Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
She doesn’t look overwhelmed and I very much appreciate that in an employee.
The facility doors slide open as I approach, and the familiar atmosphere greets me—the faint metallic chill of the rink, the echo of skates cutting ice, the low thud of pucks striking boards. It’s a soundscape I’ve known for years, one that speaks to my heart in a way no boardroom ever has.
“Morning, Mr. Langley,” Tony calls from security.
“Morning,” I answer, nodding with a smile as I pass. “How’re Debby and the kids?”
Tony shakes his head with a smirk. “Those girls of mine are giving me gray hairs,” he says, motioning to his head. “But wouldn’t trade them for the world.”
“I bet,” I reply with a laugh. “Tell Debby I said to cut you a break every once in a while.”
“Nah.” He waves his hand. “I enjoy the heck out of it.”
“I know you do. Savor every minute.”
A second guard echoes the greeting, as does a janitor changing out the garbage. I acknowledge each one by name because to me, ownership isn’t theoretical. It’s being visible, authentic and present, which breeds trust. It’s a philosophy my father didn’t adhere to and one of a handful of ways we’ve differed in running this company.
As I move down the main corridor toward the rink tunnel, a broad-shouldered figure steps into view.
Grizz McAvoy, my star winger and former pain in my ass.
He looks different than he did when he stood in my foyer on Thanksgiving—less coiled, less braced for impact. There is a lightness to him now, subtle but unmistakable.
“Well,” I say as he approaches. “Glad to see you, Grizz.”
A grin spreads across his face, unguarded and genuine. We clasp hands in greeting, the grip firm, familiar. There’s a steadiness in him that wasn’t there a week ago.
“How did it go after you left my place Thanksgiving?” I ask. “You look like you have a story to tell.”
He exhales slowly, as though replaying it in his mind. “I did what you said. I tracked her down.”
Daisy. The woman he nearly convinced himself to lose in the name of self-preservation.
“Tracked her to her parents’ house, and I very much appreciate the tip as to where she went.”
“Went full stalker mode, huh?” I guess with a chuckle.
“It was a charming move,” he insists. “I told her the truth. That I was scared, and I’d been scared from the start. That walking away felt safer than staying and risking it. And that I didn’t want safe. I wanted her.”
There’s no bravado in the admission. “And she forgave you and you two are going to live happily ever after,” I conclude.
“Damn straight.” He grins.
“Is she back here with you?” I ask, because last I heard, she had a job on the West Coast she was going to take.
“Yeah… for a few days, then she’s off to Los Angeles. She’s going to take that job, but they offered her a remote position so she can work from New York. She’s doing some training now and she’ll have to go out there every few months. The rest of the time she’s here.”
“With you,” I say, a tug of nostalgia hitting me. A vague remembrance of what it was like to have the other half of my heart close to me.
“In New York,” he repeats softly, relief in his voice. “At any rate, thank you again. You couldn’t have been any more right about everything.”
“I’m rarely wrong about risk assessment,” I reply dryly.
He studies me, the humor fading into sincerity. “I really appreciate it. All of it. The push. The dinner. Hiring her in the first place. None of this happens without that.”
“I hired her because she was capable,” I remind him. Daisy was brought on to manage the PR nightmare that Grizz had become, but never in a million years did I suspect she and the man before me would fall in love.
“Still,” he insists. “You saw something.”
“I prefer my players focused,” I say. “Emotional chaos has a measurable impact on performance.”
He laughs, but there’s understanding beneath it. “She’s good for me,” he says after a beat. “Better than I realized.”
“I gathered as much. We’ll miss her here, but I’m happy to know she’s back in the industry she aspires to pursue a career in.”
We walk together toward the rink doors, the sounds of an optional practice growing louder as we near the ice. Some players are already in motion—drills underway, coaches barking instructions, blades carving crisp arcs into the surface.
“How’s the room?” I ask, shifting from personal matters to organizational ones.
“Solid,” Grizz replies. “No weird tension or contract drama. Guys are locked in. It’s… cohesive.”
Cohesion is fragile in professional sports. It’s built from trust, ego management, timing and shared ambition. When it’s present, you can feel it before you see it in the standings.
“I’d prefer we enter the holidays aligned,” I say. “Momentum compounds.”