Page 8 of Grizz

“Mr.Langley wants to see you in his office,” shouts the equipment manager.

“I’m in the middle of practice,” I retort.

“He knows, but he requested you come now.”

I give the guy a quick death stare, then skate to the rink’s door and head into the vacant locker room.

Rare are the moments a hockey player is alone in the locker room.It’s almost never a good sign, case in point.

I tear off my gear.First the gloves hitting the floor of my stall before they’ve even stopped steaming.Shoulder pads next.I rip the Velcro straps open with a jerk and let the whole thing drop behind me.The jersey’s drenched, clinging to my back, but I wrench it over my head and slam it onto the ground in a crumpled heap.

I sit down just long enough to yank off my shin guards, tossing them to the side without looking.The tape around my wrists is slick with sweat, but I tear it off with my teeth and spit it onto the floor.

Every movement is measured but efficient.I’ve done this a thousand times, but right now, it’s not routine.It’s battle prep.Stripping down before I walk into a different kind of fight.

By the time I’m down to compression pants and adrenaline, I’m pacing in the area by my stall.I drag a hand through my hair and exhale once.

I already had a sit-down with Langley a month ago, not long after the season started.He wants the best out of me.That’s what he said, clear and simple.And I told him that he has to take the good with the bad.The goodneedsthe bad.The badfuelsthe good.

Now, he wants another conversation.Mainly, he wants control.But if he thinks I’m walking into that office ready to bow my head and beg?

Ain’t happening.

The halls of the Vipers facility are too clean.Corporate to the bone—sleek white walls, framed black-and-white photos of legends who haven’t worn the jersey in decades, and LED overhead lights.

Every hallway looks the same with its symmetrical, sterile design, meant to impress visiting execs, not the guys bleeding for this team.The place smells like eucalyptus and fresh paint, not sweat-drenched equipment like it should.

Flat-screens hang from the walls, looping highlight and promotional reels—“The Vipers Are Coming Out of Their Den”—like we’re a brand, not a brotherhood.One of them shows a clip of me burying my game-winning goal last night.I snort.Good to know I’m still marketable in high definition.

I round the corner past the treatment room, where guys get their injuries tended to, and nod at a trainer who quickly looks away.

Smart.

The closer I get to the battleground, the stiffer my spine becomes.My fists are clenching and unclenching instinctively.The blood rushes hot beneath my skin, that deep thrum of fury building in my chest.I don’t know if Langley wants to scream, fine me, threaten me, or trade me, but whatever it is, I’m ready for it.

Hell, Iwantit.

Let him try.Let him tell me I’ve gone too far, that I’m bad for the brand.Let him act like this team has anything without me.

The hallway narrows before opening into the glass double doors of the executive wing.The Vipers logo—a venomous green snake with glowing eyes—stares back at me with evil intent.

I square my shoulders and push through.The receptionist greets me with a smile.“Mr.Langley’s waiting for you in his office.You can go right in.”

The owner of the New York Vipers is standing behind his desk, not sitting.That’s his first move—power posture.Custom designer suit, gold Patek Philippe watch, hair so precisely styled it looks airbrushed.He doesn’t speak right away.He watches me walk in with that clipped, unreadable expression he’s perfected.

We don’t greet each other, and he doesn’t offer me a seat.Rather, he folds his hands behind his back and steps around the desk like he’s circling a land mine.

For a second, neither of us says anything.The silence stretches thin and tight, tension coiling in the air.

I feel the restraint radiating from his body.His left eye just barely twitches, and I know—I know—I’m already under his skin.

This is his office, but I’ve been in more dangerous places.On the ice, there’s blood and glass and flying elbows.In here?It’s just two men playing a different kind of game.

He finally speaks, voice low but commanding.“We have a problem.”

“Which is?”I ask.

“The league’s breathing down my neck,” he continues.“Sponsors are nervous.The media are circling, looking for stories, desperate for an implosion.You’ve managed to turn a win into a crisis.”