Page 34

Chapter 34

Crosby

M arch in Connecticut is unpredictable. There are days the sun shines bright and warm, spring teasing with every small green leaf you see on a tree. But two days later, a late snowstorm covers the ground in white, and icicles start forming on the same tree. As Coach yells from the bench during the third period of the game, the shifts in the weather feel like an appropriate analogy for the way our team has played.

The puck sails past me, and I groan, cutting deep on my skates to turn and chase after it.

“Get your head in the fucking game, Wells!” Coach’s voice booms as I pass him. He has every right to be pissed at me. I’m playing like shit tonight. We’re only up by one against the worst team in the league, and everyone is feeling the pressure of it. We’ve slipped into second place in our division since the All-Star game, and I carry every ounce of the blame on my shoulders.

I try to offer a nod, but the winger from Houston has scooped the puck and is charging up the lane at me. I keep my head on a swivel and skate backward, the change in momentum making my calves burn. I give it one, two glides before I swipe the puck back from him, sending a pass to Tex, who’s open on the other side of center ice.

The crowd roars against us, the Houston fans desperate to see their team steal a win from us in their home arena. I’m determined not to let that happen, but I also can’t wait for this game to end. We’ve been on the road for nearly a week, and I can’t help but let my mind wander to the plane ride waiting for us tonight.

Tex shoots, a slap shot that echoes even with the noise, and the buzzer of the goal nearly assures us the win when I check the clock to see only three minutes remain. I skate toward my captain to give him a pat on the back, then make the switch with the other line at the players’ bench.

I get to rest for the duration of the game, cheering on Hutchinson and his line as they continue to put pressure on Houston, especially when they pull their goalie and add an extra player to the ice. Coach paces back and forth behind us, calling what he sees and cussing at the good and bad. When the final horn sounds, his hand drops to my shoulder. Normally, it would feel encouraging or warm, instead, I feel the severity of it. A sentence I have put off serving.

“You’re sitting next to me tonight, Crosby.”

I nod before being released to head for the locker room with the rest of the team. It’s hard to indulge in the joy my teammates feel at our win—another step to solidifying a playoff run—when my head has been anywhere but on the game for the last three weeks.

We made it back from Vegas without landing to a barrage of headlines and videos. Other than a short segment highlighting the clear animosity between Olivier Ahlman and me, there didn’t seem to be anything to report. The audio was never shared, Ethan’s meetings effectively killing any bigger story.

It was eerie and unsettling until the next morning when I was called in to see Todd Montgomery. The entire experience was a little like being in the principal’s office as a kid, only this time my literal future was at stake, as the man who signed my paychecks glared at me from behind his oak desk.

I was told a decision had been made to keep the recording from the tournament out of the media.

“This is the kind of shitstorm I hate, Crosby.” Montgomery leans forward. “I have always ensured—and will continue to ensure—that people who want to headline gossip columns over record books leave The Midnight behind. There’s no place for that in a franchise so close to getting its first Stanley Cup in nearly forty years. So, don’t become one of those people, and there will always be a spot here for you.”

It wasn’t much longer after that I was unceremoniously dismissed, asked to never speak of the weekend again. My post-game press conferences were canceled until further notice to avoid questions, and I was to go nowhere near the social media department while in the building. Ethan would coordinate all my obligations, and my previous demands to work exclusively with Violet were void.

So much has gone on like normal: practices, games, meetings, nights spent next to Violet. But there has been a dark cloud hovering over each day. The feeling that there’s unfinished business. We keep waiting to be pulled back into the storm we can’t understand how we escaped. As much as there’s been relief, there have been questions.

What happened to the audio? If there isn’t any concern over it, why has so much changed?

“Good recovery out there.” Tex’s voice brings me back to the locker room. He’s bent over the bench, tying the laces of his oxfords. He’s readying to do a few interviews before we board the bus for the airport. He puts his hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze before heading to the door.

I shove the rest of my gear in my bag, reaching to the back of the shelf to open the safe for my phone.

Sparks

Good game.

Sparks

Even if you did miss the pass at the end that a pee-wee could have handled.

Me

Would it be acceptable if I said I was thinking of you?

Sparks

Absolutely not. You’re now one point from first place in the Eastern Conference. I also would have never forgiven you if you lost to Houston. They’re terrible.

Me

I’m looking forward to getting home to you. This road trip wasn’t the same without you with us.

The typing bubble pops up at the bottom of the screen and disappears twice before Violet gives my message a heart in acknowledgment. I lift my bag over my shoulder, typing as I follow Gus out of the locker room and down the hall.

Me

See you soon. I love you.

“By the time we step off this plane, the audio from your microphone in Vegas is going to be the lead story on every sports website and maybe even some that don’t normally give a fuck about hockey.”

Coach has been a silent seat partner for almost an hour. The plane has been at cruising altitude for a while, the cabin filled with the hum of the engines and the snores of our assistant coach in the back row. Cal Andrews sits next to me, glasses perched on his nose as he reads on his phone, fingers flying across the screen from time to time, but never looking at me or speaking.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Coach puts his phone in his lap, the glasses pushed up on top of his shaggy black hair. He gives me a look that is equal parts tired, concerned, and annoyed.

“A snippet of your exchange from the All-Star game is minutes away from being available to the media. Portland’s offices and our own personnel are trying to track down where the leak originated, but it won’t matter. The world is about to learn you are currently dating Olivier Ahlman’s ex.” He leans on the leather armrest between us. “Violet’s dating history, your current relationship, and what all of it means are about to be discussed in detail.”

My stomach feels like it has plummeted 35,000 feet to the earth below. My brain is in a horrific state of free fall. Numbness bleeds through me, fusing me to the seat, and hollowing me from the inside out.

“Does she know?” I ask. I turned my phone on Airplane Mode out of respect for Coach.

“Yes,” he replies. “I have Ava handling things with her, and I called in some backup.”

“Good,” I say, rolling the information over in my brain. I find my head bobbing up and down, unable to do anything else. I know what kind of stories will be run about Violet. None of them will paint her in a flattering light. The comment sections will be full of trolls calling her horrendous names: puck bunny, slut, whore. Every part of her life will be up for discussion and—worse—dissection. Every choice she has ever made involving her dating life and hockey will be examined.

It won’t matter that our relationship isn’t connected to my position on the team. But Violet’s job with the team, her success, will be called into question. There will be rumblings that I’m given preferential treatment. What was a fairly innocent question by Tara Upton a month ago will be replayed over and over. My non-answer will likely be twisted to fit whatever narrative someone wants to spin.

This is everything her father spent his life trying to prevent. It’s everything Violet tried to avoid.

“Crosby.” My eyes refocus at the sound of my name. Coach has a firm grip on my shoulder. “It will be okay. I have a plan.”

“Coach, I think you can go to jail for trying to hire a hitman. Especially since we don’t know who leaked it.”

“You absolutely can go to jail if you get caught.” Coach drops his hand, a wry smile on his face. “But no, there’s no murder for hire in my idea. And I’m not searching for the leak. I’ll leave that up to Ava.”

“Little disappointed.” I try to laugh, but it comes out pained.

Coach looks around. Half of our team is sleeping, the others are looking a little more alert than I would expect. Some have their phones in their hands, and I realize I’m not even going to make it back to New Haven before the story gets out. When I look back at Coach, I can’t help the sting of tears filling my eyes.

“I’m sorry, Coach. I tried. I wanted to protect her, too.” My words come out in a rush, emotion choking me up. “I thought we did all of it right.”

“Hey.” He leans close, eyes crinkling in the corners with kindness. “This isn’t on you. Of all my guys, I’m glad she chose you, Crosby. It’s because you did everything right that I think there’s a way through this.”

I nod again. Once. Sharp. The familiarity of following instructions guides me out of the self-doubt that threatened to overwhelm me. With a decisive sniff of my nose, I listen closely as Coach outlines what he thinks will help.

“You and Violet both declared your relationships to HR and the Player’s Association when you started dating. There are no violations of conduct by being together. But I think there is a strong case to be made against Ahlman for sexual harassment under the NHL Code of Conduct.”

I can’t help but frown. It’s rare for players to bring complaints to the NHLPA. For all the good the official code does, there are deeper ones among players. Unwritten and unspoken rules you absorb as a player. The least of these is keep your mouth shut and do your job. Things that happen in the locker room, or between players, stay exactly there.

My gut reaction is to balk at the suggestion. Opening an investigation is going to keep this story going for longer than I want. There’s potential for a lot of negative professional fallout.

But it’s also an unexpected and intelligent move. It could result in Ahlman being questioned, maybe even suspended. It will take the heat off Violet, and that is the most important reason to agree to it.

“Will Montgomery get behind it? He’s made it clear he doesn’t want me to bring more drama to the team.”

“I’ll worry about Todd,” Coach says. “If he doesn’t put the full force of the organization behind killing this story and finding the person who leaked it, I’ll walk.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a hitman with a clear shot.”