Page 3 of Ice Ice Maybe
I swallowed hard, a realization dawning on me. “Is my job on the line if I don’t accept this proposition?”
“It’s not a proposition.” Mr. Dalton leaned forward, staring straight into my soul. “I’m asking you to do me this simple favor.”
My thoughts shot back to his phone conversation and what he had told the person on the other end of the call.
If the imbecile can’t do me a simple favor, he doesn’t belong in this organization. Get rid of him.
What started as a casual request for help, complete with Brando-like cigar puffing, quickly became an ultimatum I dared not decline. The chance of finding another job driving the Zamboni in the NHL was slim to none, considering the small number of pro hockey teams in North America. I enjoyed my job, as simple as it was. It kept me close to the sport I loved. The sport that was still in my veins, even though there would never be a chance for me to play competitively again. I would do just about anything for the team, but this seemed over the top and way out of my comfort zone. But it didn’t appear that I had any options other than to play along with Mr. Dalton’s charade.
“Just so we’re on the same page, how long do you expect me to do this?” I asked, even though I suspected I would not like the answer.
“Right until the day we win the Stanley Cup, of course,” Mr. Dalton said without hesitation. “After that, you both officially break up and go your separate ways. No hanky-panky. No funny games. No exceptions.”
That meant the last six weeks of the regular season, plus possibly an additional two months for the playoffs, assuming we were going to win every round. Three and half months of my life dedicated to a sham I wanted no part of.
“Can I count on you, Nolan?” Mr. Dalton asked, his shark-eyed stare on mine.
I nodded numbly, still in shock, feeling like there was a gun pointed at my head. “Yes, sir. You can count on me.”
He stood and reached across the desk to shake my hand. “Thank you. I appreciate this more than you know. Now, down to business: Zena is expecting you at Lucha Libre Taco Shop in one hour. Don’t be late.”
I nearly fell out of my chair.
Lucha Libre Taco Shop was one of my favorite lunch spots. There was no way that was a coincidence, since there were hundreds of taquerias in San Diego.
I checked my watch. “In one hour? Why the rush?”
“We have zero time to lose,” Mr. Dalton said. “Mitch Redding arrives from Tampa late tonight and will have his first meeting and practice with the team tomorrow morning. His first game with us will be in two days, against the San Jose Sharks. You and Zena need to appear as a couple before he arrives. When Mitch sees you two together, it will light a fire under him. Guaranteed. All you need to do is play the part.” He grabbed his ringing cell phone from the desk. “I have to take this call. Keep me updated.”
As I stumbled out of Mr. Dalton’s office, I made a beeline for the marketing department on the tenth floor to visit my buddy, Tyson. We’d been close friends since that wedding I’d attended a little over seven years ago—the same night I’d met my future ex-wife and Tyson had inadvertently changed the course of my life by finding me the perfect job.
The elevator dinged, and I walked to his office, my thoughts scattered like loose pucks on the ice. There he was, drowning in team merchandise, his workspace looking more like a Sea Lions souvenir shop than an office. Tyson’s desk was a shrine to team spirit, with bobbleheads nodding in silent agreement next to a mountain of branded hockey pucks and trading cards. Behind him, stacked boxes of Sea Lions water bottles, hats, and T-shirts lined the walls, as if he were stockpiling for an impending merchandise apocalypse. Colorful Sea Lions banners and posters covered every inch of the walls. A large cork board was plastered with fan photos, ticket stubs, and concept sketches for future giveaways.
Despite the chaotic clutter that left barely enough room to move, Tyson’s office always felt like my personal sanctuary—a place where the uncertainty of the outside world faded away,replaced by the comforting embrace of the hockey world and a good friend.
“Ty,” I said, collapsing into the chair beside him and letting out a melodramatic sigh. “You will not believe what just happened.”
Tyson’s eyebrows shot up as he studied me. “Someone died?”
I took a deep breath, explained what I was about to tell him was confidential, then spilled the whole sordid tale of Mr. Dalton’s plan. With each detail, Tyson’s eyes grew wider, until I half-expected them to pop out of his head and join the bobbleheads on his desk in their perpetual nodding.
When I finished telling the story, Tyson let out a low whistle. “I’d say congratulations, but I’m not sure if I should plan your bachelor party or your funeral. Mitch Redding isn’t exactly known for having a warm and fuzzy side.”
I glared at him. “Not. Helping.”
Tyson held up his hands in surrender, nearly knocking over a miniature plastic Stanley Cup. “Relax. Everything will work out fine. Probably. Maybe.”
I sighed, my frustration evident. “This feels completely wrong. I can’t understand why Zena Dalton would agree to something so bizarre. It doesn’t add up.”
Tyson leaned in, lowering his voice. “What if there’s more going on here? I’ve heard rumors that Mr. Dalton might be ill. Maybe he’s hoping to see the team win one last championship before, well,you know. And obviously, his daughter would do anything for daddy. Look at it this way, it’s your chance to make a dying man’s wish come true, plus help a damsel in distress.”
“I’d hate to think that he’s gravely ill, but this is all just speculation,” I said. “And a billionaire heiress is not a damsel in distress. A woman like that does not need rescuing.”
“Okay, fair point,” Tyson conceded. “Maybe she’s not helpless, but is just looking for assistance in a difficult situation.What if Mr. Dalton has some leverage over her? Maybe he’s using it to make her go along with this plan.”
I shook my head, still unconvinced. “Now, this is sounding like a soap opera. Honestly, I don’t know what to think, but I do know it’s insane.”
“The only thing insane is how gorgeous Zena is,” he said. “She could never play hockey because the ice would melt all around her.”
