Page 4 of Face Off

He typed again, then pocketed his phone. “Coach Romney asked to meet with us.”

I glanced into the conference room just a few feet away, and my heart dropped. “And the general manager and president?”

Jackson shrugged. “Yes.”

This was not good. So far from good. My performance had been suffering for a while, but they couldn’t trade me. It was past the cut-off for this season. My contract was up next season. I shouldn’t even be under consideration for the chopping block.

“They didn’t tell you anything?” I didn’t believe that he didn’t know exactly what was going on.

“Let’s just go in and see what they have to say.”

I wanted to push him out of my way and run. Since we lost the championship last year, the organization had been pushing on everyone to get their crap together, starting at the top. The owners brought in fresh blood—a new president and general manager—and it was rumored that we’d lose Coach Romney, too, if we didn’t win this season. That was the very last thing any of us wanted, and we’d been proving ourselves. We were back to second in our division and had reworked the lines so we had more scoring chances no matter who was on the ice.

He opened the door, and I stepped in behind him. Coach stood and shook hands with both of us.

James Elton, the president, stood next, and Jackson introduced himself. I’d only met the man during a few press events, but Chris Bush, the GM, was more involved.

“How are you doing, Mikey?” he asked.

“I’m doing well,” I answered before looking around the room. I couldn’t get a clear read on anyone’s expression.

“I don’t want to draw this out,” James said. “We’re aware of your injury from two seasons ago.”

A broken ankle that took twice as long as it should have to heal. It was like my body was protesting. Every time I even tried to lace up my skates back then, it throbbed and all the physical therapy I’d done disappeared. It was almost a year and a half ago, and it still flared up from time to time.

“Right,” I said when no one else spoke.

“We’re concerned that your performance has never quite returned to what it was before the injury,” Chris said.

I looked to Coach. Was this what he thought too? Why did it take so long for him to say something? Why not have me work with Amelia? Why not send me back to Madi? Why wait to bring it up now?

“I wasn’t aware it was an issue.” I stared at him, waiting for him to meet my gaze, but it was like he was avoiding me.

“All of your numbers are down from last season, minutes per game and shots on goal, assists,” James said as if he was looking at a spreadsheet with last quarter’s sales, not a real person’s professional record. “We expect a certain level of achievement from our players, and it doesn’t appear that you are hitting those marks.”

“What are you saying?” Jackson finally spoke.

“We would like to see Mikey’s performance improve before the season ends, or we’ll have to release him to the farm team.”

My jaw nearly hit the floor. They were going to send me, a two-time Stanley Cup Championship winner, back down with the rookies?

“Or he can be released from his contract early, if he prefers,” Chris said as if “he” wasn’t sitting across the table from him. It was one thing to find out they’d been talking about me, without giving me any sort of heads up or feedback, but for them to ignore me now was just insulting.

“Why are we just being made aware of these concerns?” Jackson asked, and I finally felt like he was earning his commission.

“We feel the team is at a critical point,” James answered. “We need to make changes. Take things to the next level, and if someone can’t keep up, then this team might not be the best place for them.” I shot a look at Jackson urging him to step up.

“Well, you need to give us clear and defined expectations of the improvements you would like to see from my client. You said you want to see his numbers where he was last season. Is that it, or does he need to exceed those numbers? We need quantifiable responses, not generalities.” Jackson stood. “And I’d recommend not threatening your players with being forced into the AHL. It’s bad for morale and all that.”

Jackson walked out, and I followed, not wanting to be in that room for a second longer. I wanted to scream or tear something apart. He pulled me into the next empty room and closed the blinds.

“What was that?” I roared. My world was crumbling in on itself. I wasn’t ready to retire. I was only twenty-eight. It felt like giving up. Hockey was my life. It had been since I stepped onto the ice for the first time at two. What would I do without it?

“They have no right,” Jackson spoke, mostly to himself. “You have to give them your very best, Mikey. I know you push yourself every single day. You’ve proven your worth to this team, but something is going on over our heads. I need you to kill it. Do not give them a single reason to believe they’re right. I’m going to fight on my end. I’m not going to let them push you out for no reason, but you’ve got to give me ammo to work with.”

I nodded. “I’ll do everything I can. I’ll give it my all.”

“I mean off the ice as well. No partying, no drunken hookups, nothing. I don’t want to see your name in the news unless it’s because you saved a cat or helped an old lady cross the street. Just lay low, keep your head down, and do your job. Let me deal with the rest.”