Famous Last Words (New York Thunder #1)

Chapter 1ROBBIE

CHAPTER 1

ROBBIE

A fight in ice hockey isn’t uncommon. Hell, it’s why so many people love the game. But as I sit here, in a dimly lit boardroom in the NHL headquarters, forced to watch myself projected up on the screen as I throw my stick and shuck my gloves before launching myself at Ben Harris, I can’t help but wince because, unfortunately, I know what happens next.

Thankfully, before I land the first blow that will effectively cause Ben’s jaw to be wired shut for the next six-to-eight weeks, the playback is paused, and an unnerving silence settles heavily around the room.

I shift in my seat, feeling the weight of all eleven sets of eyes laser-focused on me.

To my right is my agent-slash-unofficial-manager-slash-only real friend left in the world.

To my left is the general manager of the only team in the league willing to give me another shot.

In front of me are the aforementioned eleven officials dressed in impeccable suits, with the collective power to take everything away.

Andy, my agent, rises from his chair, and begins addressing the disciplinary board with the conviction of a defense attorney in the middle of a murder trial. Did I kill anyone? No. But you’d be forgiven for thinking that I had with the way this is playing out like an episode of Law and Order .

“Gentlemen, I’ll be the first to admit that the footage is more than disturbing. But, my client,” Andy points at me, “has used this time since the… incident… to reflect on his actions and think about what he can do moving forward to better manage his emotions and improve himself, to prevent anything like this from happening again.”

I watch Andy as he walks around the room, and I must admit, even I’m impressed. I suppose this is why I pay him the big bucks.

“Robbie has committed to regular counseling sessions to help him manage his anger .” His eyes cut to me with a knowing look, right as my hands ball into fists beneath the table at the mention of anger management, because this is some straight-up bullshit; I’m the least angry person I know. Cocky and self-assured? Without a doubt. But angry? No way. Unfortunately for me, the paused image of the crazed lunatic about to land a left hook to his own teammate’s jaw up on the screen begs to differ.

“He’s donated close to a quarter of a million dollars to various organizations that help educate at-risk youths of the importance of drug and alcohol abstinence.”

At the mention of drugs, my jaw clenches so hard my teeth hurt.

“He’s even written a formal apology to Benjamin Harris.”

Vitriol burns the back of my throat because, you know what? Fuck Ben Harris. My written apology was fake as fuck. If I had my time again, I’d have broken his damn nose too.

“My client is understandably upset over the actions that led to that night; however, now is the time to move forward.” Andy continues, pointing to the man sitting stoically to my left. “New York has written a very strict yet fair offer for my client, with terms I’ve never seen in my twelve-year career, but terms my client is willing to adhere to if it means he can continue doing what he is most passionate about, what he has done for almost six years without incident. Play professional hockey.” Andy glances at me, the contrite look in his eyes Oscar-worthy. “Please, I implore you, do not let one moment of recklessness in an otherwise untainted and remarkable career take away Robbie Mason’s livelihood.”

Andy moves back to his chair, sitting down next to me with another cursory glance in my direction. And normally I can tell what he’s thinking, but it’s that impassive look in his eyes that only increases my anxiety. My left knee bounces uncontrollably as I look out at the men surrounding the table. I wish I could say I was confident, but I’m not. This is literally make or break.

“Mr. Mason.”

I turn my head, spearing the man sitting at the end of the table, the one who holds my future in the palm of his hand—David Ferris, retired player and now Head of the Department of Player Safety.

He doesn’t even acknowledge me, choosing instead to stare down at whatever is on the papers in front of him. “Your actions leading up to the incident that occurred on the evening of Thursday, September twenty-third, single handedly brought the game of ice hockey into disrepute.”

David lifts his steely gaze, eyes full of disdain as they meet mine. I make sure to keep my chin held high, ready to take whatever it is he has to throw at me if it means I might be able to play again.

He continues. “Never in my career have I witnessed anything as sickening as what I witnessed from the footage of that night.”

Andy suddenly pipes up, spluttering, “Oh, come on, David, that’s ridic?— ”

David holds his hand up, silencing my agent. “Mr. Hoffman, you’ve had your chance to speak.”

Andy huffs, muttering something under his breath, and all I can do is swallow around the painful lump at the back of my throat because, holy shit, this is it. Suddenly, a future without the one thing I’ve ever been any good at flashes through my mind, and my stomach rolls at the realization of just how close I am to losing everything that’s ever mattered to me.

“In my years playing hockey, and in the time spent since, here in Player Safety, I’ve seen men do much less and be expelled from the league, their careers over like that .” He snaps his fingers for effect.

I nod once.

David sighs. “The only reason we’re here today, having this conversation, is because not only are you the best defensive player this game has seen in decades, but thanks to your loyal… fan base … you’re also the league’s most profitable player.”

Andy flashes me a smug smirk which I ignore, because no, Andy , that doesn’t make me feel any better. In fact, it makes me feel worse. Basically, what David Ferris is saying right now is that the only reason I haven’t been shown the door is because of the money they make off the millions of women who’ve dedicated their lives to posting thirst trap videos of me on the internet. It all started a couple years back when footage of me innocently warming up on the ice, stretching my hip flexors, set to the soundtrack of Ginuwine’s “Pony ,” went viral. I mean, sure, I helped bring the game to a new demographic, but at what cost?

David Ferris shifts in his chair. “Mr. Mason, on behalf of the National Hockey League, and the Department of Player Safety, I am hereby approving your New York Thunder contract.”

“Hell yeah, baby!” Andy explodes with an inappropriate cheer, punching his fist in the air like he’s at a goddamn baseball game .

I release the breath I’ve been holding, somehow keeping my cool despite the fact that I could actually cry right now.

“ However— ” David offers my agent a warning glance, “—we have made an adjustment to the contract.”

“What?” Andy sits up straighter, clearing his throat. “It’s not your contract. You can’t do that.”

“As the governing body, I can assure you we can, Mr. Hoffman,” David says, his tone assertive. “We’re imposing a twelve-week probationary period. If within that time you do anything that goes against the terms of your contract, we will deem it null and void, and you’ll be released not only from New York but from the league altogether.”

Andy scoffs, looking around me to Chris Garret, the Thunder’s GM.

Chris offers nothing but a resigned shrug in response.

“We’ve also included a clause that requires mandatory weekly drug and alcohol testing to be completed here, on site, by a third party every Tuesday, with the exception of away games, in which case Mr. Mason will report to a testing site as nominated by us, in whatever city he is in at the time.”

Andy takes a breath, and I can tell he’s on the verge of an objection, but before he can say anything, I place a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

“I’ll do it,” I say.

Andy’s eyes are wide as he leans in, whispering, “Robbie, at least let me speak to legal first.”

I shake my head, keeping my gaze set firm on David Ferris, as I stand and clear my throat. “I’ve got nothing to hide,” I begin. “I know I’ve done some shitty things the last few months, but I maintain my innocence when it comes to drugs. I’ve never touched them, and I never will. And I’ll do whatever I need to do to prove that, because hockey’s literally all I’ve got. It’s all I’ve ever been good at. It’s all I know, and I cannot lose it. You have my word that I will not do anything to risk my future or risk further tarnishing the reputation of the league. ”

With a hard exhale, David Ferris shuffles the papers sitting in front of him, avoiding my eyes. “Well, I hope so, Mr. Mason. For your sake.” He glances around at his colleagues. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

Andy stands and reluctantly shakes the hands of a few of the men as they begin filing out of the meeting room, but all I can do is sink back into my chair, elbows on my knees, head in my hands, collecting myself as best as I can because, man, that was a close one.

As we wait for Andy’s car, I stand with my arms folded across my chest, sunglasses on despite the gray, gloomy day, baseball cap pulled low in an attempt to conceal my identity from the hordes of people walking up and down the busy sidewalk.

“Great job, Hoffman.” Chris Garret shakes Andy’s hand before looking at me. He slaps me on my shoulder, nodding once. “We’ll see you on the ice for your first practice tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” I nod, standing a little taller and shaking his hand. “And thank you. For everything.”

He offers me a pointed look, leaning in a little closer to be heard over the Midtown traffic. “You just scored yourself a second chance, kid. Now’s your time to prove to everyone who trashed you over the last few months that you’re not that bad guy you’ve been made out to be. Don’t fuck it up.”

Chris slaps my shoulder again before turning and walking to the car that idles at the curb to collect him, and I silently thank whatever God may or may not exist because he’s right. Second chances don’t come by often. I can’t fuck this up.

“This is Hoff.” Andy answers his cell phone like a cranky bastard, and while I wait, I take my phone from the pocket of my jeans, texting Ma.

Me: Hey Ma, just got out of the meeting. The board approved my contract. Barely. But I’m officially part of the New York Thunder.

Her reply comes through almost instantly, and I know that’s because she’d have been sitting around waiting with bated breath.

Ma: Oh, hon. I knew they would. I’m so happy. Something tells me this is going to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

I can’t help but smile. Going from the top team for the last three years in a row to the team that’s come dead last for the last two regular seasons is less than ideal, but I know she’s just trying to make me feel better. It’s what she does.

“I need to check… hold on.”

Andy nudges me, and I look up from my messages to find him pressing his phone against his chest, leaning in closer. “That apartment you liked. The one in Chelsea with the parking spot?”

My brows knit together. “What about it?”

“It’s the listing agent.” He indicates his phone. “We can go look at it today.”

I offer a noncommittal shrug.

Andy lifts the phone back to his ear. “Can you do three o’clock?”

At that very moment, over the din of the city going about its business around us, I hear my name being called. Fuck . Thankfully, Andy’s car pulls up to the curb, and I make a run for it, quickly hopping into the shiny SUV right as a photographer comes into view across the street.

Through the tinted window, a few flashes go off, but I shield my face with my hand as Andy ends his call and directs the driver where to go.Heaving a relieved sigh, I allow my head to fall back as we pull away from the curb .

“How about a celebratory lunch?”

Eyes closed, I nod because I’m suddenly starving. I’ve barely been able to eat these last few days, racked with stress over what the Player Safety Board decision was going to be today.

Andy punches my arm. “Good. You’re buying.”

I can’t fight the grin that tugs at my lips because the man next to me, the one who’s been on my side ever since I was nineteen with nothing but an unbelievable ability to play hockey, saved my ass today, and I owe him a lot more than a fucking lunch, that’s for sure.