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I try to swallow, but there’s barely any saliva left in my mouth, and the churning of my stomach has me wishing I hadn’t devoured that entire sticky bun the size of my head at Serendipity’s Coffee Shop with Tessa, Autumn, and Isla an hour ago at lunch.
Those delicious carbs won’t taste nearly as good coming back up if I end up puking from the less-than-appetizing news.
How could my father do this to me?
He’s the one who banished Slade all those years ago for ruining my chances to skate for my country, and now he’s bringing him back? Why not just release him back into the NHL and let another team pick him up if he thought that Slade had served his time? But bringing him here?
To my city.
To my team.
To my apartment building.
Phil exhales, “I’m glad to hear it, and that’s what I expect. This is our year, Sam; I want to see the Stanley Cup hoisted over our team's head this year and sitting in the glass display case in the stadium lobby.”
“Then Slade is our best chance,” my father says.
I see Phil's head nod.
I stand up out of my chair and stare back at Phil as he walks out of my father’s office. I’m sure I look entirely dumbfounded, but Phil smiles back at me.
“Have a good day, Penelope,” he says with a smile, walking towards the reception area's door.
“You too, sir,” I say, though I trip over the words.
This new information has me completely rattled, and now I can barely speak.
All I can think about right now is rushing to my father’s door and demanding an answer. I know as the administrative assistant to the GM; I don’t deserve a reason for his decision. But as the daughter of the coach, whose protégé ruined my Olympic dreams, I think he owes me an explanation.
I watch until the door closes behind Phil, and then I shoot a look to see my father standing in the doorway, also watching Phil leave.
He doesn’t look happy or upset about the decision they settled on. He has on his usual stoic expression.
The look of a man who leads an entire franchise and puts out fires every single day with calm, methodical decisions.
Not much rattles my father… until it comes to me or someone threatening the Hawkeyes. But to me, Slade Matthews does both.
That’s why this doesn’t make sense.
The second I take my first heated step away from my desk, my father’s attention snaps to me.
He turns to head back into his office but if he thinks he and I aren’t going to have a conversation about this decision to bring Matthews into the franchise, he’s dead wrong.
“Dad…”
“Penelope,” I hear him say, the sound of his chair already groaning to his weight. The man moves fast; I’ll give him that. “… now isn’t the time.”
I walk past the wide-open mahogany door of his office to find him right where I thought he would be—sitting in his black leather chair and pretending to be engrossed in something on his computer screen that sits to the right of his desk.
As a GM, my dad’s day is mainly filled with player and vendor contract renewals, being cc’d on Legal’s emails back and forth, ticket sales figures, and general revenues of how much the stadium brings in. So, I know that there can’t be anything more interesting on his computer screen than what he and I have to discuss.
He’s trying to avoid this conversation, but it will happen whether he likes it or not. Lucky for me, I control his schedule, and I happen to know he doesn’t have another appointment for a half hour.
“Slade Matthews? Dad, is this some kind of sick joke?”
He lets out a sigh, realizing I’m not going to go away.
He glances over at me as I hover over his desk.
