Chapter 2
Lance Couture
Two Years Later
Boston, Massachusetts
Lance Couture's bright red Lamborghini Murciélago roared to a stop at the entrance of the player's parking garage. The door of the Italian supercar opened, rising straight up into the air, and the athlete stepped out.
Lance tossed the keys to the garage attendant, Wally. He was a slight, older man with age spots visible beneath his wispy, graying hair. Wally had held this job since before any of the current Brawlers were even born; in fact, he'd personally parked the Brawlers' players' cars dating back to the days of the great Bobby Orr.
“Careful with her—” Lance began, the same thing he said every time he handed off his car.
“—she's my baby,” Wally said, completing their ritual.
Lance was one of the fastest, most explosive skaters in the league—and it showed. His powerful thighs bulged beneath his snug-fitting blue jeans as he walked, entering the arena. His heather green t-shirt was distressed to aesthetic perfection, and glimpses of his solid pecs and chiseled abs showed through the intentional rips and tears.
Both items he wore, despite their simplicity, were designer clothes that sold for over a thousand dollars. His leather loafers had cost even more. The only thing he wore that wouldn't feed a small family for a month was his hat: a black baseball cap, turned backwards and adorned with the Brawlers logo.
Lance worked his way through the arena with his trademark swagger. It was the confident step of a man who, at age 24, had established himself as one of the league's premier superstars.
He stepped into the VIP elevator and shot up to the top floor. He emerged down a long hallway with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the giant sheet of ice below. Eyeing the empty ice, Lance could still hear last night's raucous Boston crowd chanting his name after his overtime heroics.
At the end of the hallway, Lance pushed open the set of mahogany double doors emblazoned with the black and gold Brawlers logo. Waiting in the conference room inside were the Brawlers' general manager, Mr. Tremblay; Lance's agent, 'Slick' Rick Audette; and finally, Brawlers team captain, Shea Ellis.
“Hey, everybody,” Lance said as he entered. The two older professionals wore suits. Shea was in his street clothes, like Lance; today was the athletes' off-day.
“Hello, Lance,” Mr. Tremblay said, gesturing for the athlete to take a seat.
“So what's this all about?” Lance asked as he settled into a chair next to his agent. He half-expected to be congratulated on his performance last night—a barn burner in which he brought the building down by scoring a game-winning hat trick goal. But then they wouldn't call him into the team office on his off-day to do that … nor would Shea or his agent have to be here. Still, he'd kept his nose out of trouble and knew that this meeting, whatever it was about, it couldn't possibly be a bad thing.
Right?
Mr. Tremblay gave Shea a glance. “I suppose you should start.”
Shea nodded. “Well, Lance, it probably won't come as a big surprise, but I've told Mr. Tremblay that I'll officially be retiring at the end of this season.”
Shea was right. It wasn't much of a surprise—the defenseman was 37, and although he could still play the game, it was obvious that his body had begun to slow down. The captain had been a soldier throughout his career, but he'd started dropping hints that he was thinking about the next phase of life.
Lance rose to shake his teammate's hand. “Congratulations, Shea, you've had a hell of a career.”
“I ain't done yet,” the grizzled veteran said with a flicker in his eye.
“That's right,” Mr. Tremblay began. “There's still plenty of hockey left to be played before Shea hangs up his skates at the end of the year. In the meantime, we've asked Shea to take you under his wing. Lance, we need to make sure you're ready to be the team's next captain.”
Lance's heart raced. When he was a young boy, he spent countless hours on the frozen pond imagining himself as an NHL captain, carrying his team to victory.
“I'm ready,” Lance said soberly. “I've been waiting for this my whole lif—”
“Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves just yet.” Mr. Tremblay held up his hands. “The captaincy comes with responsibilities, Lance. You wouldn't just be a leader of the team. You'd be an ambassador of this franchise. As captain, you are the face that represents our image, our corporate brand. What you say and do off the ice also reflects on this organization.” Mr. Tremblay sighed. “The world's changing, Lance. Social media is so important in this day and age, and—”
Lance's eyes narrowed knowingly at that last bit. “Wait, what's this about?”
“We've contracted with a public relations firm to smooth out your rough spots and ease the transition from Shea to you.”
“What rough spots?” he asked, growing annoyed.
“It'll be easier if I just introduce you.” Mr. Tremblay grabbed a remote and pressed a button. The lights in the room dimmed and a projector cast a video image on the wall. It was a Skype video conference call. A man in a suit, with slicked-back jet-black hair, appeared on the feed.
“Hello again, gentlemen!” he chirped, waving at the camera. He was in his early 40s. “And hello, Lance. It's nice to finally meet you.”
“And who are you?” Lance muttered.
“Kip Sterling's the name, and PR's my game,” he rattled off like a bad used car salesman.
Lance wasn't impressed. He gave his agent a look: did you okay this? The agent shrank with an uncertain shrug.
Kip continued. “My firm, Sterling Image, has helped thousands of celebrities, and even a few athletes, turn their reputations around.”
Lance was speechless. What about his reputation needed changing, exactly?
“Lance, you have an amazing opportunity here as the next captain to be anointed in Boston. It's not just about wearing the 'C' on your chest—it's about so much more. It's about representing the Boston Brawler brand—”
Lance cut him off. “Yeah, so I've heard. Mr. Tremblay already gave me the spiel. But I'm still not seeing what this is all about.”
“Then allow me to cut to the chase.” Kip wet his thin lips with the tip of his tongue. “Lance, you've got a problem with the ladies.”
Lance laughed. Now it was obvious that this guy didn't know what the hell he was talking about. “Oh really? A problem with the ladies?”
“For the past few months, my firm has conducted a variety of focus groups to gauge the sports consumer's opinion of you.” A series of graphs and charts flashed across the screen. “To summarize hundreds of hours of research, the average male hockey fan holds a neutral opinion of you. But the average female hockey fan holds a less-than-neutral to poor opinion of you.”
“I don't see why,” Lance said stubbornly. “I'm the league leader in goals and points. Why would women have anything against me for being the best?”
Kip clucked his tongue. “It's not your on-ice performance that offends them.”
Another set of images flashed across the screen. This time, they were taken from Lance's personal social media accounts. Lance kept a lively Instagram account in which he shared the photos of his life as a rich and famous pro athlete—the beautiful women, the exotic locales, the designer clothing, the swanky nightlife, the expensive cars, and of course, the sweat-drenched gym pics.
“That's ridiculous,” Lance protested. “My fans love that I'm real with them. They thank me all the time for sharing my life with them. I'm not going to apologize or feel ashamed because I live my life to the fullest.”
“But some people see it as boasting.”
“Then some people are wrong. And by the way, half the guys on the team post the same exact stuff.”
“Ah. Speaking of your teammates. Some of them scored much higher than you.” A new series of photos, all from Radar's Instagram account, scrolled by the screen. Artful portraits of Radar and Lance's sister, Ella, streaked by. Ella's baby bump seemed to grow in each picture, and so did the loving bond between her and Radar. “Radar, for example, scored excellently among women in our focus group testing.”
“With pictures like those, of course he did …”
“Speaking of Radar. There was another factor contributing to women's low opinion of you,” Kip said with a sigh. “And that would be the rumors that, when you found out that Radar was dating your sister, you tried to have him traded to Vancouver.”
“Not true,” Lance growled. Sure, everyone in this room would know he was lying … but Kip didn't know. And fuck Kip for bringing that up in the first place. “So you want me to have a baby before I'm named captain? Is that what you're saying?”
“Don't be ridiculous, Lance. We'd never ask that of you. I'm just making the point that what you share on social media can greatly influence public opinion.”
Lance chuffed. “Okay. Great.”
“Lance, there's one last thing you posted a while back on Instagram that especially hurt your polling numbers.”
A close-up photo of a bright red condom in a see-through package appeared on screen, and now Lance was beginning to feel like he'd walked right into an ambush. The condom post was over two years old—how far into the past had this guy gone digging, anyway?
Kip read the caption aloud.
“Had to break it off with my girl today. See why? Yup, I caught her poking TONS of holes in this condom with a pin! This girl has literally been trying to get preggers without me knowing … for who knows how long! #WatchOutBoys #WrapItUp #BulletDodged #SupSingleLadies”
An uncomfortable silence settled in the room.
“My fans love that I'm real,” Lance grumbled again, but even he noticed that he'd said it with far less conviction than the first time.
“Whether you like it or not, your social media statements reflect on Boston Brawlers Entertainment, Inc. If you're going to be captain, you have to understand that you will be held to a higher standard. Your entire life will be examined under the microscope of public opinion, Lance.”
A sense of defeat enveloped him. “So what do you want me to do? Delete all my posts?”
“That's a given, yes, but we'll take care of that. We'll also arrange for a number of photo-ops and events designed to improve your image in the public's eye. Of course, you'll have to hand over access to your social media accounts to our firm. We will continue to post on your accounts, posing as you, but no one will be any wiser. The content, however, will be much cleaner, positive, and corporate brand-friendly.”
Lance turned to his agent. “You're really not going to fight for me on this, Rick?”
Rick shrugged. “Er, ah, it was actually a clause in your contract … section 613, paragraph b, line 4. Team withholds right to temporarily manage player's social media accounts, if deemed necessary.”
“How did that clause get in there, Rick?”
Rick cowered under Lance's hot glare.
“The hell do I even pay you for,” Lance muttered with a sigh.
Mr. Tremblay gave Lance a sorrowful look. “Ownership has made this a requirement, Lance. They want you to wear the C, but they're concerned about your rather reckless image.”
Lance frowned. “Wow. Sounds like I don't have a choice, then.”
Kip beamed. “Wonderful. We'll send over some paperwork and get started right away. Lance, we're going to make you into a fine captain.”
The Skype call ended, the screen went black, and the lights in the room returned.
“We done here?” Lance asked curtly.
“I'm sorry, Lance,” Mr. Tremblay said, his jowls dropping. “Technology's changing the world so fast, I'm not sure I understand it anymore. But this is what ownership wants.”
Lance grunted. “Hey. No more social. It's not the end of the world. I always wanted to be captain. I'll do whatever it takes.”
Mr. Tremblay smiled. “That's the attitude we want to see.”
Lance left in a huff and made his way back down the hallway. He held the elevator door when he saw Shea came running down the hall. The elevator doors closed and the two were alone.
“Sorry, Coots,” Shea said, using his nickname—Coots, short for Couture. “Just so you know, I had nothin' to do with that.”
“Don't sweat it. I know you didn't. You don't care about that PR bullshit …”
Lance looked over to Shea, expecting him to agree and the two would laugh and tell jokes over the ridiculous meeting they'd just sat through. But Shea seemed to stiffen and grow quiet instead. The captain had a way of commanding the team's attention without having to say a single word. Something about his body language, his aura, shifted—and suddenly everyone knew to listen up.
“Lance, don't write this PR shit off. Take it seriously. Is it bullshit? Yeah, sure, of course it's bullshit. But you're going to do it and you're going to mean it.” The veteran sighed. “Yeah, you're one of the best players in the world. But that's not the only thing that matters. The team wants to see you dedicate yourself totally to the game.”
Lance's face soured. How much more of himself could he really dedicate to the sport?
But Shea held up a finger before he could protest.
“A good captain has something else to live for. Something beyond the game. Something bigger than the money and the women and all that bullshit. It's something else, Lance. You've gotta find it.”
Lance was silent for the rest of the elevator ride. He'd been lectured enough, hadn't he?
When the elevator doors opened, the two parted with a hug.
“I'll see you on the flight to Nashville tomorrow,” Shea shouted as he walked off.
“Yeah, see ya.”
. . . !