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“I know that. I know. It still pains me to see it. Nate doesn’t deserve this media hype. He’s a good player and a good man. As good as they come. I’d bet my last dime that the fight he had last night was somehow provoked. Nate wouldn’t beat some poor schmuck just for kicks,” he defends.
“That’s not our problem,” I retort coldly. “Our only concern is ensuring the Guardians win the league and qualify for the Stanley Cup this year. Everything else is irrelevant. If Wilder can’t keep his temper in check, then he leaves me no choice. I refuse to let my team get sidetracked because one of its players can’t keep a cool head.”
Slumping in my chair, Byrne looks just as defeated as Wilder likely did when he exited this office earlier today.
I don’t get it.
I really don’t.
Both Byrne and Wilder should be fucking elated with how things panned out, considering I had half a mind to fire Wilder last night.
If it hadn’t been for Piper knocking on my door yesterday and telling me what was what—while also giving me a fair, albeit costly-as-fuck, offer to keep Jack on the team—then Wilder would have been out on his ass right about now. Like the shrewd agent she is, Piper used her leverage to protect her problematic player while I seized the chance to secure our team’s captain with the Boston Guardians for another eight years.
Everyone should be fucking ecstatic, yet by the look on the coach’s face, it feels like he expected more from me. Understanding, maybe. No, he expected empathy.
Argh.
It’s not that I have anything against Wilder. I like him as much as I like any other player on my team. But my allegiance is to the club—first and foremost. The Guardians always come first. Always.
It’s crucial that Byrne and I are on the same page, which means he needs to stop being such a bleeding heart about it and take care of business.
“Keep an eye on Wilder, Byrne. I’ll do the same. If he plays by the rules and cleans up his act, then we shouldn’t have any more problems where he’s concerned.”
“And if he doesn’t? If he gets himself inmoretrouble, what do we do then?” he asks, with a mixture of fear and—what looks a lot like—hope in his eyes.
“That’s my problem. Not yours, coach. I’ll handle it.”
“That’s what worries me. How you’ll… handle it,” he mumbles under his breath, but not low enough for me to miss it. “I just hope that Dr. Seymour works her magic in helping fight whatever demons that boy has inside him. It’s the only way I see something good coming out of all of this.”
I hope so, too.
For his sake.
There’s a soft knock on the door that ends up pulling my attention away from a distressed Byrne.
“Yes?”
“I’m terribly sorry for interrupting your meeting, Mr. Nichols, but Rex Jones requests your attendance in his office immediately,” Brigitte informs.
“Now?” I raise an eyebrow, curious why Rex didn’t contact me directly.
“I’m afraid so. It sounded quite urgent.”
“Did he give any indication on what it pertains to?”
She shakes her head.
“Very well then. Tell him I’m on my way.”
She nods politely before leaving my office to return to her desk
“Sorry, Byrne. Seems I’m needed elsewhere.”
“Hmm. Best not keep Rex waiting. He’s been acting pretty odd lately,” Byrne muses.
“You picked up on that too, huh?”
He nods.
