I've done harder things than this.
I lock up my office and head down the stairs, past the laundromat, where someone’s drying towels that smell like bleach and broken promises.
Outside, the January air bites through my coat, sharp enough to make my eyes water and my resolve wobble.
I pull my coat tighter and start walking toward the train station, mentally calculating how much a manicure costs and whether I can justify the expense as a business investment.
Fifty thousand dollars. One week in paradise. One lying, cheating billionaire.
I square my shoulders and start walking toward the T.
I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.
Which, historically, has never stopped me before.
Chapter 2
Customer Satisfaction
January 23 | Manhattan
West
The blonde's been touching my arm for twenty minutes, and I still can't remember her name.
Tiffany. Maybe Brittany. Something that ends in a syllable her parents bought at a charity auction.
"So you must get lonely," she says, fingers trailing up my forearm. Her nails are perfect ovals, painted the color of champagne. Expensive. Everything in this club is expensive—the scotch, the women, and the discretion that comes with both.
I take another sip of my drink—Macallan 25, because Blake only orders the best when he's trying to prove something—and scan the VIP section for him.
He was here ten minutes ago. Center stage, holding court with a pack of finance bros, all sharp suits and sharper opinions about markets they've never actually traded in. Blake was gesturing with his whiskey, probably telling the Monte Carlo story. The one where he conveniently forgets the part about the police escort and the very angry casino manager who threatened to have us both arrested.
Now he's gone.
"You're not even listening." The blonde's voice cuts through my inventory of Blake's location. She waves her manicured fingers in front ofmy face. "Earth to West."
"Sorry. Long day."
Long months, actually.
It’s been two months since Coach Morrison's voice came through the line with that careful, apologetic tone that meant the decision's already been made and the conversation was just a courtesy.
Thanks for your interest, West. The Olympic Team Selection Committee felt we needed to go with younger legs this cycle. You understand.
Younger legs.
Like this is about legs.
Like it's not about the fact that I'm thirty-four and the league sees me as yesterday's highlight reel, no matter how many points I put up this season.
I made the Olympic team once. 2014. Sochi.
I can still feel it—the cold burning in my lungs during morning skate, the weight of the jersey when they handed it to me in the locker room, the sound of the crowd when we took the ice for the bronze medal game. We lost. Fourth place. One game away from the podium. Close enough to taste it. Far enough that it's haunted me for twelve years.
Then the NHL pulled out of 2018. Out of 2022. Two Olympic cycles where I was in my prime, and the league decided we weren't going. I watched both tournaments from my couch like everyone else, my best years dissolving into television coverage and what-might-have-been.
This year is supposed to be different. The professionals are back. The league playing nice with the IOC for the first time in eight years. I'd stayed healthy. Played well. Made the All-Star team.
