Only One Touch (Only One 4)

“You weren’t even the coach,” he spits at Michel.

“I didn’t have to be the coach to know. There are very few who can skate at forty and make a difference.”

“I agree,” I say. “It’s one thing to give them a one-year contract, but to sign them to these long contracts that I’m now stuck paying plus the ones I need. Which is why every fucking year I have to let go of players that I actually need.”

“Oh, come on.” His hand moves in the air.

“My father left you in charge,” I say, “and trusted you, and what did you do?”

“It’s not my fault.” He shakes his head. “I’m not taking all the blame.”

“You should,” I say, and Michel nods his head.

“You’re the one who put those contracts together. You’re the one who hired every single player who was retiring. I don’t even know what you were thinking.”

“I was thinking that a man with experience could lead us to the Cup,” he says.

“How do you think they are going to lead us to the Cup if they can’t fucking skate, Frank?” I shake my head and hold up my hand. “It’s no secret that I’m not renewing your contract when it expires.”

“I wouldn’t want to stay here anyway,” he says, making me laugh.

“Then why don’t you leave now?” I say. “I mean, let’s face it. You aren’t doing anything.”

“That’s because you’re a control freak who won’t let me do my job!” he shouts, slamming his hand on the table. I think the fact that I’m cool, calm, and collected irritates him even more.

“That is because I sat down and read these contracts,” I say. “You know the difference between my father and me?” I look at him, and he just glares at me. I know that as soon as he leaves here, he will call my father. He always does. “I give a shit. I want to win.” I look at him. “I’m going to make sure that I build a team that has the same thirst for the Cup as I do.”

He stands from his chair and looks at me. “You didn’t work for this team,” he says. “It was handed to you.”

“What was handed to me was a pile of shit,” I say. “But I’m going to turn that pile of shit into gold.” He laughs at me and walks out of the room. I look around the table. “Just so we’re clear, if you aren’t here to fight to get to number one, then you should leave now.” I look around the room and then look at Lizzie, who smirks. I clap my hands together. “Let’s get to work.”

Chapter 3

Becca

The sweat pours off me as I run on the treadmill, looking out the window in my home gym as the sun slowly rises. It’s my thing to get up every day at five thirty, no matter where I am, and run for at least an hour. It clears my head. I also come up with the best ideas while on this fucking treadmill.

The television plays in the background as I make my list of notes. The beep of the treadmill lets me know I’ll be slowing down. My running goes from full speed to a slow jog, giving my breathing a chance to return to normal as I cool down. I grab my water bottle and finish it as the treadmill comes to a stop. Grabbing my towel, I wipe the sweat away from my face as I make my way to my bedroom. The penthouse was the first real big thing I bought for myself. It set me back close to ten million, but it was just what I wanted.

The two-floor penthouse has floor-to-ceiling windows in every room, providing a lot of natural light. I head into my bathroom, opening the shower door and starting the water while I peel off my sports bra and black shorts. Stepping into the massive shower, I let the water run over my long brown hair as I wash.

When I step out, I slip on my terry cloth robe and wrap my hair up to walk to the kitchen. The kitchen is all white with black marble countertops. The stainless-steel appliances are not used that much since I’m rarely home. I think the only time I use the stove is on Saturday and Sunday. The fridge is always fully stocked, thanks to my cleaning lady who comes in twice a week. I start the Nespresso coffee machine, then grab my milk and pour some in. Going back to the fridge, I pick up the turkey sausage and a couple of eggs to start my breakfast while I drink my coffee. I’m taking out the stuff for my shake when my phone rings, and I grab it without looking at the name.

“Hello,” I say, looking over at the clock to see what time it is. It’s just after eight—early for a Saturday morning—so that could only mean one thing. Shit is going down somewhere.