Stuck With A Grumpy Enemy
I have one rule in my facility: I outrank everyone. Your coach, your GM, your ego. Then Gunnar Rydell parks his truck across two spaces and limps through my door. The NHL's grumpiest defenseman. Six foot four of scar tissue and silence, with a wrecked knee, a bad attitude, and hands I can't look at for reasons I refuse to chart. He argues every protocol. He never says thank you. But every morning there's a black coffee on my counter, set down like a dare, and every night our sessions run long because fighting with him is the best part of my day. I know better than to fall for an athlete. A man like him already cost me everything once. So of course it happens in my supply room, with his hands in my hair and my rules on the floor. Now one reporter's story could burn down my career. And the only man who can fix it is the one I told to stay away.