that the Austin Arrows need is another black mark on an already tarnished reputation.
And to think, a little more than two years ago, we were riding high from our Stanley Cup win.
That damn sure isn’t the case anymore.
Regardless, I owe it to the team and to myself to be at my best, no matter how fucked up we’ve allowed the situation to get. And Lord help us all, it is a clusterfuck of epic proportions.
As I head across the parking lot, shouldering the bag that contains some extra clothes, I keep my eyes down, my attention on the asphalt beneath my feet. My brother once told me that if you do it right, you become invisible. Some people might think it’s cool to have fans who want nothing more than to meet you and get your autograph, but there are times when it becomes a nuisance. Like right now, when I want nothing more than to sneak inside and get this day underway.
For about thirty seconds, it works … right up until I hear someone calling my name.
“Mount Rushmore! Can I get your autograph? It’s for my son.”
Stopping on the sidewalk, I smile at the woman sporting jeans and a faded, wrinkled T-shirt. If I’m not mistaken, that’s syrup over her left breast. I lift my eyes to meet hers. The first thing I notice is that there’s a huge thumbprint smudge on her glasses.
Clearly she isn’t here to hit on me like some of the chicks I’ve encountered. She looks flustered and tired and, more than likely, really did hit the arena during practice just to get her kid an autograph.
“What’s his name?” I gladly take the hockey stick from her hand, along with the Sharpie marker.
“Carson,” she answers quickly. “He told me what you look like so if I did come down, I’d find you. Tomorrow’s his birthday. He’ll be fifteen.”
I try to think what description the kid could’ve given her that would make me stand out. Brown hair, brown eyes, beard, six three… I look like damn near every other guy on the team, minus the beard, of course.
I smile as I scribble a note on the stick. “Does he play?”
“He does. He’s a goalie. Wants to play pro one day.”
Her smile reflects the pride she has in her son. I like that.
“And his grades?” Sure, it’s a personal question, but one I make a point to ask when it comes to kids and hockey. Natural skills, honed by practice, are good to have, but brains are more important, no matter what professional sport you want to play.
“He’s a smart kid. All As and Bs.”
“Tell him to keep those grades up.” I offer a quick smile. “And hang tight a minute, I’ll send someone out with some stuff for him. Cool?”
“You really don’t have to do that.” Her eyes widen behind the thick, dark rim of her glasses. “But thank you so much.”
“Sure thing.” I hand back the stick and the marker.
As I move past the other loyal fans who have gathered outside to get a glimpse—and possibly an autograph—of their favorite Austin Arrows player, then into the building and down the narrow hall to the locker room, I mentally prepare myself for…
“Rush! Conference room! Now! Everyone else, you’ve got thirty seconds!”
That.
“Fuck,” I mutter, dropping my bag on the floor with a resounding thud. I glance around, looking for someone who can take care of the woman outside. When the young kid who helps out with gear saunters by, I grab him by the back of his shirt.
“Hey, Dixon. Do me a favor.”
The kid spins around with a huge grin on his face. “Sure, what’s up, Rush?”
“There’s a woman outside. Dark hair, ponytail, glasses. Her son’s name is Carson. Take her some stuff. Her kid’s birthday is tomorrow.”
“Like what?”
I shrug. “I don’t give a shit. Get some autographed stuff. Pictures, pucks, whatever.”
“Autographed by who?”
I cock an eyebrow as I watch the kid, trying to figure out if he’s serious. Surely not. Except, he doesn’t move, which leads me to believe he is. Christ.
“By me.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Lord help us all.
As the guys all pile into the hallway and head toward the conference room, I grumble good mornings as we bump one another. Not exactly the way I was hoping the morning would start, but these days, I don’t have much of a say in anything.
However, a little ice time before we have our asses handed to us would’ve been nice.
Well, that or breakfast.
I take a deep breath as I