Bury the Hatchet

Chapter One - Bury the Hatchet

HUNTER

The August sun in Tulsa was intense enough to melt my bones, hotter even than the water I'd recently found myself in after making a few drunken, pissed-off, and ill-advised comments in Vegas last month. I'd been there for the NHL Awards, hoping to celebrate one of my buddies from the goalie guild winning the Vezina Trophy.

I didn't quite make it to that part of the awards presentation because my agent, John Stine, had slipped over to whisper some unwelcome news in my ear. An expansion draft had taken place earlier in the day so the league's new team, the Tulsa Thunderbirds, could stock up on players for their debut season. I'd known that was going on, of course. Everyone did. I also knew my team had left me unprotected, meaning it was almost guaranteed that I'd get claimed by the new team since I was far and away the best goaltender left in limbo. Sure enough, I was the first player the Thunderbirds selected.

So instead of battling it out for the starting gig against Nicky Ericsson, another goalie with the Portland Storm, I was heading to Oklahoma to play for a team that would unquestionably be appallingly bad for many years to come. The Storm were a legitimate threat to win the Stanley Cup these days. Needless to say, I wasn't exactly excited about this latest development in my career.

After getting the news and being assured there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it, I'd spent the rest of the night in the hotel bar, drowning my sorrows in an unending series of tequila shots. It was just my luck that half the contingent of hockey media present was hanging out just outside the bar. They stopped me when John finally hauled my sorry ass out of there, blinding my bleary eyes with their lights and shoving their damn microphones in my face.

Hunter, what do you think about the news that you'll be playing for the Thunderbirds next season? they'd asked. It's a real coup that they were able to claim a star goaltender like you in the expansion draft.

John should have jerked my ass away from them right then and there and said something along the lines of Mr. Fielding isn't taking any questions right now. But he'd been distracted by a phone call from one of his other clients who'd been plucked up in the expansion draft, and I'd shoved my foot so far down my own throat that I should have choked on it and died.

Who the fuck wants to play in a goddamned backasswards place like Tulsa, and for a fucking upstart, no less? I'd replied, ignoring the fact that it might be aired on live TV and the censors would have to bleep me out, oblivious to the harm I was causing myself with a few simple words. Truth or not, sometimes it was better to bite your tongue.

At that point, John disconnected his call and shoved the mics away from me. Too late. The damage had already been done. The words had left my mouth and been caught on film. I couldn't take them back. I was just going to have to face the consequences.

That was a little over a month ago, and now I had to pay the piper for my inebriated lack of common sense. That was why I was here now. I'd come to Tulsa to meet with the Thunderbirds brass. They wanted to figure out a plan for getting the fans—as if there were any fans to be found here—on my side. Or so they said. I was just waiting to hear what my penance would be for my perceived crimes, and the team's executives and coaches were apparently my judge and jury.

The second I stepped outside the airport into the blistering heat—fully expecting farmers to rush me with pitchforks—I wished I could walk right back in again, get on a plane, and fly the hell out of here. But I couldn't. There was no getting out of this unless I intended to walk away from what was left of my career. I was only twenty-nine years old. Way too young to hang up my skates and pads and call it a day. Hell, twenty-nine was when goaltenders tended to hit their prime. I had many years of hockey left in me, and I didn't have the first clue what I'd do with myself if it was taken away so soon.