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standards. Guys like Cooper made Isaac suspicious. Usually underneath all that teammate bullshit lurked a hypercritical, selfish jerk.
    “Coop,” said someone else—Isaac didn’t know the rest of them well enough to guess whose voice was whose. “We believe Isaac can contribute to this team and our run for the Cup down the stretch. It’s your job as captain to make sure he assimilates well with the guys.”
    “He’s never assimilated into any team, which is why he’s been on the trading block every six months or less since he’s entered the league.”
    Another voice spoke up. “Regardless, you’re going to do your duties as team captain.”
    “I always do my duties,” Black growled.
    Isaac chose that moment to walk into the room, his stride strong and forceful, his face schooled into a careful mask of indifference, his way of dealing with all the crap life threw at him. Yet inside was a different story, and Isaac’s stomach churned with fear, fear of losing his career and his first love—hockey.
    “Isaac,” spoke the man who’d done the talking earlier. He stood and held out his hand. “I’m Coach Gorst. Welcome to the Sockeyes. We’re thrilled to have a player of your talent join us.”
    Isaac nodded and shook hands around the room as the rest of the coaching staff was introduced along with the captain and alternate captains. Everyone treated him as if he were a vital part of their team, not like he was the fuck-up of the NHL; well, everyone but Cooper Black. Black shook his hand but only grunted a word or two.
    Once they dispensed with the formalities, Coach jumped right in. “Isaac, the Sockeyes aren’t steeped in tradition like other teams. We’re new, we’re progressive, and we’re dedicated to doing what it takes to make this team a perpetual winner. We celebrate each player’s uniqueness. We don’t want little robots on this team who conform to the NHL ideal of what a hockey player should be. We want renegades, guys who push the envelope. Team players with attitude on the ice which doesn’t extend to the locker room. We play hard and fast. We play with enthusiasm because we only sign players who love the game. We take no prisoners and make no excuses. When we walk off that ice every night, we know we’ve left our blood and our hearts on the ice.” The coach spoke with the passion of one dedicated to his cause.
    “Yes, Coach,” Isaac replied agreeably. What the hell else could he do? The league had him by the short hairs, and every man in this room knew it.
    “We think you can be that kind of player for us. We believe in you.” Coach grinned at him with a fire in his eyes that despite Isaac’s mistrust and cynicism sucked him in.
    Either this guy was full of shit, or he should be a motivational speaker. Most guys this positive and rah-rah couldn’t carry it off without sounding insincere. Not this guy. Gorst wasn’t blowing smoke up his ass. Isaac suspected he meant every word.
    Gorst was young and innovative. He was knocking the good ol’ boys on their asses and changing everything about hockey as they knew it. If he started a winning tradition here in Seattle, the good ol’ boys would have no choice but to sit up and take notice, and they wouldn’t like that one damn bit.
    Isaac had done his research on the team and the city. The Sockeye staff and players were comprised of renegades, upstarts, and non-traditionalists. They didn’t give a shit about how it was done before, because around here it hadn’t been done before. They were going to break new ground. They were who they were, and they didn’t care if ninety percent of the East Coast thought they were located somewhere near Alaska.
    He’d never visited Seattle until now because if the city didn’t have NHL, he didn’t visit it. Life for him was that simple and that complicated. He planned to make this his home for as long as the Sockeyes would have him.
    Isaac looked around the room at the eager, welcoming faces.