Page 73 of Lawson
“Are you mad?”
“Nope.”
“Are you disappointed? I’m the skate coach, after all. This might look bad for the team.”
“Nope, you could never disappoint me. And it won't look bad for the team. You've told me, and I'm sure that you'll tell Mr. McClaren too. And that'll be that. I know you would never allow it to affect your work. Honey, you know how proud I am of you for all you've done, and you can look at our team and know that you've made a difference. Why would you ever think that this would bother me?”
I open and close my mouth a few times, searching for whatever fear had been tangible when I walked in here. But in truth, my father hasnevergiven me a reason to believe that he wouldn't support any decision I made.
“You're kind of the best dad ever, you know that right?”
“I try,” he says, doing a little drum beat on his desk. “So what should we order for lunch?”
I laugh softly, the stress and the worry about everything that’s happened lately melting out of me, replaced with this intense happiness that I can barely even describe.
“Whatever you want,” I answer. “I'm buying.”
“Steak and lobster it is,” he jokes, reaching for his phone and pulling up the delivery app. “Oh, and honey?”
“Yeah?”
“Off the record,” he continues. “If he ever hurts you, I'm going to make him skate laps until his legs fall off.”
I laugh, nodding. “I would be surprised if you didn't, Dad.”
CHAPTER 16
LAWSON
I'm just aboutto grab my gear bag, freshly showered and changed after another losing game, when Coach calls me into his office.
I drop my bag back on the bench and head into his office, eyebrows raised and heart rate kicking up just a little. I quickly analyze every move I made in the game and can't pinpoint anyonemistake that cost us the game. It was hard fought, and in reality, they just outplayed us.
“Why don't you sit down, son,” he says, pointing to the empty chair on the other side of his desk.
I drop into it, suddenly feeling like I'm about to get scolded even though the talk he gave our team after the game hadn't been a bad one.
“What's up, Coach?” I ask, trying to temper my nerves.
“I got an interesting call earlier this morning and I didn't want to bring it up until after the game.”
I blow out a breath. “So, this isn't about anything I did wrong during the game?”
Coach waves me off, shaking his head. “No, I already spoke my piece on that. We played well, they just played, well…weller.” He laughs at his own joke, and I join in. “We'll get them next time,” he says with an air of confidence that tugs on something in the back of my mind.
“What was the call about?” I ask.
“Right,” he says losing a little bit of that laughter. “The owner of the Sharks wants to have a sit-down with you. He's been following you since we played our first preseason game, and he wants to talk to you about a possible trade.”
My blood runs cold.
The Seattle Sharks have been one of my favorite teams since I was a kid, but hearing the wordtradehas my entire body locking up. I shift awkwardly in my seat as if that will help me remember how to breathe.
“Wait, why do they want to sit down with me? Couldn't you and the owner just decide to trade me?”
“Of course, we could,” he says matter-of-factly. “But that's not how I do things and by some lottery-level luck and divine intervention, Crossland McClaren doesn't do things that way either. We’re both on the same page that we take our players’ desires and best interests to heart. We said as much to the Sharks’ owner, which then led to me being the messenger that they want to sit down with you.”
“Do you want to get rid of me, Coach?” I ask, and hate how my voice cracks around the question. I’ve grown attached to him, not to mention theteam. The idea of which is almost laughable at this point, seeing as how I would’ve signed a trade agreement with the Sharks in a microsecond had it been my first week here. It’s almost impossible to think about how much has changed in such a short amount of time.