Baden, page 2
Dominik stands from his desk and gives me a lopsided grin. The receptionist closes the door behind me, and I walk straight toward Dominik with my hand held out.
He reaches across his desk, and we shake. His grin magnifies as he teases, “Look at you… no crutches and no wobble.”
It’s true. I left my crutches at home today. I should have left them at home when I went to Pittsburgh because they were more a mental crutch than a physical one. I was afraid being in a crowded area would throw off my balance, but it was smooth sailing while attending the funerals.
I even eschewed my tricked-out handicapped van with hand paddles that I’ve been using to get around while my legs strengthened and relearned to respond to my brain’s commands. It felt good to be back in my Escalade for the drive downtown this morning, but my doctors might yell at me when I meet them later. I haven’t been officially given the go-ahead to drive, but I know what I’m capable of. If I can run three miles on a treadmill, I can most certainly operate the gas and brake pedals on my vehicle.
“Have a seat,” Dominik urges, nodding toward one of the guest chairs. He mimics my actions and lowers himself into his seat, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” I say.
“I’ll always make time for my players. What can I do for you?”
I hold up the multipage document—the Pittsburgh Titans employment contract—and wave it. “Had an interesting conversation with Brienne Norcross after the memorial service yesterday.”
Dominik nods knowingly. “I wasn’t sure they were going to make the offer, but she had reached out to ask me about you.”
“Yeah, she told me she talked to you.”
Dominik’s expression is sympathetic. “She sure has found herself in the deep end of the pool without even a life vest to clutch on to. She’s struggling to figure out what to do, so I’m trying to help her as much as I can.”
This doesn’t surprise me. Brienne is now the sole owner of the Pittsburgh Titans, a rival to the Arizona Vengeance. While the entire league has been mourning the loss of the team, I doubt many are going to step up to help Brienne. Not because they’re selfish or they don’t want to, but because they’re all busy running their own organizations.
“They want me to be the goalie coach,” I say, my tone indicating that I’m still as disbelieving of the offer as I was yesterday.
Dominik stares at me pointedly. “And?”
“I’m not a coach.”
Dominik continues his stoic regard of my face.
“I’m a hockey player. I’m a goalie. I don’t coach.”
Dominik leans forward and clasps his hands on his desk. “I get that you’re trying to figure out whether you have the skills to coach at the professional level. It’s unheard of for a team to bring on someone without experience, so I think it says something that Brienne offered it to you.”
I hate to make this point and risk sounding like a dick at the same time, but it must be said. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s had absolutely no experience with running that team since she and her brother inherited it. He’s done everything. How do I know she’s not making the biggest mistake of the team’s life by offering me this position?”
Dominik shrugs. “You don’t know if it’s a stupid offer. All you really know is whether you’ve got the guts to try it. But that’s not why you’re really here.”
And there it is… out on the table. Dominik is forcing me to confront the real issue that we haven’t talked about since the day I was injured seven months ago.
Whether I could potentially still play hockey at a professional level.
Dominik is not a doctor. He is not a coach. He is a businessman who owns this team and truly doesn’t get involved in player decisions. But he has stayed very involved in my medical treatment. I gave full releases to my doctors to discuss my medical condition with Dominik and any member of the coaching staff as they saw fit. Dominik knows every single thing my doctors have talked to me about. The Vengeance team doctors also have my medical files from my orthopedist, my neurosurgeon, and my therapists so they can advise me and keep Dominik in the loop.
He knows as well as I do what my chances are of returning to this league.
I just need him to validate what I already suspect.
I need him to say it.
He doesn’t make it easy for me though. “There’s a chance you could get back on the ice.”
“Not a good chance,” I mutter.
I’m sure he’s seen my most recent evaluation. I’m able to walk now without pain. I am mostly stable on my feet, hand crutches providing stability if I think I need them.
I don’t. Not really.
I am doing workouts on my lower body now. I can do squats, dead lifts and leg presses, all with much lighter weights than I used to but I’m steadily improving. I’m even doing some smaller box jumps.
I can run on the treadmill, although admittedly, I use the side rails as a confidence booster.
Sure, my stamina is shot. My legs have atrophied and need to be rebuilt to match the rest of me, but I am a walking fucking miracle.
I’m also a hard worker who will do whatever it takes to reach max potential.
The only question is… what does max potential look like for me?
“A long shot, for sure,” he says in a low voice. “There’s no way you’ll be ready for next season. You’ve got another good year of hard rehab to build yourself back up again. But I’m willing to keep you on this team and let you take that shot if you want it.”
That does not help me at all. If anything, he’s shining a spotlight on the tiniest glimmer of hope that I could return to competitive play. It’s going to take more hard work, much more than I’ve even put into myself up to this point. Grueling hours in therapy and the gym. Building up muscle and then reforming it to regain flexibility, which is crucial for a goalie. Doing drills over and over and over to regain muscle memory. And then I have to prove myself against other goalies who have perfect bodies, who are younger and hungry for the position.
“So to recap,” I drawl, “it’s going to be near to impossible that I would be able to return to competitive play as a goalie for this team. And if I do, it’s not going to happen anytime soon. I don’t know how to coach, but I do know quite a bit about being a goalie, and I’ve paid attention to the people who’ve coached me from the time I first put on skates until now. I might end up being the worst goalie coach in the league, but I could help rebuild a decimated team.”
“You didn’t even need to come in and talk to me.” Dominik laughs. “You seem to have it all figured out.”
But I don’t. Not really.
Because neither choice is easy. I could take the coaching position and turn my back on the potential for a return to competitive play. I would be putting to bed my career as a player.
I could become the goalie coach for the Pittsburgh Titans, and there’s a very good chance I might suck at it. My second career could be a miserable failure.
On the flip side, I could pour my heart and soul into getting my body back in good enough shape to attempt to get my job back on this team. I could work months and months and still not be strong or steady enough. And by then, the opportunity to enter the coaching world would be gone. I’ll be a dried-up, early retired-hockey player with only a few years of investments to carry me on through life. I’ll have to go through the league’s program to find a new career, and at this point, I have no clue what even appeals to me. All I know is that I want to be around hockey in some form or fashion.
Looking Dominik squarely in the eye, I demand to know. “What should I do?”
He shakes his head, his expression somber. “I can’t answer that for you. It’s too personal a decision.”
“Well,” I drawl, trying to hide my irritation that he won’t just tell me what to do. “If you were in my shoes, what would you do?”
“I’m not in your shoes, Baden.” His voice is low, sorrowful. “I can’t even begin to imagine the physical and emotional toll you’ve endured, and in a million years, I could never weed through the pros and cons of these choices. These options can only be examined through the lenses you wear, colored by your experiences. I can only tell you that you must go with your gut.”
♦
I’d like to say Dominik was no help, but he actually was. His last words resonated… that I’ve been through so much, only I can decide what’s best for me. While neither choice is easy, and both have their perils and potential victories, I am leaning one way.
It’s why I’m having lunch with Riggs at The Sneaky Saguaro for one more opinion to make sure my leaning is correct.
After initial pleasantries, which weren’t so pleasant as I updated him on the memorial service in Pittsburgh, I told him about the job offer. He absorbed the information, asked a few questions, and then changed the subject.
While this was slightly irritating because hello, my life is hanging in the balance… I went with it.
For the past half hour, through wings and beer-battered onion rings—crappy food I would not have eaten while training my body to get back into peak shape—we’ve been talking about Veronica. Riggs’s head is in the clouds, and I let him stay there. After everything he’s been through, the dude deserves his happily ever after.
It’s when we push our plates away that Riggs locks eyes with me over the table and asks, “When are you going to ask me what to do about the Titans’ offer?”
“When are you going to stop talking about Veronica with that goofy love-struck tone of voice?” I volley.
Riggs barks out a laugh but says no more. He’s ready to hear my thoughts on the decision facing me.
One shoulder lifts in a half-hearted shrug. “I asked Dominik. He told me only I could answer that question. No one can answer it for me.”
“Bullshit,” Riggs says, and I blink in surprise. “If you ask me, I’ll tell you what I think you should do.”
“Really?” I was not expecting this. No one wants to steer me toward a decision that could end badly. Admittedly, both could end badly. But I’m curious enough to want to know what Riggs thinks. “Okay… tell me what to do.”
“Take the coaching job.” There’s no hesitation, as if he’d been mulling over this conundrum for months and had considered every angle. Which is impossible, because Veronica is the only thing he’s talked about since I told him of Brienne’s offer.
I cock a slightly jaundiced eyebrow. “And you’re basing that on what?”
Riggs’s expression is pained, but he gives me the hard truth. “Your chances of being a good goalie coach are far better than you returning to professional play in a way that would be meaningful to you. You need to take the path that gives you the best odds of success, and that’s by leaving your playing days behind.”
Christ… I was leaning that way, but it still hurts to hear him say it out loud. It makes it real that someone else—someone I trust very much—knows deep down that my return to the ice is more than a long shot.
But it also validates what my gut has been telling me since talking to Dominik.
“Let me ask you one question,” Riggs says, crossing his arms on the table and leaning forward. “What would Wes tell you to do?”
Pain lances through my chest. It’s been just over a week since he died, and I’m still trying to process my grief over losing my best friend.
“He texted me after the game in Columbus.” It was mere hours before the plane crash. “We were planning to do something here in Phoenix when the Titans were slated to play us in two weeks.”
“Did you decide on anything?” he asks.
Another shrug. “We weren’t picky about where to go to have a few beers together. But he said he had something important to tell me and wanted my advice.”
“Christ,” Riggs grumbles as he realizes the implication that I never learned what Wes wanted help with. It could’ve been a trade to another team, or that he had fallen in love, or maybe even that something horrible was going on in his life. I have no clue, only that we were going to discuss it in person when he came to Phoenix.
I smile from the rush of fondness for my best friend. “I’d like to think he’d do as you just did and tell it to me straight.”
“You’ve made up your mind,” Riggs guesses.
I nod, determined to pull the trigger. I take my phone from my pocket. “I need to make a call.”
In the email sent by Brienne Norcross’s assistant containing the offer of employment, he’d included Brienne’s cell phone number and asked me to call as soon as I’d made my decision.
Keying in the number, I lock eyes with Riggs as the phone rings. Brienne answers almost immediately. “Brienne Norcross.”
“Brienne… hi… it’s Baden Oulett.”
“Please tell me you’re accepting the offer,” she asks. Her voice sounds very tired and in need of positive news.
“I’m accepting.” Her sigh of relief is audible. “When do you need me?”
“Yesterday,” she replies, the same words she used at our first meeting. “But tomorrow would be helpful. We’re having a coaches’ meeting, and you were the last contract I’ve been waiting on. I’ve been working with Callum Derringer, our new general manager, and we’ve made most of our choices about who we’ll call up from the minors. We’ve also made offers to bring some guys out of retirement. But there are a few more decisions for which we’d like to have a collective brainstorming session.”
“Callum Derringer, huh?” I muse. He’d been fired as GM from the Ottawa Cougars a few years ago because the team “failed to thrive.” Meaning, they sucked and were one of the worst teams in the league. While he wasn’t coaching or playing, he was responsible for supplying the team with coaching and player talent.
Now he’ll basically be managing a team that’s the equivalent of the Bad News Bears, so he’s got nowhere to go but up.
“I think Callum will be a good fit here,” Brienne says diplomatically.
“I look forward to working with him,” I reply with an equal measure of politeness.
“I know you have a lot to do to relocate here, so my assistant, Michael Taft—you met him at the memorial service—can hook you up with temporary accommodations as well as a real estate agent to help you find something permanent. Whatever you need to make the transition easier, just let him know.”
“Okay… thank you.”
There’s a short silence and then Brienne says, “I’m really glad to you have you as part of the organization.”
We make our goodbyes, and I set my phone on the table. Eyes on Riggs, I say, “Looks like I’m moving to Pittsburgh tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” he says, surprised.
“They want to rebuild the team and get them on the ice as soon as possible.”
“Wow,” he murmurs, understanding what a massive and almost insurmountable task this might be. His gaze slides to the side for a moment before snapping back to me. “You know what this calls for?”
“What?”
His lips curve upward, eyes flashing mischievously. “A going-away party. Tonight. I’ll arrange everything.”
“Just the gang, okay?” It’s going to be heartbreaking to leave the team, and I don’t have it in me to manage a lot of emotional goodbyes. I want to keep it small.
Riggs nods. He understands what I mean by just the gang. Not the whole team, and certainly not the rookies. Just those guys who I have the tightest bonds with. I know he has my back on this.
CHAPTER 2
Sophie
Movement outside my home office window catches my attention. A police car drives by slowly with its lights on but no siren. Behind it is a black hearse, followed by a black sedan with tinted windows. Behind that, a long line of cars heads toward the cemetery three blocks up from my Duquesne Heights home. All the vehicles have their headlights on.
I read in the paper yesterday that there were still several more funerals over the next few days following the memorial service at the Titans’ arena yesterday. I have no clue if this particular funeral procession is for someone who was on that plane, but it immediately brought the crash to mind. It’s all anyone is talking about.
Local TV news, the newspapers, and social media are buzzing. At first, it was abject horror over the event and the massive loss of life. Now talk is switching to what the future looks like for the Titans.
Pittsburgh is known for many things, its long-ago era of steel production replaced by banking, tech, and top-ranked medical care. Downtown streets flanked by Gothic-style buildings bustle with commerce while lovely rivers and the rolling hills that surround the city soften the steel and concrete, making it a beautiful, unique place to live.
But mostly, Pittsburgh is known for its sports, boasting professional football, baseball, and hockey teams. And the fans here are the most rabid of anywhere else—all the teams are revered regardless of their win/loss records. Go into my closet or drawers, and you’ll find T-shirts, jackets, and jerseys for every one of our teams.
The loss of the Pittsburgh Titans has been a huge blow to the city, and people are struggling because it’s part of our identity. People are looking for a glimmer of hope that all is not lost when it comes to our hockey team.
I did see on the morning news that the Titans owner, Brienne Norcross, has promised she is working hard to rebuild the team as quickly as possible so our season can continue. She was very diplomatic when she said, “We are building from scratch. It might take years for us to regain our footing, but whoever we’re able to put out on that ice will carry the spirit of those talented and tenacious players we so tragically lost.”
It was a reminder that the team is going to be scraped together and will probably suck, but that we will have a team. I look forward to seeing what will happen.
I turn my attention from the funeral procession back to my laptop as I review next month’s travel schedule I’m putting together. Part of my current job is to coordinate where each of our training reps travels, as well as ensure they have proper accommodations and transportation.
