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it, but he’d figured there’d always be next season. Life had been good.
    Earlier that same year, his girlfriend, Louisa, had given him a child. A six pound, green-eyed, beautiful baby girl. He’d been there at her birth, and they’d named her Amelia. The baby had brought him and Louisa closer, and a month after Amelia’s birth, he and Lou had gotten married in Las Vegas in between road games.
    Before the baby, the two of them had been together off and on for three years, but they’d never been able to make it work for more than a few months at a time. They’d fought and made up, broken up and gotten back together so many times that Rob had lost count. Almost always over the same issues—her insane jealousy and his infidelity. She’d accuse him of cheating when he wasn’t. Then he would cheat and again they’d break up only to get back together a few months later. It had been a vicious circle, but one each had vowed to stop once they were married. Now that they had a baby and were a family, they were determined to make it work.
    They’d made it five months until the first major blowup.
    It was the night he’d gone out with the guys and come home late, and Louisa had been waiting up for him. He’d spent most of the night playing bad pool and decent darts in winger Bruce Fish’s game room. Fishy was a damn good hockey player, but he was also a notorious womanizer. Louisa had flipped out and refused to believe that they hadn’t been at a strip club getting lap dances and worse. She’d accused Rob of cheating with a stripper and stinking of cigarettes. That had set him off. He didn’t have sex with strippers anymore and hadn’t for a few years. He’d smelled like cigars, not cigarettes, and he hadn’t cheated with anyone. For over five months he’d been a damned saint, and instead of yelling at him, she should have been taking him to bed and rewarding his good behavior. Instead, they’d slipped back into their past behavior of fighting. In the end, both agreed that Rob should leave. Neither wanted Amelia exposed to their contentious relationship.
    By the beginning of hockey season that October, Rob was living on Mercer Island. Louisa and the baby were still living in their condo in the city, but she and Rob were getting along again. They were talking about a reconciliation because neither wanted a divorce. Still, they didn’t want to rush things and decided to take it slow.
    He’d just signed a four-million-dollar contract with the Chinooks. He was healthy, happier than he’d been in a while, and was looking forward to a kick-ass future.
    Then he fucked up big time.
    The first month into the regular hockey season, the Chinooks hit the road for a nine-day, five-game grind. Their first stop was Colorado and the team that had put an end to their chances at the cup the prior season. The Chinooks were fired up and ready for another run at it. Ready for another go in the Pepsi Center.
    But that night in Denver, the Chinooks couldn’t seem to get their game together, and in the third frame the Avalanche was up by one with twenty-five shots on goal. What no one talked about, what no one even dared to whisper out loud, was that losing their first road game by one point to the Avalanche once again could jinx the rest of the season. Something had to change—fast. Something had to happen to knock Colorado off their game. To slow them down. Someone had to fix the situation and create a little chaos.
    That someone was Rob.
    Coach Nystrom gave him the signal from the bench, and as Avalanche Peter Forsberg skated across center ice, Rob charged him and knocked him on his ass. Rob received a minor penalty, and as he served out his three minutes kicking back in the sin bin, Chinook’s sniper, Pierre Dion, shot from the point and scored.
    Game on.
    Five minutes later, Rob was back at work. He checked Teemu Selanne in the corner and