“I understand, sir,” he says with a slight bow. “I can escort you to the owner’s box and you can wait there. I believe the service should be done in about fifteen minutes.”
I really want to leave, but it would be rude to do so when I’ve been specifically requested for a talk with the now-singular owner of a dead team. So I nod and follow the man as he leads me to the owner’s box.
?
Brienne Norcross is a beautiful woman, but I don’t know much about her other than she inherited ownership with her brother, Adam, when their father passed away two years ago. I don’t know her age, but I’d guess early thirties. She’s dressed appropriately in black, her pale-blond hair pulled back into a tight knot at the nape that accentuates every curve and angle of her face. Her eyes are a deep blue, but they’re rimmed red from tears, and dark circles indicate she hasn’t been sleeping.
Can’t blame her.
“Mr. Oulett,” she says as she strides into the owner’s box, the assistant who brought me up here on her heels. He hangs by the door. “I’m Brienne Norcross.”
She holds out her hand, and I take it, having ditched my crutches in favor of leaning an elbow on a tall table. “Ms. Norcross, I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”
“Please call me Brienne,” she says, and then politely asks, “May I call you Baden?”
“Sure,” I reply.
Our hands release, and she steps to the other side of the table, leaning her forearms on it and clasping her hands so she can face me.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, needing to get those condolences out. I have no clue what her relationship was with her brother, but by the tears swimming in her eyes, I’m assuming they were close.
She nods, faintly smiling. “Thank you. It’s still sinking in. I understand you were quite close to Wes Hollyfield.”
I’m shocked she knows such a personal tidbit about me, and it must show on my face.
“Forgive me,” she says softly. “I talked to Dominik Carlson about you yesterday, and he told me about your friendship with Wes. That’s how I knew you’d be here.”
Now I’m really fucking confused, and given the toll the last week has taken, I’m not in a good mood about it. “You talked to Dominik about me? Why?”
“I’ll need to rebuild the team, of course. And—”
I snort, hard and loud. It’s rude, and I’m unapologetic. “In case you haven’t noticed, my legs don’t work quite right. I get you need a new team, but I’m sure not your best choice for a goalie.”
Brienne’s cheeks flush pink, and she apologizes. “I’m sorry. I’m not very good at what it takes to run a professional hockey team. Yes, I understand fully about your medical situation, but I’m not looking for a new goalie.”
“Then what are you looking for?” I ask tentatively.
“A new goalie coach.” Her eyes bore into mine, and there’s no apology now. “While Dominik would not give me any information on your current medical status, I’ve read a news summary of your condition. I have no clue whether you can return to play, but I wanted to offer you an alternative.”
“An alternative?”
“As the goalie coach for our team,” she adds, because I can see she’s unsure if I understand the offer.
“I’m not a coach,” I say, the denial of my potential immediate.
“You’re not a player either,” she replies coolly, and I wince. That was harsh, but accurate.
“Why me?” I ask, needing to know if I’m a charity case, needing to know if she’s making stabs in the dark, maybe not even truly caring about this team.
“Actually, my brother Adam had his eye on you.” The mention of his name causes a tiny sound to warble in her throat. She looks down at her hands until she regains her composure. When she looks back up, her eyes are watery but determined. “He was going to reach out to you to see if you wanted an assistant goalie coach position. Our current coach—I mean, our coach who was on the plane—was going to retire at the end of next season. Adam was considering bringing you on as an assistant to groom you to take over next season.”
“Oh.” My gaze cuts left to look out of the owner’s box. We’re too far back from the railing to view the entire arena floor, but I can see it’s mostly emptied out.
“I know this is a lot to process, especially after losing your friend. My goal is to rebuild the team as quickly as possible, and I’m going to need an answer soon. I have a written offer for you—”
“Rebuild?” I exclaim, interrupting what sounded like a very rehearsed speech. “How in the hell can you rebuild an entire team?”
I’m angry at the notion that they could be replaced so easily.