Mackenzie
Don Sandusky was the newest coach of the Galveston Fury. He had been hired by team owner, Johnny Pepper, to gather up what little respect the team name had left and shepherd them out from the bowels of the leader board. For the last five years he had been languishing in retirement after a remarkable career as a pro hockey player in the early 1980s, followed by a successful career in coaching where he led three teams to the Stanley Cup playoffs. He had retired to Florida but had been enticed away from the Sunshine State with a big fat retainer.
Don Sandusky was a man who knew hockey.
He was also a man of routine. He liked routine. He lived by routine. He was routine.
Which made my job a little easier.
Every Saturday you could find him at the Fisherman’s Friend Bar & Grill on Seawall Boulevard, downing twenty-year-old scotch and watching ESPN while chatting with Old Murray, the bartender.
And this was exactly where I found him.
Sliding onto the stool next to him, I ordered a brandy from Old Murray and took in the game on the TV set above the bar.
I ordered another brandy for me and a Glenfiddich for Don.
“And what do I owe this pleasure?” Don asked me.
No words passed between us as Old Murray poured our drinks, and then pushed them across the bar.
“Are you a reporter?” Don asked.
“No.” I handed him his scotch and we clinked glasses. “Sports management.”
“Ah,” he nodded and threw back a mouthful of the scotch. “Worse.”
He stood up to leave, throwing a few bills down on the bar.
I had to think quick before he walked out. “I think I can help the Fury win a spot in the Stanley Cup playoffs.”
That stopped him. Well, it piqued his interested, at least. He turned skeptic eyes toward me.
“Oh, yeah? You got a magic wand, lil’ lady?”
I shook my head. “No. I’ve got something better.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“Jake Pennington.”
He scoffed. But I could tell I had his attention because he leaned against the bar.
“That drunk? His time is done. He’s got no form left. Last I heard he was lost in the bottom of a bottle.”
I smiled. “He’s in the best shape of his life.”
Another scoff. But Don still didn’t leave. “Sure he is.” I pulled my cell from my bag, found the recorded footage of Jake’s pond game and placed it on the bar next to the crusty old coach.
He couldn’t help himself. Two seconds of watching it and my phone was in his hot little hands and his eyes glued to the screen.
The clip was three minutes and forty-two seconds long.
I had him within the first minute.
He eased himself down on the stool next to me, intrigued with what he was watching.
When the clip finished he handed me the phone back. “Okay, you have my attention.”
I offered him a knowing smile. “I thought I might.”
“I’ll meet with him.”
I tilted my head. If he thought I was going to be a pushover, then he was wrong. “No. He doesn’t come down here without an offer.”
Don pushed up on the bar to stand. He was going to leave.
“You’re three down, Don. Your star defense is buried so deep in a cocaine and hooker scandal he’s going to need a map to get back. You have a winger with a serious drinking problem, not to mention poor fashion sense. And your captain is facing time for sexual misconduct with an underage girl who is now pregnant with his baby. Two of your major sponsors are already gone and Johnny Pepper is understandably pissed. Every time your team fucks up, it costs him money. Not to mention pushes him three steps back from the Stanley Cup. You’re at the bottom of the leader board, Don, and everyone knows it. No one sees you as a threat. You’re just there to make up numbers. Why, the New York City Ice Cats even told Time they were going to mop the floor with you guys just to have something to do.” I watched as pride and pain conflicted in his wise old eyes. “Come on, Coach, what better way to stick it to everyone than by having Jake Pennington step out onto that ice as a Fury. Isn’t it time you mop the floor with these smart-ass, show pony teams that think they are so much better than you? Now I know you have untapped funds now that your star is toast and you have two wingers facing jail time. And I know for a fact that if you wave Pennington in front of Johnny Pepper he’ll get a boner for the idea.” I threw back another mouthful of brandy, letting my argument marinade inside the coach. “Jake comes down here, leads your team through the last nine weeks of the season and you pay him an even mil. He gets you to the Cup playoffs and it’s one and three quarters.”
I had done the math. There was still time for the Fury to make it to the Cup playoffs as a wild card. If they had Jake.
Don’s eyes glittered across at me. Suddenly he burst out laughing like I was a freaking stand-up comic. “You’re kidding me, right?”
I stayed stoic. I had never made a hockey deal in my life and I was probably way out of my league. But I wouldn’t let Coach think that for a minute. I knew Jake was worth it.
My eye contact didn’t waiver. I even folded my arms and gave him a confident, close-lipped smile.
“I may have a great sense of humor, Coach. But I never joke about business.”
His smile faded as he thought for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed and he asked, “What makes you think Pennington can get our team to the playoffs?”
I selected another clip on my phone. It was the one of Jake fooling around on the ice. Actually, he’d been showing off more than anything—tearing across the frozen pond and then quicker than a blink of an eye he was skating backwards. The clip was only thirty-six seconds long, but it was half a minute of proof that Jake still knew what he was doing on the ice. The speed and skill was still there. He had only needed to get his passion back.
And I had a feeling it was on its way.
“I know he can. You’ve just got to ask yourself if you’re ready to get there.” I tapped the bar with a perfectly manicured fingernail. French polish. They were my only attempt at being girlie. “What do you say, Coach. We got a deal?”
“You know, my daddy always said a handshake was as good as a signature on a piece of paper,” Coach said in his thick Texan drawl.
“My daddy said a deal wasn’t a deal until you signed on the dotted line.”
Coach laughed and then nodded. “I like you.”
“I’ll like you a whole lot better when I drop by your office tomorrow and you have a contract waiting for me.” I stood up and threw back the last of my brandy. “Let’s say around two o’clock? Does that work for you?”
He thought for a moment and then nodded in defeat. “One big one for the season and the Cup playoffs.”
“One and a half.”
“One one,” he countered.
“One million two hundred and fifty,” I countered back.
“You have a deal.”
We shook hands. “See you tomorrow.”
As I began to walk away he said, “Just so you know, I would’ve given you one five.”
I turned and winked at him. “And I would’ve agreed to an even one million.”
As I turned and walked out, I couldn’t help but grin. People thought the big deals were made in skyscrapers inside glass and chrome offices by executives in Armani suits using gold pens to sign multimillion-dollar contracts. So far my two biggest meetings in this business happened in a bar. Sports deals in a bar—the irony wasn’t lost on me. My way was a lot more fun.
* * *
Johnny Pepper was an eccentric oil tycoon worth billions. A cigar chain smoker with only a whisper of hair left on his head, he was as tall as an ewok and when he spoke he sounded as if he had drank bleach and broken glass for breakfast.
He was also a control freak.
So it was no surprise to find him waiting for me in Coach’s office the next day when I stopped by to work out Jake’s contract.
In fact, it was exactly what I had anticipated.
And needed.
Because Johnny Pepper needed to be more than aware of Jake Pennington and I needed to get him excited about Jake playing for the Galveston Fury. The quicker he realized how important Jake was to the Fury, the better.
That goal took me all of two minutes. As soon as he saw my footage of Jake on the ice he picked up his phone. “Dusty, get the jet ready. We’re going to New York.”
* * *