the Ice Cats hadn’t been mentioned—other than as a pipe dream. Marty had grown up supporting the Ice Cats, but as far as she’d known, they weren’t for sale.
Sure, there had been rumors of the Scartelli brothers’ financial trouble following some unwise investments, but they’d always managed to brush the speculation aside. Obviously, their most recent highly publicized refinancing deal wasn’t as sound as they’d led everyone to believe.
Marty waved his hands, silencing the room. “I’m glad you’re as enthusiastic about this new venture as I am, but we have a lot to do before we leave on Thursday. So let’s get down to the nuts and bolts.”
For the next couple hours, he and his vice president of business development took them through the acquisition. What soon became clear was that although the franchise was highly successful on the ice, it wasn’t making nearly enough money. Its profitability had declined considerably during the Scartellis’ ownership, driven largely by the brothers’ whims. Splashy promotional initiatives with poor returns, which at the time Sapphie, as a fan, had thought were unwise, had left the business in a weak financial condition.
The Scartelli brothers, realizing they were in trouble and unwilling to let the National Hockey League take over the team, had approached Marty, who’d been only too willing to buy his favorite team—for a knockdown price, naturally.
When they finally broke for lunch, Sapphie approached Marty. “Congratulations. That’s one heck of a move.”
“I told you this would be worth rearranging your schedule.” Marty grinned. “I want you to be my right-hand woman with the Ice Cats. Given what you’ve helped me achieve with my basketball team, I know you can do the same with this team. And you’ll be happier advising me on a sport you like, yes?”
“Of course. But I warn you, I’ll be adding a pair of season tickets to the terms and conditions of the new contract, and they won’t be in the nosebleeds.”
He laughed. “Taken as read. Now eat. We have a long afternoon ahead of us. I want as much out of you as I can get before you have to head to Chicago.”
“Yes, boss.” She gave him a smart salute, then headed over to the trays of food on the mahogany credenzas.
As she filled her plate, Sapphie’s mind whirred with all that she’d have to do. Not least, alert her team, in the Chicago office, that they were about to get doubly busy. In fact, she should look into hiring more staff. She could afford the added expense because this new contract would cement her business’s success.
Looked like she’d be spending more time in New Jersey after all. That would be great for seeing Issy and Sophia. And, of course, watching games.
She’d just bitten into a sandwich when it occurred to her that it also increased the possibility of seeing Scotty again. Sapphie chewed determinedly, even though she might have been eating one of the handouts for all that she could taste the food. She swallowed hard, then drained a small bottle of water.
What was she worried about? Scotty wasn’t with the team any longer. Not that she’d deal with the players on a daily basis anyway, but she always believed in talking to the whole organization as part of her evaluation process. Besides, although it was inevitable that she’d run into him, it wouldn’t be on this initial trip or even for a while.
She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.
* * *
“DRUMMER FOR A BAND?” Scott stopped lacing his skate and took his cell from where he’d lodged it between his ear and his shoulder. “Maybe I should come and check this new boyfriend out.”
He was only half teasing. He didn’t like the thought of some long-haired, drugged-out musician putting his hands on Angela.
“Da-ad.” His daughter gave a loud, put-upon sigh. “I’m twenty-one and can take care of myself. I don’t need you vetting my dates anymore.”
“Maybe not, but it wouldn’t hurt for Sean to know what will happen to him if he doesn’t treat you right.”
“I’ll give him a taste of the business end of your hockey stick, like you showed me.”
Scott grinned. “That’s my girl.”
“Got to go, or I’ll be late for class. Love you.”
“Love you, too. And if you see your brother, tell him the occasional text would be good so that I know he’s okay.”
“Will do.” Angela laughed, then hung up.
Scott tossed his cell into his bag, then tightened his laces and tied them off. He grabbed his stick, then headed out of the locker room. Three of his friends who still played for the Cats would be joining him shortly for a prearranged practice, but he enjoyed this time with the rink to himself.
Relishing the crisp air and the fresh ice beneath his blades, Scott began to warm up by skating laps. He picked up speed and switched directions, doing crossovers forward and backward in time to the pounding rock beat blaring from the speakers. Then he switched to sprints between the blue lines.
“Looking good, old man,” Rick “Ice Man” Kasanski called as he stepped out of the penalty box carrying a bucket of pucks. “Having your butt planted in a commentator’s chair all season hasn’t dulled your skills much.”
Scott stopped sharply, sending a spray of ice over his friend. “I can still skate your candy ass into the ground, Ice Man.”
“Please. You’ve never been faster than me.” Kasanski brushed aside Scott’s comment with a wave of his gloved hand. “At least, not going forward. I’ll admit you might have the edge going backward, D-man.”
“You can take that to the bank. It’s all the racing to protect the net when you cocky forwards cough up the puck.”
Ice Man swiped his stick at Scott’s legs, trying to hook his skates from under him, but Scott managed to avoid him. He gave a colorful analysis of Kasanski’s parentage in reply.
“Come on, ladies.” Chance Rivera joined them, lining up water bottles on the dasher boards. “Put those handbags away.”
“Yeah. We have work to do.” The Cats’ backup goaltender, Chaz “Monty” Montgomery, skated up, trailing a practice net behind him. “Chance and I have a small wager on how many he can get past me. He’s buying me lunch when we’re done.”
Rivera snorted. “Have your wallet ready, Net-Boy. I’ve got moves that’ll earn me a steak with all the works.”
Monty pulled on his mask. “Winning at backyard hockey with your toddler twins doesn’t mean you can beat the master of the twine.”
“Behold, the Master of the Twine,” Scott intoned in a Hollywood-trailer voice. “Fends off pucks with his mighty twig.”
“More like the Knave of the Basket. Because of the biscuits he collects in there.” Kasanski cracked up at his own joke. He only laughed harder when Monty flipped him the bird and told him where he could stick those biscuits.
Before anyone could drop the gloves, Scott corralled his friends and got them skating warm-up drills.
After a decent workout, which had them all pretty gassed, they headed to the locker room. As they showered and dressed, Chance and Monty continued their debate about whether the goaltender would still have won their contest if they hadn’t been chased off the rink by a figure-skating class. Naturally, Kasanski did his best to wind up both sides, while Scott declared himself Switzerland.
Scott was zipping up his sports bag when his cell chirped with a missed call. Picking it up, he was surprised to see the name of his former general manager.
He looked at his friends. “Any reason Callum Hardshaw would be calling me?”
Kasanski shook his head. “Not that I can think of.”
Rivera shrugged. “Maybe he wants to offer you a job.”