“What’s this?” I ask.
“Hopefully, the answer to our problems.”
I raise a brow. “Ourproblems?”
He leans back in his chair. “Ash, do you know why I signed you?”
I thought I did, but his question makes me second-guess myself.
“I’m a former Rookie of the Year and a hell of a goal scorer when I keep my head in the game?” I suggest. I mean it as a statement, but it comes out as a question.
He waves a hand. “You’re a fucking amazing goal scorer when you’ve got your head in the game, but there are plenty of other great players out there I could’ve signed.”
“I was the least expensive?” I say, trying to keep the bitterness at bay.
He shrugs. “That didn’t hurt, but part of the reason I signed you isbecauseof your little trash talk problem, not in spite of it.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“I’m trying to build a brand new hockey team in a very small state where there’s lots of competition for fans,” he says. “There’s a dedicated fan base here that will embrace the Hydra because they’re still pining for the Whalers, but there aren’t enough of them to fill an entire stadium.”
The Hartford Hydra is Connecticut’s only professional men’s sports team, and its first NHL team since the Whalers moved to North Carolina in 1997 to become the Hurricanes. The state never quite let go of the team, as evinced by the Whalers merchandise that sells alongside Hydra gear on game days. Even the Hydra’s colors – navy, silver, and white – are a subtle nod to the last years of the Whalers.
“Do you know what fill stadiums?” Kaladin asks.
“Winning games?” I guess.
“That’s one thing,” he says. “The other is drama. Spectacle. People come to a hockey game expecting a good fight, and they’re disappointed if they don’t get one.”
“You…want me to fight?” I ask.
“Sometimes,” he says. “But more than that, I want you to be able to take your anger and channel it into scoring goals rather than falling apart.”
His words are a knife to my gut, and I lock my jaw.
“Look,” Kaladin says, leaning forward over his desk, “you have name recognition because of what happened last year.”
My jaw tightens even more, and he hurries on.
“It may not be the kind of name recognition you want, but you have it,” he says. “People will be watching. You can either implode again and end your hockey career…”
My stomach bottoms out as he confirms my worst fear.
“Or you can turn things around and show people what you’re made of,” he goes on. “You gained a reputation as someone who’s affected by trash talk, and some people will come to watch you fail, but more people will come to see you use that as fuel to kick ass. And when we win the Stanley Cup this year, they’ll stay and become fans.”
I blink at him. “You…think we can win the Stanley Cup?”
“I know we can,” he says, pounding a fist on the desk for emphasis. “We have the best goalie in the league. Our defensemen are freight trains on skates, we have some of the top rookies in the country, and I have a player who – until the end of last year – was arguably the best center inthe NHL.” He gives me a meaningful look. “We have the talent. We just need to put it all together and make it work, and that starts with you getting your head on straight. I need you to be a leader on this team.”
So no pressure.
“How exactly do I get my head on straight?” I ask.
He gestures toward the paper. “Go see this woman. If she agrees to help you, put in the work and do what she says. Hopefully by the end of the season, you’ll have figured out how to ignore the chirping.”
“She’s not a psychologist,” I point out.
“No, but the psychologists you had didn’t help. It can’t hurt to try something different, and this woman is at least an expert.”
