The Mighty Quinns: Thom. Kate Hoffmann

and his grandmother. It was a small circle, but it was all Thom had ever needed.

      Jack circled the block around the office building that housed Blizzard headquarters, and when he found an empty parking spot, he smoothly pulled the car to a stop. As he switched off the ignition, he turned to Thom. “Tell me what you want, Tommy. If you want to quit, I’ll find a way to make it happen. If you want a trade, we’ll get it done. Just tell me what you want.”

      Thom had been searching for that particular answer since the time he’d walked away from his childhood. Until then, everyone else had made decisions for him. And though he’d fought tooth and nail against any type of authority figure, when his life was finally his own to run, he’d realized he didn’t have a plan. His hockey skill was the only thing that kept him from begging for spare change on a street corner. And that wouldn’t last forever.

      “Maybe you need a fresh start,” Jack said. “You could go somewhere and just clear the decks. Start over somewhere else with a new outlook.”

      “I don’t want to leave,” Thom murmured.

      “You might not have a choice. Of course, we can decide where you might go. Your trade clause gives you final approval. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

      As they walked toward team headquarters, Thom drew a deep breath and tried to gather a positive attitude. He’d been through this before—he’d make a stupid mistake, then smooth things over with an earnest apology. His skills on the ice had always balanced the scales. His crimes had been minor, his talent outweighing the consequences.

      But he was getting older. He was twenty-seven, and boyish misbehavior wasn’t as charming as it used to be. In truth, most of his teammates of the same age were married, some of them with children.

      Jack held the front door open for him as he walked into the cool of the air-conditioned offices. Thom straightened his tie, then quickly ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. He’d shaved in an attempt to make himself look a bit more reputable, but he should have taken the time to get a haircut.

      When they got to Steve McCrory’s office, the receptionist was waiting, a tight smile on her face. She led them both to a nearby conference room. The room was already full, the air thick with tension. Thom cursed softly as he stepped inside. The moment he scanned the occupants, he knew he was in serious trouble.

      He’d expected McCrory, the general manager, and Dave Jones, the director of player personnel. But seated at the head of the conference table was Davis Pedersen, the team owner, a formidable figure at the best of times, but now he wore a stony expression on his face.

      Thom heard a soft sigh slip from Jack’s mouth. This was much more serious than he’d anticipated. Pedersen stood as they entered and pointed to a pair of chairs. “Take a seat, gentlemen.”

      A ringing in Thom’s ears muffled the sounds of the voices around him. Other people arrived and sat down at the table, some faces familiar, some not. Thom’s gaze settled on a slender blonde who sat on the opposite end of the table. She was the only woman in the room, so it was hard not to notice her.

      Her gaze met his, her pale blue eyes lingering for a moment. Thom sent her a halfhearted smile and she returned the favor. She seemed the only one in the room, besides his agent, willing to look him directly in the eye. Another bad sign.

      The conversation began and Thom listened silently as all of his faults were recounted, one by one, each followed by a short dissertation on how his actions had negatively affected the image of both the league and the team.

      He didn’t attempt to defend himself, or explain. Instead he waited for his turn to speak, knowing they’d expect some type of apology before they moved on to the punishment.

      Finally Thom opened his mouth, ready to be humble. But Davis Pedersen held up his hand. “I don’t want to hear your excuses or your apologies. Hell, I don’t even want a promise that you’ll start to behave in a manner befitting the position you hold. As far as I’m concerned, those would all be empty words. You’ve made promises in the past, and you’ve broken them all. So, Mr. Quinn, here’s how this is going to play out. I plan to trade your ass to the first team that pays me a decent price. Until then, I expect you to behave like a choirboy, and I will do whatever it takes to make sure that happens. If you fight me on this, I’ll send you to the worst damn team in the league.”

      Jack cleared his throat. “We have a trade approval clause, so you’d have to—”

      “I don’t have to do anything,” Pedersen snapped. “Your boy has broken his morals clause more times than I can count.” He tossed a file folder across the table at Jack and the agent pulled a photo from it.

      “The girl sitting beside you in this photo is a teenage hooker,” Pedersen said. “This is going to be posted on—on—what the hell is it called?”

      The blonde cleared her throat. “Instagram.”

      “Right. We were contacted by a bartender at your hotel in Vegas. He informed us that this...girl has been kicked out of the place repeatedly for soliciting. And she’s underage. He wanted five thousand or he’s going to post the photo on the internet.”

      “I can explain that photo,” Thom said.

      Davis slammed his palms down on the table, his expression fierce. “I don’t want a damn explanation. I want you to exercise some self-control!” Pedersen stood. “We’re done here. If you’ll excuse us, we have some plans to discuss.”

      Pedersen led the other men in suits out of the room, but the blonde hung back. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked Thom. “Coffee. A soda, maybe?”

      “Do you have any arsenic?” Thom asked.

      She laughed softly. “No. I’m afraid not. Even if we did, I’m sure I wouldn’t be authorized to give it to you.”

      “I’m all right,” he said.

      “I hope so,” she replied. “Good luck. I hope it works out for you.”

      “Thanks,” Thom said, taking a long look at her. Who was she? She must work for the team. But doing what? He hadn’t seen her at the rink; he would have remembered someone so beautiful. Hell, if he had met her, he would have found some way to seduce her. He usually didn’t let an attractive woman get past him.

      “Don’t even think about it,” Jack muttered as the woman left the room.

      “What? I’m not thinking about anything,” Thom lied. “She’s pretty. Who the hell is she?”

      “You don’t know?” Jack asked. He shook his head and chuckled. “Probably for the best.”

      “No, really. Who is she?”

      “She’s Malin Pedersen. Davis Pedersen’s only daughter.”

      “I thought his daughter was still in high school.”

      “She was. When you were drafted. She’s grown up.”

      “She’s pretty,” Thom said. “What did you say her name was?”

      “Malin.”

      “Kind of a weird name,” he murmured.

      “I believe it’s Swedish,” Jack replied.

      “Malin,” Thom whispered to himself.

      A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. He drew a deep breath and scolded himself inwardly.

      “Exercise some self-control!”

      His boss’s command echoed in his head. Yes, it was definitely a bad idea to imagine the boss’s daughter naked and lying in his bed...

      * * *

      “THIS IS YOUR FAULT,” Davis Pedersen said, scowling at his daughter from across his desk as she and Steve McCrory followed him into his office.

      “How is this my fault?” Malin asked.