“Good Apgar score,” the pediatrician said, and Lauren closed her eyes.
The baby’s cry sounded angrier now. “I’ve got you,” Mike said, his low voice the sweetest sound she’d ever heard. “I know Mommy just spent a whole day squeezing your head. But that part’s over.”
She was too tired to laugh.
When she opened her eyes again she saw Mike seated in a chair under the window, the swaddled baby nestled in one arm.
The nurse patted Lauren’s hand. “Would you like to try to nurse him? He’s sucking on your husband’s fingertip like a champ.”
“Sure,” Lauren slurred.
The nurse helped her sit up.
“I have to hand him over already?” Mike complained. Then he gave her a huge smile, the kind that shook her out of her exhausted daze. “He looks just like me.”
The nurse laid the baby right across Lauren’s deflated stomach. For the first time she looked down into the red, wrinkled face of her son, who looked back at her with blinking eyes.
She didn’t realize she was crying until Mike grabbed a tissue and dabbed her face. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’m just so happy he’s here.”
“That took a long time,” the nurse sympathized.
“Oh, you have no idea,” Mike agreed, giving Lauren a private grin.
Her new baby opened his little mouth and clamped it over her nipple when the nurse guided his head into place. Lauren watched with wonder while his little mouth began to work.
“Look at ’im go,” Mike encouraged.
The nurse got out of the way, and Mike sat down beside the bed. He propped an elbow on the bed and smiled up at her. “Can I take your picture?”
“God no,” she said quickly. “I’m a mess.”
“Please? I won’t show anybody, Lo. It’s just for us. We’re not afraid of messes, right?” His big dark eyes begged.
“Okay, yes.”
He grinned and pulled out his phone. “If only we’d won the Cup, we could have had one of those shots with the baby inside it.” He aimed the camera lens at her. “You’ll just have to have another one next year.”
Exhausted from labor, Lauren groaned.
“Both of you say ‘cheese’!”
The eye roll she gave him was captured for a photo that would end up on the mantel in their bedroom for decades to come. Messes and all.
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In the HR office, Leo filled out approximately seven thousand forms. There were contact forms and health forms. Tax documents. A public relations survey—favorite charities and past experience. The stack of paperwork was endless.
Yet if Coach Karl had his way, he’d be on the next plane to Michigan.
When Leo took a break to raise his agent on the phone, the man confirmed that Coach Karl could send him back to the minors at his whim. “They have to honor the financial parts of your contract,” he said, “so you’ll make the big bucks for two years, no matter what. But they don’t have to keep you in Brooklyn. They can stash you in the minors.”
“That’s the worst that can happen?” he asked.
“Pretty much,” the agent hedged. “I mean, if the new coach really hates your guts, he could prevent you from being traded to another team that wants you. But that would be both expensive and extreme.”
Jesus. “Good to know,” he grumbled.
After that uplifting conversation, and his hour in the HR office, Becca brought him a shiny box. “Here,” she said. “Everyone on the team gets a party favor.” He lifted the lid to find a large, sleek, nearly weightless titanium phone. At least he assumed it was a phone. “I’m going to port your number onto the Katt Phone . . .” She covered her mouth. “Whoops. That’s our nickname for them. The real name is the T-5000. Anyway—you’ll carry this for as long as you’re a member of the team.”
“Okay.” If only he knew how long that would be.
“The big app on the front page will always know everything about your schedule—where to be, and when. When you’re traveling, we push local weather and traffic information to you, as well as cab company numbers and restaurants. The floorplan of every hotel where you’ll stay. Your room number. Everything.”
“Got it,” Leo said, fingering the device’s cool edge. Talking on this thing would be like holding a large slice of bread up to the side of his face. But that was a small price to pay to join the team.
“There’s a narrow light strip all around the phone that changes color when it wants your attention,” Becca continued. “You’ll see. If the edges of the phone glow yellow, there’s an update you need to see. If it glows red, there’s an emergency, or an important change of plans.”
“Groovy.”
“And one more tip?” Becca offered. “When you ask the phone a question, if you say Nate’s name first, you’ll get a priority hyper-connection. So don’t just say, ‘What time is the jet leaving?’ Say, ‘Nate, what time is the jet leaving?’”
“Got it.”
“That feature will even swap you onto another cell phone network if you don’t have enough bars. It’s awesome. If a bit egotistical.” She whispered this last bit, and Leo grinned. “Well.” She clapped her hands once. “Let’s get you to the players’ lounge.”
She led him past a big open room which was set up for a press conference—with a table at one end and rows of folding chairs lined up all the way to the back of the room. Beyond that, she opened another door to reveal a large lounge area, with sofas and a pool table. It was a gorgeous, comfortable room, and it was full of hockey players wearing suits and purple ties—the team color for the Brooklyn Bruisers.
Several heads turned in his direction, and Leo was confronted with the reality that this should have been a really exciting moment for him—meeting his new NHL teammates. But Coach Karl had robbed him of that joy. In order to become a true member of this team, it would be an uphill battle against all of Karl’s objections.
He didn’t know if it was possible, but he’d die trying.
And hey, he comforted himself, scanning the guys in this room, at least if Karl succeeds at tossing your ass by the end of the day, you’ll never have to wear a purple tie.
“Gentlemen,” Becca said, clapping her hands. A couple of conversations stopped, heads turning in their direction. “This is Leo Trevi, a forward, and Mr. Kattenberger’s newest trade.”
There was a murmured chorus of “yo” and “welcome.”
“Hey, man.” A player waved from the sofa, and Leo recognized him as the team’s current captain, Patrick O’Doul. At thirty-two years old, he’d been scoring for this team long before Nate bought it and brought it to Brooklyn. They’d had a difficult couple of seasons, but it wasn’t O’Doul’s fault.
“Hey,” Leo said. “Glad to be here.” He wanted to be a member of this team so fucking bad. But walking into this room wasn’t a moment of victory—it was more like the preparation for battle. Knowing that didn’t make Leo feel like the friendliest guy in the world.