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To my surprise, there’s no need to hunt Fairlee down like a bomb-sniffing dog. He calls out my name the moment I enter the lobby.
“Mr. Fairlee, hey,” I call back, trying to tamp down my eagerness. “It’s been a long time.”
“It has,” he agrees. “What is it now? Three years?”
“About that.”
I close the distance between us, my hockey bag slung over my shoulder.
Mr. Fairlee isn’t a tall man, but he’s built like a tank, with a barrel chest and thick neck. He played hockey in his youth, but didn’t find much success in the pros, mostly because of his height. Eventually he went into coaching, where he did find success. A lot more of it now, apparently.
“Congratulations on the win.”
“I wasn’t expecting such a competitive game,” I answer ruefully.
He nods. “Good job on that shootout.”
“Thanks. And I hear congratulations are in order for you too. Coach Adley told us you were named head coach of Team USA.”
Pride fills his eyes. “Yes, thank you. I’m looking forward to heading up the team. Winning some medals.”
“Sounds great…” I pause, hoping he’ll fill that space. Praying he’ll tell me something, anything, any hint about where he’s at in terms of building a team.
But he says nothing.
Awkwardly, I go on. “I mean, I guess it goes without saying, but I would love to be considered for the roster.”
Another nod. “Of course. We’re looking at several players right now. There’s a really dynamic group of college players this year.”
Bullshit.
I swallow the word, trying not to bristle. I am by no means arrogant, but I know every single player in NCAA hockey, including the new crop of freshmen. Some rookies are showing potential, but for the most part there are only a few standout players among all the D1 programs. And I’m definitely in the top ten, if not five.
“Well, that’s good to hear. I don’t know how many college players typically make the roster, but—”
“About thirty, forty percent,” he supplies.
That shuts me up.
Damn. That’s a brutal stat. Considering the size of the roster, if there are only a few open slots, that means he’ll be choosing two, maybe three college players.
“Like I said,” he continues after he notices my expression, “we’re looking at several players, but of course, you’re one of them. Your talent is undeniable, Gigi. Sure, there are minor issues to work on, but that applies to everyone.”
“What issues?” I ask a little too quickly then realize it might sound like I’m offended by the criticism. So I hurry on to add, “I’d love any pointers you might have for me. I always want to improve my game.”
He purses his lips. “It’s the same issue you’ve always had. You’re not effective behind the net.”
This time I do bristle, because he’s acting as if this “issue” is some Achilles’ heel that’s been plaguing me for years, holding me back from having any success. That’s nonsense. Every player has their strengths and weaknesses.
“That’s great feedback, thanks. I’ll talk to Coach Adley about that.” Then, because I know it’ll be conspicuous if I don’t ask about her, I force myself to inquire, “How is Emma doing, by the way? She’s at UCLA, right?”
“She’s doing well. Really thriving on the West Coast. She landed a small role in a pilot.”
“Cool,” I lie.
It bothers me to hear good things are happening for her, and I hate that streak of pettiness. I don’t like thinking of myself as petty.
“I’ll tell her you asked about her.”
Please don’t, I think.
But the slight edge to his voice tells me he wasn’t going to pass my regards along anyway. Yeah…she totally poisoned this well.
“Well, it was good to see you, Gigi. I see someone else I need to speak to.”
He pats my arm. Then, to my utter horror, he marches toward Bethany Clarke, the captain of the Providence team.
Is this a joke? Bethany might have played a good game today, but she’s nowhere near the caliber of player that I am. It’s like a slapshot to the face. My throat is tight with jealousy and resentment as I stalk outside. I still feel cold even as I step into the humid air.
I’m halfway down the front steps when I hear my name again.
“Gigi, wait.”
I look over my shoulder to find Luke Ryder loitering at the bottom of the staircase, off to my left. He walks toward me, long legs encased in faded denim. He’s also sporting a black T-shirt and a Bruins cap with the brim down low, nearly shielding his eyes.
A wrinkle appears in my forehead as I descend the rest of the way to meet him on the sidewalk. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugs.
“Use your words, Ryder.”
I’m not in the mood for his caveman conversational style right now. Brad Fairlee’s dismissal of me still burns like battery acid in my blood.
