Jules explained that a free agent plays without a contract and can leave anytime before he is renewed. An unrestricted free agent is a player with an expired contract who has been released from his club and hasn’t been picked up yet.
“It all came about when the league stopped using restrictive clauses because of collective bargaining.”
Whatever that meant. “Do we have any free agents?” she asked as an air horn ripped through the area and music blasted from the ice below.
“Not at the moment. Management got them all locked down before the playoffs.” Jules looked up and called out, “What’s the score, Valerie?”
“Tied at two. Number Twenty-one on your team just scored.”
Number Twenty-one was the captain of the team and Faith flipped to Ty Savage’s bio and read his stats. He was thirty-five, born in Saskatchewan, Canada, which explained the accent. He was six foot three and weighed 240 pounds. He shot left, and this was his fifteenth season in the NHL.
He’d played for the London Knights in the OHL before being a first-round draft pick and signing with Pittsburgh in the NHL. He’d played for the Penguins, the Blackhawks, Vancouver, and now the Chinooks. The next bit of information made Faith’s jaw drop. “Thirty million,” she wheezed. “Virgil paid him thirty million? Dollars?”
“For three years,” Jules clarified, as if that made perfect sense.
Faith looked up and reached for a bottle of water sitting on the table. “Is he worth that much?”
Jules shrugged his big, beefy shoulders covered in a teal-colored silk T-shirt. “Virgil thought so.”
“What do you think?” She took a drink.
“He’s a franchise player and worth every penny.” Jules stood and stretched. “Let’s watch and see what you think.”
Faith set the papers on the table, then rose and followed Jules to the balcony. She had so much to learn, it was daunting, and she was too overwhelmed to think. She moved past the three rows of padded stadium seats and joined her mother standing at the railing.
Below on the ice, the action was stopped and the teams were in position. In his dark blue jersey, Ty skated past the face-off circle twice before moving inside. He stopped, planted his feet wide, placed the stick across his thighs, and waited. The puck dropped and the battle was on. Ty shoved his shoulder into his opponent as his stick slapped the ice and he shot the puck behind him. As one, the skaters on each team flew into action, a whirl of organized chaos. The dark blue Chinooks jerseys with their white numbers mixed it up with the white and green of Vancouver.
Number Eleven, Daniel Holstrom, skated toward the Canucks’ goal and shot the puck across ice to forward Logan Dumont, who passed off to Ty. With the puck in the middle of the blade, Ty skated behind the goal, came around the other side, and shot. The puck bounced off the goaltender’s knee pad and a battle broke out. Faith lost track of the puck in the collision of sticks and bodies. From her position, all she saw was pushing, shoving, and flying elbows.
A ref blew a whistle and the play stopped…except for Ty, who shoved a Vancouver player, hard, and nearly knocked him on his butt. The player caught his balance just before he toppled backward. They exchanged words and Ty threw his gloves to the ice. A referee skated between the two and grabbed the front of Ty’s jersey. Over the top of the ref’s head, Ty pointed to his face and then at the other player. The ref asked him something, and as soon as he nodded, the smaller man let go of his jersey. Ty picked up his gloves and while he skated to the bench, an instant replay flashed on the sports screen. “Welcome to the Jungle” blasted from the arena speakers, and on the big sports screen suspended above the ice, Faith watched Ty raise a hand before his face and point to his intense blue eyes. Over the ref’s head, he stared out from beneath black brows and white helmet. Then he turned his hand and pointed at Number Thirty-three on the opposin
g team. A menacing smile curved his lips. A shiver ran up Faith’s spine and raised goose bumps on her arms. If she were Number Thirty-three, she’d be afraid. Very afraid.
Just in case anyone missed it, it was replayed one more time in slow motion. The crowd below went wild, cheering and stomping their feet, as once more Ty’s intense blue eyes locked on his opponent, the scar on his chin slicing through the dark stubble.
“Lord have mercy.” Valerie took a step back and sank into her seat. “And you own him.” She set Pebbles down and the little dog waddled over to Faith and smelled her shoe. “You own them all,” she added through a sigh.
“You make it sound like they’re slaves.” Pebbles raised her beady black eyes to Faith and yipped.
Stupid dog. “I employ them.” But how many women in the world could say they employed twenty or so good-looking, buff men who swung at pucks and pounded on other players?
She was probably the only one, and the thought was both exciting and terrifying. She looked down at the row of men sitting on the Chinooks bench, spitting on the ground between their feet, wiping sweat from their faces, and chewing on their mouth guards. The sight of all that spitting and sweating should have made her feel a little nauseous, but for some reason didn’t.
“After the games, Virgil always went to the locker room and talked to the team,” Jules told her.
Yeah, she knew that, but she’d never gone. “I’m sure they won’t expect me to make an appearance in the locker room.” It had been a long time since Faith had been around so many men in a confined space. Not since they’d stuffed money in her G-string. A lot of them had been jocks. As a rule, she generally didn’t like jocks. Jocks and rock stars didn’t think they had to abide by the rules.
“You have to, Faith,” her mother said, pulling her attention from the ice below. “Do it for Virgil.”
Do it for Virgil? Was her mother smoking weed again?
“Reporters will be there,” Jules continued. “So it’s important. I’m sure they’ll want you to make some sort of statement.”
On the ice below, a whistle blew and the action resumed. “What kind of statement?” Faith asked as she studied the players, who looked like a swarm of organized blue and white jerseys.
“Something easy. Talk about why you decided not to sell the team.”
She glanced at him then returned her attention to the game. “I decided not to sell the team because I hate Landon Duffy.”