The training suiteoccupied the entire east wing. Treatment room, rehabilitation gym, hydrotherapy pools, and my large corner office with windows overlooking the practice rink. Everything I’d requested and some things I hadn’t known existed, and I couldn’t be more excited.
I walked the empty corridors, my footsteps echoing against the polished floors. I couldn’t believe that in another week this place would be chaos with treatments, assistant trainers managing schedules, and the constant motion of professional athletes. Although, right now, in late August, it felt like I was walking through a museum and not an arena.
This is what you wanted,I reminded myself.Full control, respect, and a chance to build something that matters. You got what you asked for. Don’t mess it up.
As I walked the halls looking at photographs of past players, I remembered how I got to this point. I stopped, staring up at a photograph of Marcus Grant, my mind instantly moving to his career-ending injury. I often wondered what became of him. Then the memory of Tyler Conroy’s betrayal danced through my mind, along with my mother’s departure, when I was only ten. Every single person in my life, aside from my father, that I’d thought valued me as a person, always had an ulterior motive. It had taken me a long time to accept this and learn how to function around the pain of this hurt. I’d learned to translate the pain and loneliness that came with these betrayals into being so competent that no one questioned anything about me. It also taught me to be closed-off to anyone who may want to get close.
I smiled as I walked into my office, taking in the scent of fresh paint. The boxes containing my medical texts that I’d sent to the Lair lined one wall. Then I looked over at the other wall. My father had told me he had my degrees hung for me. I looked at my bachelor’s from Boston University, my master’s in sports medicine, and the certificates I’d received after working for three years in the Minor League. It was all proof that I’d earned this position, even if I never escaped the whispers of others.
I took a seat behind my desk, getting a feel for my new space, then got up and looked out the window. I could see my father on the rink below, running through plays with his assistant coaches. Even with the distance between us, he commanded attention, which was what made him brilliant at his job and difficult in all other aspects of life.
My mother had called his actions “consuming.” She had been an Olympic figure skater who believed that love could survive anything, even someone whose true love didn’t lie within theirmarriage. I was only ten years old when she left us on that frosty January morning. The note said nothing more thanI am sorry. I am not strong enough to compete with your love of hockey.
My poor father hadn’t seen it coming. I think her leaving him had ruined him in ways, but now, as I stood here watching him and understanding what it had taken me to get to where I was, I could see what she’d meant. It hadn’t dulled his love for the game, though.
My phone buzzed, pulling me back to the present.
DAD: Dinner tonight? Non-negotiable dad time, not coach time.
I stared at the message. I wanted to connect, but I also feared the cost. I had sworn I’d never be like him and allow hockey to consume me. Instead, I found a different way for it to devour me.
I saw so much of myself in him, I often wondered if I too would be alone for the rest of my life. I was almost certain that there wasn’t anyone in the world who would ever understand my passion. Plus, I was pretty sure I’d worked so hard at building my protective armor so thick from those who had always been seeking something other than a relationship that there was nothing left of the loveable Bianca I used to be underneath. The one who could laugh at the drop of a hat and knew how to have fun.
BIANCA: See you at seven.
I set my phone down, stepped away from the glass, and returned to unpacking, building the professional space that would be the ground I proved myself. Right now, the only thing that mattered was making myself happy. The actual test would begin when practice started, when I needed to prove to everyone that I belonged here and earn their respect, but for now I stoodin my empty office, occasionally peeking at the rink below, watching my father command his coaches while I unpacked my things.
Chapter 3
Bianca
I knew moving backto Colorado was going to have its challenges, but one I hadn’t been prepared for was having to sleep on the couch in my father’s home office for the past four weeks. I was exhausted, and I was counting down the days until my condo was ready so I could have a good nights sleep. I’d be in my very own unit in a week, I thought to myself as I closed my car door and made my way into the Lair.
Today was my first official day on the job with the team and, of course, of all days, I was running late. As I made my way to my office, coffee in one hand, my phone buzzed in the other.
DAD: My office, ten minutes.
I rolled my eyes as I set my coffee on my desk and began typing.
BIANCA: It will have to wait. I have a meeting with Storm Cromwell in ten minutes.
DAD: That meeting can wait; this is more important.
I shoved my phone into my pocket, dropped my things at my desk, and took off toward the elevator.
I knocked twice and waited.
“Come in.”
I shoved the door open to see my father sitting behind his desk, his glasses perched on the end of his nose as he scowled at his monitor, probably looking at stats. He didn’t even look up; he just gestured to the chair across from him. I was halfway across his office when he looked up.
“Close the door,” he barked.
My stomach did a flip. Closed-door conversations were never good; I’d learned that when I was a little girl. I closed the door and then made my way toward the chair and sat down, spine straight, hands in my lap.
My father continued studying his monitor for a few more moments, then removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, and when he finally looked at me, he had what I referred to as his work face on. His expression was neutral and focused, and I knew he only ever used that face when he had to deliver bad news.
“Your condo isn’t ready.”
