Heading to all those junior and college teams to check out prospects—I’d never be home.”
“Team ambassador?” Chance pulled on a black T-shirt with the team’s snow-leopard logo. “You know, schmooze the sponsors and the season-ticket holders at Ice Cats events.”
“Not my scene either.” A job where he had to spend his time making small talk? No way.
“I bet Hardshaw wants you for some PR stuff,” Ice Man said, combing his wet dark hair. “Some fancy, high-dollar-a-plate dinner where you’re the big-bucks draw.”
“Why would the GM call me for that? Usually I hear from the marketing guy when they want my face or name.”
“Didn’t he move on?” Monty frowned. “To that soccer team, the Bridgers. He got pissed about the way the Scartellis kept nixing his proposals while spending crazy amounts of money on weird promotions the fans hated.”
“There were changes in the front office over the summer,” Scott said. “But I thought it was because of budget cuts. Either way, it’s a shame. The kid was pretty switched on.”
“If you ask me, those kinds of people—advertising, marketing, PR—are a dime a dozen,” Rivera said.
“None of which tells me why Hardshaw called.” Scott tapped his cell against his chin.
“You could do the obvious thing and phone him back.”
He cuffed the back of Kasanski’s head. “I know that, numbnuts.” He hit Call Back.
Hardshaw answered on the first ring. “Hey, Scotty, how’s it going?”
“Not bad. You?”
“Yeah, good. Busy. You know how it is.”
He didn’t but played along. “For sure. So, what can I do for you?”
“Any chance you could stop by sometime today? I have a couple ideas I’d like to bounce off you.”
Scott tried to read the GM’s voice but couldn’t. “I have an hour this afternoon, at three, if that works for you.” He had the whole freaking afternoon free, but he wasn’t about to let Hardshaw know that.
“Great. See you then.”
Once he’d hung up, Scott turned to his friends. “He wants to see me.” He relayed the brief conversation. “I’ve got nothing to lose by hearing what he has to say. It’s not like I have anything else on the horizon.”
Monty clapped him on the shoulder. “They say the second year of retirement is the hardest. When reality sets in. If you can get through that, you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Good thing you have us around to keep you from turning into an old man—pipe and slippers and reading the paper by the fire.” Kasanski smacked Scott’s stomach with the back of his hand. “We’ll keep you from getting fat and flabby, too.”
Scott slung his bag over his shoulder. “Look who’s talking, Ice Man. You were puffing like a steam train in those last sprints. Too much fun in the sun over the summer?”
“Too much junk food and too many margaritas in Cancún,” Rivera said. “With that and J.B.’s wedding bash on the weekend, I don’t think Kasanski has stopped partying since we raised the Cup.”
“Like you’re any better,” Ice Man scoffed. “None of us are.”
“You forget, I have the twins to keep me on my toes. Running around after them is a full-time job.” Chance’s wife had suffered badly from postpartum depression and walked out on him and their babies eighteen months ago. “Especially now they’re walking, talking and into everything. It’s the terrible twos times two.”
“No joy finding another nanny?”
“The agency sent a woman who seems to be working out okay. Still, I want to spend as much time with them as I can. Especially in the off-season.”
The three friends understood how hard it had been for Chance. They’d stood by him and seen him through the worst of it.
Always the smart-ass, Kasanski lightened the tone as they walked out of the rink. “Whatever you say, you were puffing as much as me, Net-Boy and the old guy here, Rivera.”
“In your dreams, Ice Cube.”
“You wish you had my dreams.” Kasanski grinned. “Anyway, the hard work starts now and I’ll be in prime condition for training camp. If only it didn’t take so much longer to get in shape than it did when we were in our twenties.”
“Amen to that,” Scott said fervently. “That’s why I had to hang ’em up in the end.”
“Gone are the days when players used to have a drink and a smoke between periods,” Monty said sadly, even though he was too young to remember that.
“The speed some of the old guys skated at, you could have a drink and a smoke between plays,” Ice Man added, tossing his bag into the back of his SUV. “Now we have to watch calories and monitor food intake like Miss freaking America.”
“Which brings us to lunch. Good thing, because I’m starving.” Monty opened his car door. “Usual place?”
The four men agreed and headed off to the local bistro they’d been frequenting for many years. After lunch they agreed to meet up again the following day at the gym and then went their separate ways.
Scott drove to the Cats’ head office. Though he was a little early, Hardshaw’s assistant took him straight to the GM’s office.
“Can I get you a drink, Scotty?” Doreen asked.
“Ice water would be great, thanks.”
“Make that two, please.” Callum came around his desk to shake Scott’s hand. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“Your call intrigued me.” Scott took the seat his former GM indicated, while Callum leaned against the front of his desk.
“These are interesting times for the Cats. People outside the business don’t understand that the summer after winning the Cup is actually more difficult than one when you’ve lost it. Riding high on the win creates its own set of problems.”
Scott nodded. “I know you have some tough decisions to make, especially with the salary cap not going up as much as it has in the past.” Plus he’d heard the rumors about the Scartellis’ financial problems.
“Right. We have some big contracts up for renewal over the next twelve to twenty-four months. We also need to think about how to leverage our success into future strength. It’s hard to repeat a Cup win the following year, no matter how much we want to.”
It was true. Since the powerhouse teams of the ’70s and ’80s, few teams had managed back-to-back Cup wins.
“I want the Cats to be positioned to win in alternate years like Chicago and LA have done. But as an organization, we need to make sure we’re delivering for our fans, our sponsors and our owners, too.”
“For sure.” Scott still wasn’t sure where this was leading. “Having retired, I’m far enough removed to get that this is a business and the team’s performance on the ice is only one aspect—albeit the most important one—of how success is measured.”
“Exactly.” Hardshaw snapped his fingers. “I knew you’d see the bigger picture.”
“So, what can I do for you?”
“I understand that the commentating gig isn’t working out for you.”
“Yeah.”
“Frankly, that was a waste of your skills. There are plenty of other guys who can do the talking-heads thing.”
“That was the network’s view, too.” Scott made a dismissive