"So what are you saying?" I ask, making sure to lock eyes with Colin andnotthe stunning beach behind him.
“You need to engage,” Colin grunts, seizing on the opportunity of rare compliance. “All of you. The community. The fans. The media. You need to make people believe in this team again. You need to give them a reason to care beyond the novelty of hockey players who can surf.”
He drags a hand down his face, suddenly looking every one of his fifty-something years. “Which is why ownership’s making changes. We're bringing in new hires. A fresh strategy. You will cooperate. You will be available. And you will all smile for the cameras. Am I understood?"
I look at Beck. He's grinning, already imagining the chaos. I look at Mason. He gives me a slight, resigned nod.
Cooperate? Smile for some cameras? Do whatever gets us out of this fucking office and keeps the mansion.
"Fine," I say, pushing out of the chair. "We'll cooperate."
How hard can it be?
Holden blinks, like he was expecting more of a fight. "Good. That's… good. That's all I'm asking."
I head for the door. Beck and Mason fall in behind me.
"Oh, and Declan," Holden calls out.
I pause, hand on the doorknob. "What?"
"You're the captain. It's your job to lead them." He gestures to my brothers who are five steps closer to the beach than I am right now. "Don't make me regret this."
I don't bother responding. I just pull the door shut and step out into the hallway, my brothers spilling out in front of me.
"So," Beck says, sliding his sunglasses down onto his face like we're not still standing inside the building. "You think we should hit the gym after that meeting? Or we still doing Happy Hour atBreakers?"
I pull my brothers beneath my arms and head for the exit. "What the hell do you think?"
And just like that, we're laughing together, the whole meeting evaporating behind us like it never happened. We pile into Mason's shiny black Range Rover, and head for the cold beer waiting for us.
I've successfully spent all afternoon not giving a single fuck about Colin Holden’s office theatrics.
I lean against the weathered wood of Breakers’ main bar, watching Mason line up another dart. He’s too careful. He always has been. His throw is smooth and precise, and the dart lands in the triple twenty.
“Too easy,” he says, smirking over his shoulder at me.
Beck snorts from his perch on a barstool, loosely working on his third beer. “Says the guy who practices this shit. It’s pathetic, Mase. Get a hobby.”
“Says the guy whose hobby is getting penalties for public indecency,” Mason fires back without looking.
I take a long pull from my bottle, the cold bitterness perfect against the late afternoon heat still clinging to the salty ocean air.
Breakers Bar and Grill, set right on the beach in Beachside, is perfect as always tonight. My brothers and I fell in love with the place from the moment we stepped foot in this town, and we've been Mack Rogers' best customers ever since.
From here, I can see the whole bar in all it's glory.
The massive garage doors open right onto the beach, letting in the sunset and the constant, soothing roar of the crashing waves. String lights are already glowing, and the smell of grilled burgers and fries mixes with coconut sunscreen and salt.
This is the whole fucking point that corporate assholes like Colin Holden don't understand.
I came to Beachsidefor this.
Mack slides another bottle my way, his tattooed arms moving with the economy of a man who’s poured a million drinks. “So he really thinks the team will fold if you don't start winning?”
"Yep." Mason sinks his last dart, winning the round, and turns back to the bar. “League’s talking about options for the franchise if we don’t make some improvements.”
A beat of silence hangs, filled only by the distant shriek of a gull on the boardwalk.