Boldly by Elise Faber

Chapter Three

Oliver

He satin the office that had been assigned to him, wearing a suit that was a little too big for him, staring at a computer, and hoping like hell he could meet this challenge.

The class—a series of online seminars, homework, and then a video conference at the beginning of next week—was going well.

So far, he hadn’t learned a ton.

Not to say it wasn’t helpful.

Just that most of the material was something he’d learned from his coaches over the years, and the rest was intuitive.

Now that he’d begun making good progress on the coaching course, he was going through the motions of trying to understand the system already in place in the development department.

He needed to hire a couple of new people.

The two assistant directors had gone off to run departments at other teams, and the current head, Marco, would only be around for another couple of weeks. He was retiring to his beach house in Florida.

Which meant that Oliver had a stack of files on his desk to go through.

And the one he’d happened to open to start with?

His own.

“Fuck,” he muttered, resisting the urge to toss it aside and forcing himself to start at the beginning, to take note of the way the file was formatted, the things that had been jotted down.

The information was good, all things that had been appropriate about his game play (before he’d stopped playing) and the skills earmarked for improvement were on point as well. It was just…this was a paper fucking file. Why was this information not computerized when everything else in the Breakers organization was of the highest tech?

He knew the answer to that.

Marco.

Old school.

The man had an allergy to computers but was good at his job. Which was why Oliver put his file to the side—gently—then moved onto the next, reading through information about Smithy and Marcel and Raph.

All of it precise.

All of it exactly what the guys needed.

And that was the moment he started to get excited. He knew drills that could help with the weaknesses called out in those files. Knew that there was equipment the team could bring out to build up what was lacking, bolster what needed support.

For the first time since Luc had offered him the job the week before, he thought that, yeah, he could be of use.

Which felt really fucking good.

Smiling, he moved on to the next file just as there was a knock at the door.

Glancing up, since the panel was open, he saw Connor Smith—Smithy—leaning against the jamb, arms and ankles crossed. “Lunch?” he asked.

Oliver wanted to turn him down.

Not because he didn’t want to see or hang out with his friend, but because he wanted to dive into the files, get caught up, and then start developing a computerized system where he could dump all this information.

Just the thought of spreadsheets and coding them got him excited.

What could he say? He might be an athlete, but he loved anything tech-related, and though he was better at the hardware stuff than the software, he could make his way through a bit of base code.

Plus, he knew a couple of people who were way better at it, and he’d bet at least one of them would take on the project.

Then he could hire some assistants to replace those who’d gone their own way.

“Ollie?”

He blinked. “Sorry.” He closed the folder, stood. “I was thinking about all the things I needed to do.”

“Is it a lot?”

Snagging his cell as he moved around his desk, Oliver nodded. “A lot, but I think it’ll be good.”

“And you’re good with it? With working in the back office instead of playing?”

That was Smithy.

Let it hang right out there.

Luckily, Oliver was used to dealing with him, and he wasn’t easily offended. “I’m as good with it as I can be, Smithy. Would I rather be playing? Yes. Would I rather have my leg? Fuck, yes. But do I? No. So, I’m dealing with it.”

“Dealing with it how?”

“I’m getting on with my life.”

Connor’s lips pressed flat. “Right.”

“Smithy, look. I appreciate you being concerned, but I’m fine.”

“Fine,” Smithy repeated.

And his face told Oliver he didn’t get it.

It was infuriating. It was…what it was.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing his suit jacket and shrugging into it. “Food, and then you get to do all the fun conditioning on the ice while I get to mess around on my computer.”

Smithy moved out of the door when Oliver walked toward it, but he didn’t miss that his friend’s eyes still held concern, still held worry.

Stifling a sigh, he slipped out into the hall and tried for a joke.

“Since you still have that big contract, you’re buying.”

But Smithy didn’t laugh.

And lunch was…too damned quiet, filled with too many awkward pauses.

“What do you think?”he asked Luc that Friday.

A week since he’d agreed to the job.

Three days since his time with Hazel, since he’d found out her ex was an ex, since he’d understood the horror on her face wasn’t because of him, or at least not really about him.

Blood.

It had been so much clearer when she’d said that.

Pale skin. Wide eyes. Wavering on her feet.

Not because she was disgusted with him, but because she had some phobia that had nothing to do with him.

And somehow that made it better.

“I think I’d better show you the budget for your department.”

Oliver’s heart sank.

Luc clicked a few times with his mouse then turned his computer screen so that Oliver could see.

It took a few minutes to process the line and the amount.

“That’s yours to use as you see fit,” Luc said. “For new hires. For whatever incidentals or needs your department has. This”—he nodded toward the proposal Oliver had brought in for the electronic system he wanted his friend Kailey to build—“falls under the category of incidentals. You need it, there’s a budget for it. I trust you, which means you want to do something like this, you want to hire someone, you do it. But you want my opinion on something, you want to check in with me, want me to be a sounding board? I’m there. I just want to be certain you understand that you don’t need to ask permission to do your job.”

Oliver sucked in a breath.

“I trusted you to do right by the team on the ice. I trust you’ll use those same skills—and learn any additional ones you might need—to do right by the team now that you’re off it.”

He released the breath, released the tension that had been knotting his insides and…relaxed. He could do this.

“Okay?” Luc asked and yawned.

Oliver nodded. “Okay.” Luc yawned again. “What about you?” he asked, noting the dark circles beneath Luc’s eyes. “Are you okay?”

A nod. “Noah’s decided he doesn’t like to sleep.”

“Has he ever liked to sleep?”

“I”—another yawn—“no. The kid seems to make it his mission to not sleep.”

Oliver winced. “Shit, man, that’s rough.”

“There’s a reason they use sleep deprivation for torture.” Luc chuckled, shoved a hand through his hair. “But I love the little bastard.”

“I think that’s a requirement.”

Luc nodded, lips curving. “For me it is, anyway.” Another yawn.

“On that note,” Oliver said as he stood. “I’m going to let you get out of here. I’ll let Kailey know she can get started on the program.”

“Oh, before you go. Any luck on your search for assistant directors?”

“Prudence Hansley is coming on for a trial period. She doesn’t want to leave her NWHL team unless she’s certain she has a future here.”

“She’d stop playing?”

“Apparently, she’s not certain how many seasons she has left, or if she’ll make it through this one. Her back is giving her trouble, so she wants to plan for what she’ll do once she can’t play anymore but doesn’t want to give it up any sooner than she has to if working here isn’t a good fit.”

“Makes sense.” Luc stacked some papers. “You can also work a deal where she does both. Their season is shorter and with limited travel.” That was true. Since the professional women’s league was relatively new and still building its infrastructure and fan base, it obviously wasn’t at the same level as the NHL. “If you find someone who can be here full-time, she may be able to do something part-time remote and part-time here.”

“That might tempt her if the trial goes well.”

“Good.” Luc nodded. “Let me know if you need any help getting that sorted with HR. I’d hate for her to give up playing if she’s not ready.” The GM froze, and Oliver watched his boss’s jaw clench. Probably at the reminder that they’d both been forced to stop playing before they’d wanted. He cleared his throat, adopted a tone that was much more business-like. “We need to support the women’s league where we can, and Pru is one of their bigger stars.”

“Agreed.”

“Good,” Luc said again. “You still coming to dinner tonight?”

“Depends. What are we having?”

Luc grinned. “Udon.”

“I’m in. I’ll meet you at your house. Want to finish up a few things here.” With that, he stood, headed for the door.

“Ollie?”

The nickname—the one the guys used when he was still playing—hurt, but only just a little bit.

Better.

It was all getting better.

“Yeah?” he asked, turning back to face Luc.

“You’ve got this.”