Page 43 of Playing the Pucking Game
Mitchell’s eyes drill into me. He’s silent for a second before conceding.
“I’ll pull him in after practice and see what’s happening.”
“No need. Storm is on Parker's list now.”
What?
“What?” Mitchell balks. “He’s one of our most vital players. He needs more than?—”
“Careful,” Jarad warns. “It might be Parker’s first day, but she is just as qualified and capable of doing this job as we are. It doesn’t matter which players are on whose list. All will receive the same high level of treatment they deserve.
“I emailed lists earlier. Most of yours are the same as previously, but I’ve made a few adjustments.” Jarad’s tone is firm, not leaving any space for argument.
Mitchell nods, aware that he hasn’t got a leg to stand on.
I, however, stand there internally freaking out that my life currently seems to contain a hell of a lot more of Lincoln Storm than I’d like.
At home—his home. In the trainers’ room.
My fingers twitch as I think about working on his body. Getting up close and personal.
I can’t. It’s got disaster written all over it.
My lips part to say something that might get Storm moved back to Mitchell. But then, my eyes find his angry ones a beat before Linc shoots around behind him, clearly struggling with a lingering injury, and I realize that I can’t.
Mitchell is the reason Linc is in pain and not playing at his best. I can’t allow that to continue.
Jarad continues discussing each player with us, taking notes before he instructs us to attend a meeting after we’ve met with our athletes after practice.
He leaves us standing by the boards to watch the rest of practice, and the second he’s out of sight, I swear the tension ramps up.
It isn’t the good kind.
It takes long, painful seconds, but eventually Mitchell speaks.
“Storm is at the top of his game right now.”
“He’s playing well,” I agree, because he is. But he can be better.
I know Linc better than any other guy out there, and I know exactly what he’s capable of. Right now, he’s not at his peak. He’s still really fucking good, sure. But he’s been better.
“You’re—shit,” he hisses, cutting himself off as one of our third-line defensemen trips over his partner and hits the ice hard.
Mitchell takes off to help.
I don’t know which trainer’s list the guy is on. I leave Mitchell to deal with it as I open the email app on my iPad.
My heart pounds harder the second my eyes land on Jarad’s name.
I already know that I’m going to find Lincoln Storm as one of my athletes. But who else am I going to get the pleasure of working on?
“Parker Donnelly, we meet again,”Linc taunts as he saunters into the trainers’ room almost two hours later, his hair still wet from the shower and cheeks flushed from exertion.
We’re not alone. Mitchell is already working with one of his players, and we have a few others stretching on the mats, but the second Linc moves closer, his eyes locked on mine, it may as well be just the two of us in here.
“I can’t seem to escape you,” I mutter.
“And why would you?” he asks, holding his arms out wide. “You might try to hide it, but deep down, we both know that I’m your favorite person.”
