Page 14 of No Rhyme or Roughing
He didn’t respond to that, didn’t meet my gaze. I busied myself getting the kettle corn out in the silence that followed, desperate to return to moments ago when we were talking so easily. “That was a juicy one, Ry. And something you can’t tell anyone.”
He pursed his lips before bending forward to bury his head in his hands. It was a moment before he pulled them away and looked sideways at me. “The team is being sold.”
“Excuse me?” I couldn’t have heard him right.
“We’ve been losing money for years. If we can’t turn around the attendance, they want to sell and probably relocate to Portland or somewhere in Canada.”
“That’s why you aren’t playing tonight.”
“I’m the only one who knows.”
“Teddy?”
He sighed. “How am I supposed to tell any of them?”
I thought for a moment. They needed fans in the building. One of my first jobs had been working with baseball players who were influencers on social media.
Dancing.
It was the answer to everything.
“What if you didn’t have to?”
CHAPTER SIX
RYDER
Did a hockey team truly win if no one was there to see it?
Of course they did.
But did that win do anything to save them from a possible sale and relocation?
No.
My foot tapped along with a song I couldn’t get out of my head, the one Sydney and I had listened to on the way home to Alameda. That was only hours ago. Now, I sat in my navy pinstriped suit, my locker behind me. Around me, my team—who’d played the game without me—exchanged smiles, more relieved than truly happy.
Still, they’d played in front of a half-empty building, one that wouldn’t calm Mr.Mac’s investors. And I couldn’t bring myself to tell these guys what was at stake if we couldn’t get people through the doors. Paying fans. If we had any of those left.
I hadn’t been part of this team for as long as some others, but this wasn’t a fresh problem in the league. We weren’t the NHL. Some teams drew full crowds, fans coming to see their favorite NHL prospects.
Yet, we’d beaten the Charlotte Checkers—their roster full of first-round draft picks and A-list prospects. Kids, really. Faster than us, feistier than us, with more to fight for. Or so they thought. My teammates just didn’t know what there was to fight for yet.
Coach stood in the center of the room, his eyes roaming our faces, a rare grin lighting up his otherwise harsh features. “You played well tonight, boys, but don’t get ahead of yourselves. It’s only one game. We have a few days off now, so I don’t want to see a single one of you at the rink tomorrow. Rest. Recharge your legs. Prepare for Friday.” He looked at Coach Frankie, who nodded. “You’ll have to wait until after media availability to hit the showers. Keep your heads for any questions.”
And that was it. All his congratulations.
He headed for the door, and Frankie sent us all her trademark confident smile, as if she hoped it might instill that same confidence in us. Then, she opened the door for the media.
A single man walked in, his posture hunched and his face set in a severe grimace. Any media personnel with the right credentials could get to us after a game for quotes. Few ever came.
He hobbled toward me, aiming for the captain, asthey always did. Lifting his phone to record, he introduced himself. “Christopher Manning,HockeyMan Daily.”
I nodded, standing to tower over the man. “Pleasure.” The word was dry, tired, drawing chuckles from a few guys nearby. I cut them off with a glare. There was never a reason to be rude to the few people interested in the team.
After a few questions, the man left.
Rowan sidled up to me, phone in hand. “HockeyManis apparently a blog,” he said with a sigh. “The last article was from two months ago and has exactly one like.”
