Cedric, passed suddenly from a heart attack last fall, she inherited the L.A. Bobcats. The thirty-five-year-old is best known for her stint as a Real Housewife and a high-profile divorce from the quarterback for L.A.’s second best football team.
Pulling up the hem of my shirt, I wipe off my face and then stand. “Ms. Jacobson. Sorry. I didn’t realize you were here.”
She arches a sculpted blonde eyebrow. “I do own the team.”
I rub the back of my neck.
“Also, my presence shouldn’t matter on you taking your bad mood out on the equipment. Although, I’d prefer you take your anger out on inanimate objects, not the faces of rival hockey players.”
Fuck. This is it.A knot pulls tight in my abdomen.
All communication about the trade threat funnels through Greg. He’s been the one dealing with management. Besides Coach Carlson’s growled, “What the actual fuck were you thinking?” before he turned and grumbled, “Get out of my sight,” as he walked out of the locker room, I’ve had no direct communication with anyone from the Bobcats.
“Why are you here, Iverson,” she asks, placing her hands on her hips.
Somehow the woman who’s eye level with my chest despite her pink stilettos towers over me. With a flick of her tiny wrist, she can decide my fate like tossing away a nonexistent piece of lint off her tailored white suit.
Forehead creased, I sigh. “I’m working out.”
“It’s the off-season.”
“I like to stay ready.”
“Glad you’ll be in peak performance to sit out for the first five games.” Her tone is curt, but expression placid, the two at odds with each other.
I clear my throat. “I want to be ready for when I’m back on the ice.”
“And what’s the plan when you can play?”
“Win.”
With her mouth in a firm line, she nods. “We have the same plan. I’d prefer we didn’t have a repeat of this season.”
That knot in my stomach coils tighter as if someone pulls the end of a string. Though isn’t that what’s happening? My contract isn’t up for another season. She’s the puppet master who decides if I play and where.
“I—”
She holds up her hand, stopping my words. “I don’t want to lose again. Last season was the closest we’ve come to the Stanley Cup in this team’s fifty-year history.”
“I’d like to get us that cup.” My words are slow and deliberate.
Hoisting the Stanley Cup in the air is every player, coach, and owner’s dream. In my decade-long career in the NHL spanning five teams, this season is as close as I’d come.
“What do you regret more…the loss or punching Landon?” Her assessing stare locks with mine.
“Losing.” I don’t even think. I just speak. The smart answer for a man hoping to keep their seat on this bench is to spout remorse for his actions, but I am not a smart man.
“Do you have any regrets about punching Landon?” She taps the pointy tip of her shoe.
I stand just a little straighter. “I regret letting down my teammates, my coach, and the fans. I regret embarrassing you.”
“But you don’t regret punching him.”
“I don’t.” I can almost hear Greg’s groan to be smart, to lie. I may hold back, but I never lie.
“Did you punch him out of spite for his scoring the winning goal?”
“No.” A furrow puckers my brow.
