Pucking Wild: A Reverse Age Gap Hockey Romance (Jacksonville Rays Book 2)
Pucking Wild: Chapter 27

It’s travel day for the Vegas away game, and I’m not getting on that plane. Hell, I’m not even getting on the bus to go to the airport. I’m just standing here in the loading dock, watching as my team gets on the bus without me.

As I stand here, Brayden Jones, the farm team guy who gets to dress to fill my hole in the roster walks past, bag in hand. He’ll be a fourth line guy and probably won’t see a minute of action on the ice, but he’s officially wearing a Rays jersey and going to the Show.

Watching him excitedly load the bus eases my anxiety. I know this injury is only temporary. As soon as I’m rehabbed, I’ll be back out on that ice, and poor Jonesy will be sent back down. That’s just hockey.

“Hey, we’ll miss you, man,” says Jake as he walks past, giving my shoulder a tap with his fist. “Look out for Tess while we’re gone, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding his way.

“You’re a good guy, Langers,” he says with a smile. “A good friend. We know we can trust you to take care of her and not take advantage.”

Fuck.

Does he need to know that I’m just an average guy who actually slept with Tess last night? She pumped the breaks hard on the sex, but we did technically sleep together.

“Everything okay?” says Jake.

Now Mars is standing at his shoulder.

“Nope,” I say with a smile, and they both frown at me. “Uhh—nope. I mean, like, yep. Nope, all good here. You know, ‘cause why wouldn’t it be good? Tess and I are just roommates…and it’s only temporary…and I mean, our schedules couldn’t be more different, so I never really even see her.”

They’re both just looking at me.

“But you know, when I am at the house, I’ll keep both eyes on her,” I ramble on. “I mean, unless she’s doing something where I should be looking away, and then I definitely will…like if she’s naked again—”

Shut up. Shut up now.

Jake just smiles and waves as he walks off.

“She’s very important to us,” says Mars, giving me his best Finnish death glare.

I swallow. “Yeah, I’m getting that.”

“Hurt her, and I’ll end you,” he adds before turning away, which really feels like beating a dead horse.

His warning rings in my ears as I watch him load the bus. I’m still thinking about it as I make my way back inside. I’m on my way up to the gym to hop on the exercise bike when Vicki replaces me in the hallway.

“Oh, Langley, there you are,” she says, fanning herself with the manilla folder in her hand. “Can you believe this heat in January?”

“Yep, it’s warm out there,” I say, making the smallest of talk.

Vicki Francis is our Director of Operations, and a bigger ball-buster you’ll never replace. Hearing that she’s been looking for me instantly has me on edge. She’s one of the only people on the team that can get us all bouncing like trained seals.

“What can I do for you, Vic?”

“Oh, it’s not what you can do for me today,” she says with a distracted wave of her hand. “It’s what I can do for you. Or I should say what the GM can do. He’s in today, and he was asking to see you.”

I go still. Mark Talbot is here? I’ve never actually had a conversation with Mark in my life, though I’ve seen him enough times at games and team events. He’s this billionaire tech guy born and raised in Jacksonville who returned here when he all but retired at forty years old, having sold off most of his companies. He used some of his endless wealth to buy an NHL franchise and set it up here in Jax. Other than the fact that he looks like a GQ model, I don’t know a thing about the guy.

“Hello? Earth to Ryan,” Vicki teases, waving a hand in my face.

I blink, refocusing my attention on her. “I’m sorry, Vic. What?”

She laughs. “I said if you have a minute, you may want to go up and have a quick word. He’ll be in his office for only another hour or so.”

“Yeah, sure. I can do that—”

“Wonderful,” she says. “I’ll walk with you.”

I have no choice but to get myself turned around on the crutches and hobble my way back down the hallway towards the elevators, Vicki at my side. We ride up to the fourth floor together and she directs me down the hallway towards the owner’s suite.

A pretty young black woman sits at a secretarial desk. “Can I help you?” she chimes.

“Yeah, uhh, I’m here to see Mr. Talbot. It’s Langley—Ryan Langley,” I correct. “I’m umm…a player,” I finish lamely.

She gives me a very patient smile. “Yes, I’m well aware of who you are, Mr. Langley. If you’ll have a seat, Mr. Talbot can be with you in a moment.”

“Actually, it’s kind of easier to stand,” I admit, gesturing to my crutches.

She just raises a brow at me, her fingers already clack-clack-clacking away on her ergonomic keyboard.

“Not that I can’t sit,” I go on, because apparently I have to say every single thing I’m thinking out loud today. “I mean, I can sit. I just don’t feel like sitting right now. You know, because I’ve just been sitting a lot and—”

“Mr. Langley?” she says, cutting me off.

“Hmm?”

“You can go in now.” She gestures at the door over her left shoulder.

“Thanks,” I say, hobbling forward on my crutches.

I try to open the door on my own, but I nearly drop my crutch down and she has to hop up and hold the door for me. I glance around his office as I swing in, taking note of all his sports memorabilia.

“Langley, come on in,” calls Mr. Talbot. He crosses the dark carpet towards me and holds out a hand.

I pause and awkwardly shift around until I can shake his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

He laughs. “Jesus, that’s not a great start, is it? I came in here ready to offer you a contract extension, and you come out of the corner swinging with a ‘nice to meet you, sir.’ I take this as proof of all the ways I’m failing as a team owner.”

“Sir?” I say with a raised brow.

“I’ve clearly not been doing enough here in town to grow my team if one of my star forwards can dare to utter the sentence ‘nice to meet you’ halfway through a season.”

“Oh, sir—I didn’t—”

“Not your fault, Langley,” he says. “Let’s get you off your feet, huh? Then we can talk contracts.”

I go still, glancing around the empty room. “Umm…sir, shouldn’t the agents be here?” I ask, my panic rising. I can’t do this. Not like this. I need MK here. He negotiates all my deals for me. “I’ve only ever done a contract negotiation through my agent—”

“No need to panic,” Mr. Talbot says with a raised hand. “We’ll get the blood-sucking lawyers involved from tip to tail, don’t you worry. In fact, I believe Taysa has already sent over the preliminary contracts to your agent. You’re working with MK, right?”

“Yes, sir,” I say with a nod, still feeling on edge. I don’t see any stacks of papers ready for me to peruse. Maybe he really does just want to talk. The vise grip my panic holds on my chest eases slightly.

Mr. Talbot slips around the other side of his desk, gesturing for me to take a seat. I sink down awkwardly into one of the two chairs on my side of the desk, resting my crutches against the opposite chair.

“How’s the knee?” he says, pouring me a glass of water.

“Coming along,” I say, accepting the glass as he slides it over. “Right now, it’s just about managing swelling and hoping the tear doesn’t get any worse.”

“Damn. ACL?”

“MCL,” I correct.

“Right. I saw the hit. Nasty stuff. But you’re strong,” he says. “Built to last.”

“Yes, sir,” I reply, taking a sip of my water.

“Well, I spoke to MK yesterday,” he goes on. “He told me all about your new endorsement deal with Nike. That’s impressive stuff, Langley. That’s just the kind of attention we want brought to this team. Well done.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say, perking up in my chair. “I’m surprised he told you about it when the ink isn’t even dry.”

“Oh, these things always take quite a bit of time to iron out,” Talbot replies with a chuckle. “Leave it with MK to chew on for a bit. Speaking of contracts,” he adds, leaning forward a bit, elbows on his desk. “You only have a one-year contract here, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I wanted to ask you how you’re liking it here with Rays. I know new teams are tough and not everyone likes the trade, but how do you feel? Is there anything you’d like to see done differently? Anything we could improve?”

My heart is in my throat. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say here. MK always handles negotiating salaries. Do I play it cool? Try to tell him what he wants to hear? Or should I just speak from the heart?

As if he can sense my dilemma, Talbot leans back in his chair. “How old are you, Langley?”

“Twenty-two, sir,” I reply. “My birthday was back in September.”

“Damn,” he says with a laugh. “To be twenty-two again. Prime of fucking life. You feel unstoppable. Isn’t there a Miley Cyrus song about being twenty-two?”

“Umm, I think it might be Taylor Swift,” I reply, hiding my smirk behind my water glass. I know it’s Taylor Swift. I keep it quiet around the guys, but I’m a total Swiftie. You try growing up in the same house as my sister and all her friends and not like Taylor Swift.

“Right, well twenty-two is an exciting age, Langley. A young guy like you, with the right combo of talent, looks, and drive, you can pretty much write your own ticket.”

The truth is that I’ve never really felt young. You don’t get to feel young when you partially raise your sister while your mom pulls double shifts at the hospital to pay for your hockey. You don’t feel young when you leave the house at fifteen to compete in the Junior League. You don’t feel young when you become the breadwinner at eighteen, negotiating multi-million-dollar contract deals while most kids your age are saving up to buy their first car.

But Talbot doesn’t want to hear my thoughts on growing up too fast. So, I just nod, taking another sip of my water.

“And look, I’m a rational guy. Maybe all you want is to earn some time on the ice, get some pucks in that net, and you’ll be looking to trade up. Any team would be lucky to have you. Is that what you want? Do you want to see how high your rocket can climb?”

I’m flustered as I set my glass down. “I—”

“Because I’ll be honest with you, Langley. If what you want is to make it to the playoffs every year and earn a fighting chance at the Stanley Cup, the Rays might not be the best fit for you. This is a different team in a different stage of life. We’re in the building stage. I intend to build something that will last. That takes time, and it takes cultivating the right kind of talent.”

“Yes, sir—”

“And I’ll tell you this right now. The kind of talent I don’t need hogging up my ice is the kind who only sees the Rays as a springboard onto bigger and better teams.”

“Of course, sir—”

“First season is tough all the way around,” he admits. “We’re dealing with the trades, and building a team, and all the hiccups of running a new staff and facilities. It’s been a nightmare.”

“Yes, sir,” I say again.

“But we can’t get complacent,” he goes on. “I’m already looking to next season, and the season after that. Hell, I’m looking ten years into the future here. A few of the guys have already locked themselves in to four- and five-year contracts with no-trade clauses. They intend to stay here and help me build an NHL team worth playing on.”

I sit forward in my chair. “Sir—”

“So, what I want to know from you, Langley, is where do you see yourself in five years—”

“Sir,” I say again, and I realize too late I’m practically shouting at him.

He blinks at me, those dark eyes narrowing slightly.

“That’s what I want,” I say into the silence.

“What?”

“Everything you just said,” I reply with a wave of my hand. “I want everything, and I want it here in Jacksonville. I know I’m young, and I’ve still got a lot to learn, but I’ve also been in this game for fifteen years. It’s been my whole life since I was big enough to tie my own skates. To play on an NHL team…to be part of a team,” I clarify. “That’s what I want.”

Talbot sits back, surveying me.

I dive into the silence. “Are there guys out here showboating, content to get traded from team to team, only thinking about getting pucks in the net? Yeah, sure. And sometimes you need those guys on the team. But I’m not that guy.”

“What kind of guy are you?”

I let out a little breath, searching for the right words. “I’m the kind of guy who sticks,” I reply. “Sir, I’m sticking. You give me a chance, you give me some security, some hope of knowing my jersey is safe, and I will help you build a team that doesn’t just consistently make it to the playoffs, we bring home the Cup.”

He smirks at me. “Those are some big words, Langley. Big promises. You really think you can turn all that talk into action?”

I just shrug, flashing him a smirk of my own. “I’m twenty-two, remember? I’m unstoppable, sir.”

He barks out a laugh, pressing his hands flat against his desk as he stands. Taking it as my cue, I stand too, reaching for my crutches.

“You’re a good man, Langley,” he says, stepping around the desk. “You’re a team player. The coaching staff, the captains, the support staff, they all say the same thing: Ryan Langley is the kind of guy you want on your team. I want you in that Rays jersey. If I have my way, I’ll keep you in it. But I won’t freak you out by discussing the details now,” he adds with a laugh. “Give MK a call today. I sent him everything already.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say, feeling breathless. I take the hand he offers, shaking it again. But when I move to let go, he holds on, his grip tight as iron.

“Don’t let this shake your confidence,” he says, gesturing with his free hand down at my knee. “You’re still the prize, Langley. Rest and recover. The ice will still be there whether it’s two weeks from now or two months. Return to us whole.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good man.” He drops my hand and walks with me to his door. As he opens it, he cuffs my shoulder. “And hey, if that number doesn’t work for you, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

My senses are spinning as I try to imagine what number might be written on an NHL extension contract with my name on it. This all feels too good to be true.

“Fight for what you’re worth, Langley,” Talbot says in parting. “Always fight for what you’re worth.”