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“Dr. Buchanan will see you now,” she announces.
“Thanks.” I clear my throat and open the heavy doors, my anxiety getting the best of me. Buchanan’s office is a lot like the rest of the building. Black. Chrome. Leather. Money. It touches everything. Even the man behind the desk as he stands and rounds the edge of it, striding toward me with his hand outstretched.
“Macklin Taylor,” he greets me. “Nice to meet you.”
I shake his hand and nod. “You, too, Dr. Buchanan.”
“Call me Henry.” He motions to a pair of couches separated by a glass coffee table in front of his desk. “Please, take a seat. Can I get you anything? Whiskey? Water? Soda? Coffee?”
“Water’s fine,” I answer.
A minibar lines one side of the room, and he walks toward it, retrieving my beverage and pouring himself a tumbler of bourbon. Pappy Van Winkle. That shit isnotcheap.
“Thanks for coming down,” he continues. “I considered asking if you wanted to meet on campus but decided against it. I’m trying to keep my business endeavors separate from my teaching. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course.”
“You’re probably wondering why I asked Russ to set up a meeting,” he adds, handing me the cool glass and sitting down on the couch opposite mine.
Staring at him over the rim of my glass, I take a swallow of water and clear my throat. “You could say that.”
“Then, I guess I’ll cut to the chase. As I’m sure you’re aware, I’m the owner of a new NHL team and am building it from the ground up. Would you be interested in joining the Lions this upcoming season?”
My eyes narrow. “As what?”
“I want you on our physician’s team.”
“I don’t have a sports medicine degree. Honestly, I havenodegree. I’m a certified paramedic, but––”
“Not a problem.”
“Yeah, but––” I pause and shake my head. “Why?”
“I saw how you handled the situation with Depp the other night.”
I cock my brow, still confused.
“Hockey players are stubborn, Mr. Taylor. And, while I might not have as much experience as some of the other owners in the NHL, I know the importance of keeping my roster healthy. Players have a habit of pushing themselves too far, especially when they’re young and stupid. The Lions’ roster is full of young bucks who have something to prove. Most of them are exactly like Depp. They’d rather play on a broken arm than sit out and look like a pussy who can’t take the pain. It’s why I want you. You know how to talk to players and help them see the big picture. I think you know how to spot serious injuries and understand when the risk isn’t worth the final score of one game with the rest of the season on the line. To put it bluntly, I think you’d be a great addition to the Lions this upcoming season, and I want you with us.”
He’s serious. I can see it in his eyes. The no-bullshit attitude wafting off him and mixing with his expensive cologne. Clearly, the man’s used to getting what he wants, and for some reason, he wants me.
The ice clinks against my glass as I take another swig of water, my mind racing as I consider his offer.
“And what happens when I tell the coach or the manager they need to pull someone from the ice because of an injury, and the team loses the game because of my decision?” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “We both know players aren’t the only ones putting themselves at risk during the season. The organization wants to make money. And in order to make money, they need to win games. Sometimes––and let’s be honest, it’s far too often––winning is at the expense of their players. What then?”
“That’s where I’m different. I won’t stand in your way when you make a call. And if anyone else in the organization does, you reach out to me, and I’ll take care of it. You have my full support.”
“No matter what?”
“I trust Russ, and he tells me you know your shit. Call yourself a consultant or a specialist. Honestly, I don’t care, but I want you behind the bench, and I want you in the locker room. Do you think this is something you’d be interested in?”
I sit back on the couch, my legs spread wide as I take him in. He’s serious. The motherfucker’s serious. I can see it in his eyes. Feel it in the room, emanating off his tailored suit and the bourbon in his glass.
“I, uh, I don’t know,” I answer candidly.
“You don’t know?”
“It’s a lot to think about.”
