“You’re not here just to throw punches, MacDonald,” Barbier continues. “I know your reputation. I know what you can do. But you’ve got more to offer than being an enforcer.”
Jake frowns. That’s been his job for years. The guy who steps up when things get rough, the guy who makes sure the other team thinks twice before taking liberties with his teammates, and the guy who rattles the cages of the opposing team to put them off their game. It’s what he’s good at. What he knows.
Barbier watches him, studying his face like he's reading a scouting report. "You've got something these kids don't—experience. Maturity. They need someone to show them what it takes to survive at this level, not just play."
Jake blinks, surprised. "You want me to babysit rookies?"
"I want you to lead." Barbier's voice cuts through any misunderstanding. "They'll listen to you because they respect what you've done. But you need to set the standard—show them how a professional carries himself, on the ice and off."
The words hit Jake differently than he expected. He'd walked in here braced for bad news, maybe a trade, maybe worse. Not responsibility. Not expectations beyond what he’s always done.
“Can you handle that?” Barbier asks, sharp eyes locking onto him.
He doesn’t answer right away. He’s spent so much time trying to prove he still belongs in the game that he hasn’t stopped to think about what he’s supposed to be beyond a guy who throws fists. He’s alwaysbeen a fighter, in every sense of the word. But leadership? That’s a different battle altogether.
But what's the alternative? Fade into obscurity? Watch younger players take his spot while he clings to past glory? As much as he hates admitting it, time isn't on his side anymore. If he wants to stay in this game, he needs to evolve.
He needs a new role to stay relevant.
He meets Barbier’s gaze and nods once. “Yeah. I can handle it.”
“Good, because you’re about to meet some of those little shit stains right now.” Barbier pushes back from his desk and stands. “Come with me.”
Jake frowns but follows him down the hallway, past the weight room and locker area, into a small conference room. The smell hits him first, like someone marinated a gym sock in whiskey and left it to ferment.
Inside, three young guys are doing their best impression of melting ice cream. One's got his head in his hands like he's trying to keep his brain from falling out. Another's blinking at a rate that suggests his eyelids are operating on dial-up internet. The third kid—Christ, he's practically green—looks like he's one deep breath away from redecorating the conference table.
Three rookies. Jake can tell by their baby faces and the fact that they're built like scarecrows who forgot to eat their vegetables. One of them still has acne, for fuck's sake. Jake's pretty sure he's got socks older than these kids.
His stomach twists with unease before Barbier even says a word.
The coach slams the door behind them with the subtlety of a freight train, making all three rookies jump like startled cats. Two of them immediately look like they regret that sudden movement.
“MacDonald,” he barks, “meet Jesse Mitchell, Tristan Fleischer, and Pavel Pekar.”
He continues in a low growl, controlled but deadly. “You dumbasses have any idea how much shit we had to pull to keep you from getting charged last night? Public intoxication, disorderly conduct, resisting arrest. Do I need to go on?”
He glares at each of them. “This isn’t junior hockey anymore. You’re professionals now, and you act like it.”
The kid named Mitchell shifts in his seat, jaw tight. “We didn’t mean?—”
“I don’t give a damn what you meant,” Barbier snaps. “You embarrassed this team, and you embarrassed yourselves. If I had my way, you’d be scratched for the first month of the season.”
Fleisher swallows hard. Pekar stares at the floor. Mitchell clenches his fists.
Barbier exhales sharply and turns to Jake. “This is MacDonald. He’s a tough motherfucker. And from now on, you answer to him. Every single one of your plans, every night out, every time you want to get your dick wet, you clear it with him first. If he says no, you stay in. If you disobey him, you deal with me. Understood?”
All three nod, though Mitchell looks like he’s swallowing glass.
"Good." Barbier turns back to Jake. "They're your problem now. Try to keep them from wrecking their careers before they even start."
Jake's ready to fake his own death.
Babysitting duty. Just what every thirty-five-year-old bachelor dreams of.
But then he gets a better look at the Mitchell kid, and something starts nagging at him like a song stuck on repeat. The kid looks familiar, and it’s not because he’s seen him on SportsCenter.
Then it hits him like a puck to the face.
