Chapter 13
Lance
Lance hurried down the hallway to Mr. Tremblay's hotel room.
“Come in,” Mr. Tremblay said. He had an iPad propped up on the hotel room dining table, and two chairs arranged in front of it. “Take a seat, Lance.”
Lance knew before he sat that it was another conference call. The whole setup made him feel like he was being put on trial. Lance took a seat, and Mr. Tremblay sat next to him. The tablet showed a Skype video feed, with both Kip Sterling and the Boston Brawlers team owner, Jim James. A wealthy businessman of few words, Mr. James didn't like to get involved in the day-to-day. Seeing him at all, outside of team events, generally meant you'd done something wrong.
Lance swallowed and gave a small wave at the tablet's camera. “Hey there, guys.”
Mr. James didn't say a word. Lance suspected he wouldn't talk at all either. He was there to silently observe.
Kip Sterling skipped the greeting. “Let's get right down to business then, shall we?”
“Sure.”
“Lance, to be perfectly honest, I'm a bit disappointed,” Kip began. “Earlier, I thought we were making progress with you. When my team and I saw the moment you waved at that baby in the stands—that was perfect! I pumped my fist and said to myself, Yes! He gets it! That footage gave us a nice moment to share on your social media, and it was viewed over 110,000 times. Not bad for a few hours.” Kip sighed. “And then this happened.”
The bar fight scene from Zickell's began to play on the screen.
“Yeah, I've seen the video,” Lance said. “I don't need to see it again.”
“Maybe you should watch it again,” Kip said, “because in the hour since that video was posted, it's already been viewed over a million times.”
With a sigh, Lance watched himself swinging at a Fury fan, knocking the guy into next week. The video looped. Lance was stuck in an infinite cycle of alcohol-fueled violence and brutal aggression.
Lance leaned closer to the iPad's camera. He pointed at the butterfly bandages that ran across his brow. “See this? What that video doesn't show you is that guy sucker punching me. Either the person filming just barely missed that moment, or they purposely edited it out to make me look bad.”
“It doesn't matter, Lance. Whoever hit who first, what you need to do is contact me ASAP.”
Lance groaned. “Really? It was a minor scuffle at a bar. These things happen all the time, guys.”
Mr. James silently shook his head.
“Yes, really,” Kip said. “And I sure hope these things don't happen all the time. A minor scuffle at a bar can be very bad news. I thought I made it quite clear that, in order for this to work, our relationship needs to be a two-way street of trust and communication.” He made the universal gesture for two-way street. “Anything that happens—anything at all—that could potentially hurt your reputation, you need to let me know immediately, so we can begin damage control.”
“Okay. Got it,” Lance said curtly. “So what's your idea for damage control on this one?”
Mr. James spoke at last. “Lance, you will go to the Nashville Police Department and request to give a statement about the bar fight.”
“I understand, Mr. James. When should I do that?”
“Immediately.”
“But the team has to catch a flight to Florida tonight—”
Mr. James shook his head. “Lance, you won't be joining the team. You are suspended until further notice—until this matter is solved.”
“What!”
Mr. James left the video feed. He'd said what he needed to say, apparently.
Kip picked up where the owner had left off. “Lance, after the fight video broke, Sterling Image ran some emergency focus group testing. We found that an official statement to the Nashville police and a team-enforced suspension polled favorably—”
“I gotta be honest, Kip. Two-way street and all that, right? I'm getting pretty sick of these focus groups. I don't see why I'm being punished. Did the guy press charges against me? No? Then why should I have to give a statement to the police? And why exactly am I being suspended? For getting punched?”
“Going to the police shows responsibility, Lance. It also proves that you're not afraid of investigation, which will support your claim. The suspension proves that the Brawlers organization will not accept that kind of behavior from their players, and that you won't be treated specially just because you're a star. Whoever started the fight doesn't matter.”
“Alright. Whatever. I'll do it.”
Lance managed to tune out Kip Sterling's bullshit during the rest of the video call. It was hard not to be bitter or disappointed by the way events had unfolded. He knew he hadn't done anything wrong—his only crime was being caught on camera. Okay, maybe he shouldn't have swung back on that guy. But that was more instinct than anything. Out on the ice, you have to be willing to stand up and defend yourself. You can't let someone sock you in the face and get away with it. You had to show that you wouldn't be bullied around.
But … he wanted to be captain. And that meant being held to a higher standard than the rest of his teammates.
When the call was over, Lance walked back to his room. His teammates were leaving their rooms, heading downstairs to catch the bus to the airport. It felt weird not joining them. He'd never been suspended before. Almost made him feel lost.
Lance entered his room and frowned. Paige had already left.
If nothing else, it would've been nice to have her company. Someone to talk to about Kip Sterling. The trouble of trying to be captain. All that.
Lance cracked a grin. It wasn't like him to miss a girl.
He set his bag down and left the room, hailed a cab, and headed to the Nashville Police Department.
***
If Lance wasn't sure why he had to go to the local precinct, the Nashville PD weren't much more helpful.
He was taken to a room with two other officers. The police hadn't heard about the incident at Zickell's. No phone calls, no police reports. Lance showed them the video and explained his case.
“So you said this guy hit you first?” one of the officers asked.
“Yep.”
“Do you know who he is?” the other one asked.
“Nope.”
“Looks like some drunk. I'd say you tuned him up pretty good. Are you wanting to press charges?”
“No. I really don't care.”
The officers looked at each other. “If you don't care, why are you here?”
“Hell if I know. I'm supposed to give a statement. Can we do that or not?”
“Well … alright …” the first officer shuffled some papers around, then passed Lance a blank sheet. “Can you sign this first, by the way? It's for my son. He's a big hockey fan.”
“Sure.”
Lance gave his statement and was out the door a little while later.
Well, that was pointless.
He made it back to his hotel room shortly after 1 AM. When he saw his empty bed, and disappointment rippled in his belly once more, he couldn't help but think of Paige again. Yeah, it was late, but who knows, maybe she'd be up?
He dug out his cell phone and dialed the number she'd entered. It went straight to voicemail.
“Hi, this is Paige. Leave a message!”
Lance smiled at the melody of her Tennessee twang. He loved listening to her speak. Her voice made him think of warm honey. Or holding his palms up to a crackling camp fire on a freezing fall night. Or cozying up with a mug full of steaming hot cocoa after a long day out on the frozen pond, like when he was a kid.
Something about her accent was so heart warming. He wanted to hear it again.
He dialed the number once more.
“Hi, this is Paige. Leave a message!”