Page 52 of Hard to Handle

“Fair-weather fan,” Bob coughs, and they both laugh.

“Seriously. We’re a small-time club with only so much money for salaries. If we’re not winning and the seats start going half-empty, we’ll never be able to afford a player like him.”

“I see what you’re saying, but he’s a sure thing,” Bob says. “He’s going to get us that Stanley Cup . . . and he’s a Jack now. He’s one of us and dammit, we love him.”

“Sometimes sure things don’t pan out.”

“The season’s not over yet. Give him time.”

Yeah, time to succeed or to fail.

“Action coming back in two minutes, folks. In the meantime, I’ll hit Steve over the head for those of you already doing it at home for throwing out into the ether that we might have to trade Maddox away.”

“Oh, please. All I’m saying is we—the Jacks—are like the little engine that could. We’re having a hell of a season. For the first time, everything has clicked and a huge part of that is because of Maddox’s leadership and star power—off games like the other night not included. At what point will a club like the Rangers or the Red Wings with their abundance of cash be able to woo him away?”

“Woo him away?” Bob laughs.

“It’s a legitimate question.”

“He’d stay here. Lucky for us, he chose to leave one of those big-name teams two years ago to come here. I’m sure he has his own personal reasons why, and yes, while he’s had a rough patch these past few months, he’s brought this team and our city to life like no other player has in recent memory. My money’s on the Jacks on this one. They won’t let him get away.”

“Yeah, well, let’s just hope whatever is going on with him sorts itself out. The subpar game the other night against the Patriots where he played like he was handcuffed, and now this game tonight where he’s a one-man wrecking crew . . . it’s like night and day.”

“You can’t have him both ways. He’s an all-or-nothing guy.”

“Food for thought,” Bob says. “We’re back in action, Jacks fans. The third period is about to get underway with your Jacks up an impressive four to one.”

They drone on as the game picks back up while I lean back in my chair, cross my arms over my chest, and try to figure out what to make of today. Of Hunter’s press conference, of my conversation with Sanderson, meeting Hunter’s family, and how he’s playing tonight—somewhere between out of control and brilliant. He’s a very rich man, but is out there playing like he’s starving. He’s been in the penalty box more than I’ve ever seen him before. There’s more of an edge to him tonight, and I guarantee that’s part of the reason.

His family.

His brother.

Is that part of the drive for him?

I don’t need them or their pressure.

Is he living out this dream . . . for the both of them since Jonah can’t? The relentless schedule is enough to burn a man out, let alone have the added pressure of trying to do it for another person. Even his family, perhaps.

Is that what he meant by them the other night? Or am I way off base and he just meant them in general?

With a sigh and needing a break from my own thoughts, I figure it’s a great time to stretch my legs. Standing from my seat, I walk back toward the general manager’s box to get a refill on my drink. I’m just about to its entrance when I overhear Finn’s voice.

“How can you complain? He’s tearing it up tonight. The team’s winning and we’re one step closer to a playoff berth,” Finn says. “Fourteen games and counting, but I think you’ll have the playoff spot clinched before then.”

“He may be tearing it up tonight, but he’s also tearing up the team,” the unique voice of the LumberJacks General Manager, Ian McAvoy, echoes off the concrete walls and has me perking my ears up. I’m not one for eavesdropping, but I’m definitely one for getting as much information as possible to do my job and the task I was sent here to do.

Even I understand how lame that sounds—standing here in the hall of an arena when I’ve had several times to tell Hunter exactly why I’m here but have balked every time.

“After the stunt he pulled the other night, Finn, I’m at my limit. The press conference was a Band-Aid, but don’t kid yourself into thinking it fixed everything. The calls I received from the commissioner of the league asking me if he was purposely throwing the game tell me they’re watching him.”

“He wasn’t throwing the game. I spoke in depth with him about what that game looked like to everyone else, and I promise you, it won’t happen again.”

“It better not. I wasn’t too thrilled having to explain to the commissioner that Maddox isn’t betting against his team, nor is anyone else for that matter. The last thing we need is a full-blown investigation into the club and whether or not they’re betting money on game outcomes.”

“That’s preposterous,” Finn sputters.

“It is, I agree, but can you see what it looks like to the outside world? The guy goes from a precise, calculated player, to a selfish madman on a scoring streak, to being all but listless the last game, then to whatever you want to call the man down there who we’re seeing dominate tonight. I’m all about showmanship, but this is more than that,” Ian says, and I can’t help but agree.