A Perfect Strategy. Anna Sugden

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Scott tossed his cell into his bag, then tightened his laces and tied them off. He grabbed his stick, then headed out of the locker room. Three of his friends who still played for the Cats would be joining him shortly for a prearranged practice, but he enjoyed this time with the rink to himself.

      Relishing the crisp air and the fresh ice beneath his blades, Scott began to warm up by skating laps. He picked up speed and switched directions, doing crossovers forward and backward in time to the pounding rock beat blaring from the speakers. Then he switched to sprints between the blue lines.

      “Looking good, old man,” Rick “Ice Man” Kasanski called as he stepped out of the penalty box carrying a bucket of pucks. “Having your butt planted in a commentator’s chair all season hasn’t dulled your skills much.”

      Scott stopped sharply, sending a spray of ice over his friend. “I can still skate your candy ass into the ground, Ice Man.”

      “Please. You’ve never been faster than me.” Kasanski brushed aside Scott’s comment with a wave of his gloved hand. “At least, not going forward. I’ll admit you might have the edge going backward, D-man.”

      “You can take that to the bank. It’s all the racing to protect the net when you cocky forwards cough up the puck.”

      Ice Man swiped his stick at Scott’s legs, trying to hook his skates from under him, but Scott managed to avoid him. He gave a colorful analysis of Kasanski’s parentage in reply.

      “Come on, ladies.” Chance Rivera joined them, lining up water bottles on the dasher boards. “Put those handbags away.”

      “Yeah. We have work to do.” The Cats’ backup goaltender, Chaz “Monty” Montgomery, skated up, trailing a practice net behind him. “Chance and I have a small wager on how many he can get past me. He’s buying me lunch when we’re done.”

      Rivera snorted. “Have your wallet ready, Net-Boy. I’ve got moves that’ll earn me a steak with all the works.”

      Monty pulled on his mask. “Winning at backyard hockey with your toddler twins doesn’t mean you can beat the master of the twine.”

      “Behold, the Master of the Twine,” Scott intoned in a Hollywood-trailer voice. “Fends off pucks with his mighty twig.”

      “More like the Knave of the Basket. Because of the biscuits he collects in there.” Kasanski cracked up at his own joke. He only laughed harder when Monty flipped him the bird and told him where he could stick those biscuits.

      Before anyone could drop the gloves, Scott corralled his friends and got them skating warm-up drills.

      After a decent workout, which had them all pretty gassed, they headed to the locker room. As they showered and dressed, Chance and Monty continued their debate about whether the goaltender would still have won their contest if they hadn’t been chased off the rink by a figure-skating class. Naturally, Kasanski did his best to wind up both sides, while Scott declared himself Switzerland.

      Scott was zipping up his sports bag when his cell chirped with a missed call. Picking it up, he was surprised to see the name of his former general manager.

      He looked at his friends. “Any reason Callum Hardshaw would be calling me?”

      Kasanski shook his head. “Not that I can think of.”

      Rivera shrugged. “Maybe he wants to offer you a job.”

      “He knows I don’t want to coach.” Though even that would be better than sitting on his ass at home, doing nothing.

      “What about scouting?” Monty offered.

      “Definitely not. I’m done with traveling the whole time. Scouting would be worse. Heading to all those junior and college teams to check out prospects—I’d never be home.”

      “Team ambassador?” Chance pulled on a black T-shirt with the team’s snow-leopard logo. “You know, schmooze the sponsors and the season-ticket holders at Ice Cats events.”

      “Not my scene either.” A job where he had to spend his time making small talk? No way.

      “I bet Hardshaw wants you for some PR stuff,” Ice Man said, combing his wet dark hair. “Some fancy, high-dollar-a-plate dinner where you’re the big-bucks draw.”

      “Why would the GM call me for that? Usually I hear from the marketing guy when they want my face or name.”

      “Didn’t he move on?” Monty frowned. “To that soccer team, the Bridgers. He got pissed about the way the Scartellis kept nixing his proposals while spending crazy amounts of money on weird promotions the fans hated.”

      “There were changes in the front office over the summer,” Scott said. “But I thought it was because of budget cuts. Either way, it’s a shame. The kid was pretty switched on.”

      “If you ask me, those kinds of people—advertising, marketing, PR—are a dime a dozen,” Rivera said.

      “None of which tells me why Hardshaw called.” Scott tapped his cell against his chin.

      “You could do the obvious thing and phone him back.”

      He cuffed the back of Kasanski’s head. “I know that, numbnuts.” He hit Call Back.

      Hardshaw answered on the first ring. “Hey, Scotty, how’s it going?”

      “Not bad. You?”

      “Yeah, good. Busy. You know how it is.”

      He didn’t but played along. “For sure. So, what can I do for you?”

      “Any chance you could stop by sometime today? I have a couple ideas I’d like to bounce off you.”

      Scott tried to read the GM’s voice but couldn’t. “I have an hour this afternoon, at three, if that works for you.” He had the whole freaking afternoon free, but he wasn’t about to let Hardshaw know that.

      “Great. See you then.”

      Once he’d hung up, Scott turned to his friends. “He wants to see me.” He relayed the brief conversation. “I’ve got nothing to lose by hearing what he has to say. It’s not like I have anything else on the horizon.”

      Monty clapped him on the shoulder. “They say the second year of retirement is the hardest. When reality sets in. If you can get through that, you’ll be fine.”

      “Thanks for that.”

      “Good thing you have us around to keep you from turning into an old man—pipe and slippers and reading the paper by the fire.” Kasanski smacked Scott’s stomach with the back of his hand. “We’ll keep you from getting fat and flabby, too.”

      Scott slung his bag over his shoulder. “Look who’s talking, Ice Man. You were puffing like a steam train in those last sprints. Too much fun in the sun over the summer?”

      “Too much junk food and too many margaritas in Cancún,” Rivera said. “With that and J.B.’s wedding bash on the weekend, I don’t think Kasanski СКАЧАТЬ