“Ah, Mr. Gunnarsson,” Max Kaladin says from behind his desk as I peek inside. “Come on in.”
The desk is huge and sits at the far end of an office that I’m sure is bigger than my first apartment. There’s a God damn fireplace and sectional in one corner of the room, for Christ’s sake.
“It is Gun-arsson and not Guuh-narsson, right?” Kaladin asks as I step inside and close the door.
“Yes, sir,” I say as I head toward the desk. “My parents Americanized it when they moved here. Everyone mispronounced it anyway.”
He nods. “Well, it’s good to finally meet you.”
He’s smiling, and I feel like this has to be a trick. The man spent a lot of money to bring me here, and not only am I sucking ass in the preseason, I got ejected from one of our last games before the regular season starts.
I stop in front of the desk, and Kaladin reaches out to shake my hand. I meet it reluctantly.
The owner of the Hartford Hydra is in his mid-thirties with hair that’s a shade of red I’ve never seen a man pull off well until now. I expect to tower over him, but he’s only an inch or two shorter than me, and he seems fit, like he works out.
Max Kaladin has his hands in just about every industry you can think of. He was already filthy rich when a pharmaceutical company he owned developed a weight loss drug that, for a change, actually worked, and he became ‘buy his own continent’ rich. For some reason, he decided to use some of that money to start a new NHL team.
“Sir, just let me apologize-,” I start, but he waves me off.
“Have a seat,” he says. He gestures to one of the chairs in front of his desk as he sits in the plush leather one behind it.
“Tell me what happened,” he says when we’re both settled in.
I hesitate. This still feels like a trap. The owner of my last team would’ve been turning purple by now if I’d pulled the shit I did tonight, but Kaladin sounds perfectly calm as I wait for the other shoe to drop.
He looks expectantly at me, and I launch into the short version of everything that happened between me and Lapointe from the time we took the ice until I got ejected. He listens patiently, nodding at all the right times, and I dare to think he might not boot my ass.
He’s quiet for a long while when I finish, so I add, “That’s it.”
He nods again. “So would you agree we have a problem here, Mr. Gunnarsson…Ash? Can I call you Ash?”
He can call me whatever the fuck he wants. Just please, dear God, don’t let him kick me off the team.
“Ash is fine,” I say. “And just so I’m sure we’re on the same page, can you specify what problem you’re talking about?”
A smile ticks at the corners of his mouth. “I’m talking about how you implode whenever someone gets in your head,” he says. “The problem is you can’t handle a little trash talk.”
Can’t handle a little trash talk? He’s right, but it sounds both condescending and accusatory, and I feel instantly defensive.
“It was more than a little trash talk,” I argue. “The asshole put a tampon down my jersey.” I pause. “Pardon my language, but Lapointe crossed a line. I don’t appreciate that kind of misogynistic BS.”
He nods. “Yes, and I’ll see about getting him disciplined as well, butyou can’t deny this has been a problem well before tonight.”
He’s right about that too, but he knew that when he signed me. It’s why he was able to get such a great deal on me. I’m damaged goods.
“I know I fall apart when guys start chirping at me, but-”
“You understand that’s part of the game, right?” he asks.
Is it, though? That’s debatable, but I’m not about to argue with a man who has more money than God and who’s also my boss.
“I’ll work on it,” I promise.
“Did the Lightning have you working with a sport psychologist?”
“Yeah, but it didn’t help. And if you’ll excuse me for saying so, the guy you’ve got here is even worse.”
Kaladin cocks his head at that before he picks up a sheet of paper and hands it to me. I take the paper and skim it before frowning.
