I look at the phone and check the clock and see that he is two minutes early. I try not to roll my eyes at him and instead just nod. I’ll wait until the meeting starts to get him in line. Frank has been with the team for the past seven years, and if you ask me, I would have fired him five years ago. But his contract is ironclad, so until it’s up for renewal next year, I have no choice but to fucking keep him.
Grabbing my bottle of water, I drain it all, and I’m tossing it in the trash when Lizzie comes back with two cups of coffee in her hand. “Left,” she tells me, so I know which coffee is mine. She nods at Frank and walks to the head of the table and takes a seat next to me.
The coach is the next to walk in. “Michel,” I say to him, and he sits beside Lizzie. He has been my coach for the past two years. I got him when Montreal fired him. Of course, Frank didn't want to hire him, but I give zero fucks what Frank thought about anything.
Usually, your general manager acquires the rights to player personnel by negotiating their contracts and reassigning or dismissing players no longer desired on the team. They may also have responsibility for hiring the head coach of the team. But not Frank. And not on my watch. It was rare to have an owner at the team meetings. It was also rare to have an owner negotiate the contracts, but I did. And sometimes I did it without even informing Frank, which didn’t go over well with him. Again, I had zero fucks to give him.
“Okay, let’s get this meeting started,” I say, looking at my Rolex watch and seeing that it’s precisely three on the dot. “We have a lot of ground to cover.”
“How long is this meeting going to last?” Frank asks, and I look up at him. “It’s a budget meeting, so I figured two hours tops.”
“You are free to leave at any time,” I say and then look over at Lizzie, who hands me the first file. “Six contracts will be expiring at the end of the season.” I look down at the list and then back up. “Six that we need to keep.”
“This wouldn’t happen if you made me do my job,” Frank says to me, and I lean back in my chair.
“Your job?” I laugh. “Was it your job to sign a thirty-seven-year-old to a six-year contract for forty-two million?” I ask. “The guy was one step to being retired.” Frank just glares at me.
“He was a first round pick.” He leans his arms on the table.
“When he was eighteen,” I counter. “Let’s look at this one. Kistoff.” I open the file. “Another crazy fucking contract.” I look down at it. “Five years for ten million, and he was thirty-five.” I don’t even bother letting Frank talk. “He had three fucking knee surgeries before he was signed.”
“If you just play these guys …” he says, and Michel groans.
“Do you know how many times they had to sit out because they were hurt?” he asks Frank, and I just watch.
“You weren’t even the coach,” he spits at Michel.
“I didn’t have to be the coach to know. There are very few who can skate at forty and make a difference.”
“I agree,” I say. “It’s one thing to give them a one-year contract, but to sign them to these long contracts that I’m now stuck paying plus the ones I need. Which is why every fucking year I have to let go of players that I actually need.”
“Oh, come on.” His hand moves in the air.
“My father left you in charge,” I say, “and trusted you, and what did you do?”
“It’s not my fault.” He shakes his head. “I’m not taking all the blame.”
“You should,” I say, and Michel nods his head.
“You’re the one who put those contracts together. You’re the one who hired every single player who was retiring. I don’t even know what you were thinking.”
“I was thinking that a man with experience could lead us to the Cup,” he says.
“How do you think they are going to lead us to the Cup if they can’t fucking skate, Frank?” I shake my head and hold up my hand. “It’s no secret that I’m not renewing your contract when it expires.”
“I wouldn’t want to stay here anyway,” he says, making me laugh.
“Then why don’t you leave now?” I say. “I mean, let’s face it. You aren’t doing anything.”
“That’s because you’re a control freak who won’t let me do my job!” he shouts, slamming his hand on the table. I think the fact that I’m cool, calm, and collected irritates him even more.
“That is because I sat down and read these contracts,” I say. “You know the difference between my father and me?” I look at him, and he just glares at me. I know that as soon as he leaves here, he will call my father. He always does. “I give a shit. I want to win.” I look at him. “I’m going to make sure that I build a team that has the same thirst for the Cup as I do.”
He stands from his chair and looks at me. “You didn’t work for this team,” he says. “It was handed to you.”
“What was handed to me was a pile of shit,” I say. “But I’m going to turn that pile of shit into gold.” He laughs at me and walks out of the room. I look around the table. “Just so we’re clear, if you aren’t here to fight to get to number one, then you should leave now.” I look around the room and then look at Lizzie, who smirks. I clap my hands together. “Let’s get to work.”
Chapter 3
Becca
The sweat pours off me as I run on the treadmill, looking out the window in my home gym as the sun slowly rises. It’s my thing to get up every day at five thirty, no matter where I am, and run for at least an hour. It clears my head. I also come up with the best ideas while on this fucking treadmill.
The television plays in the background as I make my list of notes. The beep of the treadmill lets me know I’ll be slowing down. My running goes from full speed to a slow jog, giving my breathing a chance to return to normal as I cool down. I grab my water bottle and finish it as the treadmill comes to a stop. Grabbing my towel, I wipe the sweat away from my face as I make my way to my bedroom. The penthouse was the first real big thing I bought for myself. It set me back close to ten million, but it was just what I wanted.
The two-floor penthouse has floor-to-ceiling windows in every room, providing a lot of natural light. I head into my bathroom, opening the shower door and starting the water while I peel off my sports bra and black shorts. Stepping into the massive shower, I let the water run over my long brown hair as I wash.
When I step out, I slip on my terry cloth robe and wrap my hair up to walk to the kitchen. The kitchen is all white with black marble countertops. The stainless-steel appliances are not used that much since I’m rarely home. I think the only time I use the stove is on Saturday and Sunday. The fridge is always fully stocked, thanks to my cleaning lady who comes in twice a week. I start the Nespresso coffee machine, then grab my milk and pour some in. Going back to the fridge, I pick up the turkey sausage and a couple of eggs to start my breakfast while I drink my coffee. I’m taking out the stuff for my shake when my phone rings, and I grab it without looking at the name.