We're about twenty minutes in when Erica, Moose’s wife, materializes at the rink entrance with her daughter in tow. The little girl is already vibrating out of her skin. Erica catches my eye and waves. I skate over.
"Sammy has been talking about this all week," Erica says, nudging her daughter forward.
The kid looks like she's been struck by lightning. She's maybe eight, gap-toothed, wearing a Havoc jersey that's three sizes too big. And she is staring at me like I hung the moon.
I crouch down to her level. "Hey. I'm Thorne."
"I know," she breathes. "I'm Sammy. I want to be a center just like you."
"Yeah? You play for a team?"
"The Seattle Sabretooths." She straightens up proudly. "I scored two goals last season."
"Two goals?" I hold up my hand and she high-fives it so hard it stings. "That's a big deal. Does your dad skate with you outside of practice?"
"He coaches sometimes." Her whole face lights up. "He says I have good hands."
" Your dad has an amazingly big heart and he leaves it all on the ice, every single game. And if you’rehalf as good as your dad, you could go pro if you want.” I tap her jersey, right over the Havoc logo. "Something to think about."
She nods so hard I'm worried about her neck. Erica is watching me with this soft expression. It's only when I stand back up, sign the girl's jersey, take a photo, and wave them off that I notice Mollie has been filming the whole thing.
She lowers her phone when she sees me looking.
"You didn't ask," I say.
"You would've said no." She doesn't apologize. "That's the content that makes people care about you as a person, not just a player. I need it."
I want to argue but she's not wrong, which is its own kind of annoying. "Fine."
"The brand stuff is working, Thorne." She tucks her phone away. "You are the Seattle Havoc. You’re on every poster. You have a huge fan club. You touch hearts. You’re more than just those golden-boy good looks. Right? I’m just highlighting those qualities for a new audience.”
"Huh." I rub the back of my neck. "I guess that’s helpful."
"How do you think players your age stay relevant? You're caught between being young enough to have your own TikTok, and being a venerated veteran. I'm here to close that gap." She tilts her head. "You're welcome, by the way."
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes. A text from Beck.
Beck
Jimbo called a meeting. Locker room. Now.
I show Mollie the screen. She reads it and looks up at me. "Go. I'll pack up."
The locker room is quiet when I get there. Most of the team are here. Beck’s already on the bench, dressed casually, wearing a tight expression. I drop my bag and sit, looking around.
"Did you know about this?" I ask Beck.
"Got the text twenty minutes ago." He rolls his jaw. "Jimbo doesn't come down here unless something's happening."
"Could be nothing," Moose offers.
Beck and I look at him.
"Okay, probably not nothing," he admits.
Jimbo Greene, the team owner, walks in two minutes later. He’s in his cowboy hat, cowboy boots, the full look. He has a potbelly, speaks with a drawl, and always seems as though he’s ready to start a gunfight at any moment. He pulls a chair out, sits in it backwards, and surveys the team with cool blue eyes.
"Well, boys. Grayson Reed is gone," he says. "Traded to Denver this morning. Clears cap space, opens a roster spot."
