For the Win
Page 1
For the Win is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept Ebook Original
Copyright © 2020 by Kelly Jamieson
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the Loveswept colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN 9781984800190
Cover photograph: © Unique Vision/Shutterstock
randomhousebooks.com
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
The Wynn Dynasty
Chapter 1: Harrison
Chapter 2: Arya
Chapter 3: Arya
Chapter 4: Harrison
Chapter 5: Harrison
Chapter 6: Arya
Chapter 7: Harrison
Chapter 8: Arya
Chapter 9: Harrison
Chapter 10: Arya
Chapter 11: Arya
Chapter 12: Harrison
Chapter 13: Arya
Chapter 14: Harrison
Chapter 15: Arya
Chapter 16: Harrison
Chapter 17: Arya
Chapter 18: Harrison
Chapter 19: Arya
Chapter 20: Harrison
Chapter 21: Arya
Chapter 22: Harrison
Chapter 23: Arya
Chapter 24: Harrison
Chapter 25: Arya
Chapter 26: Harrison
Chapter 27: Harrison
Chapter 28: Arya
Acknowledgments
By Kelly Jamieson
About the Author
The Wynn Dynasty
Bob Wynn, owner of the California Condors. Originally married to Grace Rogers (deceased), parents to Mark and Matthew with Grace. Parents to Everly, Asher, Harrison, and Noah with Chelsea Wynn. Grandfather to Jean Paul (JP), Théo, Jackson, and Riley.
Chelsea Wynn (formerly Clark), married to Bob Wynn, mother of Everly, Asher, Harrison, and Noah.
Matthew Wynn, owner of the Long Beach Golden Eagles. Son of Bob Wynn. Married to Aline Gagnon. Father of Théo and Jean Paul (JP).
Mark Wynn, coach of the Long Beach Golden Eagles. Son of Bob Wynn. Divorced from Victoria (Tori) Kendall. Father of Jackson and Riley.
Théo Wynn, general manager of the California Condors. Son of Matthew Wynn and Aline Gagnon. Grandson of Bob Wynn (with Grace).
Jean Paul (JP) Wynn, son of Matthew Wynn and Aline Gagnon. Grandson of Bob Wynn (with Grace). Plays for the Long Beach Golden Eagles.
Jackson Wynn, son of Mark Wynn and Victoria (Tori) Kendall. Grandson of Bob Wynn (with Grace). Plays for the Chicago Aces.
Riley Wynn, daughter of Mark Wynn and Victoria (Tori) Kendall. Granddaughter of Bob Wynn (with Grace). Goalie coach for the San Diego Hawks, affiliate team of the Long Beach Golden Eagles.
Everly Wynn, daughter of Bob and Chelsea Wynn. Executive director of the Condors Foundation.
Asher Wynn, son of Bob and Chelsea Wynn. Sports reporter for Playmaker (hockey blog).
Harrison Wynn, son of Bob and Chelsea Wynn. Plays for the Pasadena Condors, affiliate team of the California Condors.
Noah Wynn, son of Bob and Chelsea Wynn. Plays for the San Diego Hawks.
Chapter 1
Harrison
“Smith is out. Lower body.”
I nod slowly, sitting in coach Dave Martin’s office in the Santa Monica Coliseum.
“He’s out for the season,” Coach adds glumly.
“Damn.”
“Yeah. On top of Yatsyshyn already being out, we’re pretty light on the left wing.”
“Yeah.”
I’ve been called up from the farm team, which is nothing new for me. This season I’ve been up and down more than an Amazon drone.
I do have a contract with the California Condors, but it’s a two-way contract, meaning I can get sent down to the AHL any time. People say “sent down,” but technically I’m being loaned to the Pasadena team. I get paid more when I play NHL games, based on my contract, but still a helluva lot less than most NHL players. But don’t get me wrong—it’s not just about the money.
“We’re gonna need you, Milo, and Jack to fill some big holes. I haven’t decided yet what lines we’re gonna run.” He rubs his silver beard. “We may have to toss things in the blender and see what we come up with.”
“That’s fine.” I’m nothing if not adaptable. I think I’ve filled in on left wing and played with nearly every line on this team at one point or another.
This shit is getting old.
I mean, I’m grateful I have a chance to play hockey for a living. But everyone wants to play in the NHL. I’ve had so many chances, but it never sticks. I end up being sent back down to the minors. They give me the “you’re a valuable veteran resource for that team” speech. I know it’s true. I’m not bragging; it’s a fact that at twenty-six years old, I’m the second-oldest player on the Pasadena Condors. Our team feeds players to the Santa Monica Condors and there are new guys coming in every season, teenagers who’ve just been drafted, guys being traded, and I’ve watched too many of them make the move.
We’ve been lucky with our draft picks the last few seasons. That’s the upside of being a team that sucks and never makes the playoffs—higher draft picks. A bunch of eager, talented, young guys have come into the team, and then moved onto our NHL affiliate. This year the Condors have done a lot better, thanks to new management and coaching. It looks like they (we?) might make the playoffs. But injuries are killing them right now and it’s late in the season.
“I’ll do whatever I can,” I tell Coach.
“Will you?” He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms, looking at me over the rims of his black reading glasses.
I gaze back at him. “Uh…of course.”
He gives me another long look that has my nuts shriveling. “What?”
“You have a lot of natural talent for this game.”
I guess that’s true.
“You also have a lot of experience. Been playing pro hockey for ten years now, right?”
“Yeah.” He knows exactly how long I’ve played, how many NHL games I’ve played, and all my numbers.
“When I say we need you to step up, I mean we really need you to step up.” He straightens and sits forward, his intense gaze fixed on me. “Let me be very frank here.”
“Of course.” I keep my face expressionless, not sure where this is going, but fairly sure it’s not going to be good.
“You’ve coasted for a lot of years.”
My jaw drops. “What? That’s not true!”
“You make it look easy,” he continues. “You have amazing hands and a fantastic ability to read the play. You make good choices with the puck at both blue lines. But there’s a sense you’re only putting in as much effort as you need to.”
“No. Absolutely not.” I think…
“I’ve always wondered what it would look like if you really put some effort into it. I bet you didn’t have to try hard in junior hockey. I bet you knew you were going to be drafted.�
��
Ugh. Here we go. Just because my dad is a hockey legend, everyone expects me to be just like him. “If you’re referring to my family, no—”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. Even Wynns don’t get drafted if they can’t play. No GM is stupid enough to waste a draft pick. But you knew you were good, you knew you’d get drafted, and you figured you’d play in the NHL. Am I right?”
“Yeah,” I mutter.
“I get that it hasn’t worked out for you, but maybe you need to take a long look at why that is and what you could do differently.” He gives me a wry smile. “You’re a popular guy with both teams. Easygoing personality, fun in the dressing room.”
I stare at him, not sure where he’s going with this.
“Those are good qualities, and important. Never underestimate the power of changing the mood in the room.” He eyes me shrewdly. “But if you demonstrated hard work, you’d be even more of a leader.”
Heat is pressing up inside me, squeezing my windpipe. I curl my hands over the arms of the chair. “I can’t be my dad,” I say tersely.
Bob Wynn, King of Hockey. Four Stanley Cup rings, long and legendary hockey career. But I’ve never measured up.
Coach’s eyes soften minutely. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Sure it is. Everyone expects that. And I do work hard.” I’m annoyed but I keep my tone polite. This is bullshit, but he’s the coach.
“I’m not saying you don’t. But I think you have another level inside you. We want to see that next level from you.”
To be honest, I don’t know what that means. And I don’t know how to do that. But I nod my agreement as if I do as Coach stands to end the meeting.
“Thanks for the chance,” I tell him.
“Life is ten percent what happens to you and ninety percent what you do with it.”
Great. Now he’s spouting cute motivational sayings.
“You don’t always get what you wish for,” he adds. “You get what you work for.”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
I head to the dressing room to change for the game-day skate. I got here early because Coach wanted to talk to me, but other guys are arriving now too.
“Called up again, eh?” Jimmy says with a slap on my shoulder. “We’re falling like dead trees here.”
I grin. “So I hear.”
Out on the ice with Assistant Coach Stanislav Petrov blowing the whistle and putting us through a few easy drills, I let Coach’s words run through my mind. I’m a little pissed, to be honest. I shove that aside to focus on what I’m doing.
Maybe it’s anger that gives me an adrenaline boost. I’m laser focused on the puck and the net. I’m shooting harder. I’m skating faster.
When we’re done, I stay on the ice, working on a few things I wasn’t happy with.
“Good skate, Harry,” Scotty says, tapping my leg with his stick as he skates off.
“You’re on fire,” Jimmy, the team captain, says. “Hold on to that for tonight.”
I’m gonna fucking try.
“You need to up your transition game,” Stan says to me when we’re the only two left on the ice.
I stare at him.
“You wanna work on that?”
The only answer is, “Yeah.”
He nods, skating backward. “We can work on some drills. Get you breaking for openings. Working on your passing angle. Moving into open space when the D-men move to cover a high breaking forward.”
“Okay.”
We stay on the ice awhile longer, and I agree to come back again tomorrow to work on more.
After I’m showered and dressed, I head to the players’ lounge for lunch, loading up on chicken, pasta, and a big salad with sweet potato and avocado. I’ve been here enough that I’m comfortable with all these guys. And now, Wyatt Bell is dating my sister.
Don’t ask me how the hell that happened. He is so not Everly’s type. But she seems really happy, and hell, so does he. He’s kind of a player, though, so he better not screw her over. I’d have “the talk” with him, but Everly was ranting the other day about how Dad embarrassed her with that kind of conversation, so I’m keeping my mouth shut.
After I eat my bowl of ice cream—definitely my favorite part of the meal—I head home for a nap. As I drive, I reflect more on what Coach said.
I do want to play in the NHL. I’ve always wanted it. And it’s pissing me off that it hasn’t happened.
Is he right? Do I think that because I’m a Wynn, I should get a free ride?
My dad is Bob Wynn, a hockey legend, known as the King of Hockey. I have a big family and a lot of them were, or are, hockey players, including two half brothers who now own and coach our local rival, the Long Beach Golden Eagles. My nephew JP plays for that team, and my brother Noah plays for their farm team. He’s younger than me, so that doesn’t make me feel any better that I’m not the only Wynn playing in the AHL. My aunt is the goalie coach for their farm team. My other nephew, Théo, is the GM of the Condors.
I’m pretty sure none of us got where we are because of our name, nor did we expect to.
I gnaw on my bottom lip as I change lanes on Pico Boulevard.
Home. I don’t even have my own home, at twenty-six years old. I share the rent on a house here in Santa Monica with my brother Asher. But I also share the rent on an apartment in Pasadena, because that’s where I’ve spent most of my time. Driving over an hour each way sucks on game days, so when I’m playing in Pasadena I stay there, and when I get called up, I stay here with Ash.
I park in front of the house, a two-story Spanish style with white stucco and a red tile roof. It’s old, but some of it has been updated. The front yard is full of drought-tolerant plants instead of a lawn, a few flowers but lots of tall reed grasses, shorter fescue, lavender, sage, and spiky agave. I thought maybe we could make tequila from the agave, but apparently it’s not that easy. I haven’t given up the idea, though.
The only reason I know what these plants are is because my dad has taken an interest in gardening the last few years, and I’ve kind of gotten into it too.
Now I’m thinking about Dad, and my mood dips even lower. I’m not a worrier, I like to take things as they come, but even I’m concerned about what’s happening with him.
I pull the mail from the mailbox and walk inside. Asher’s sitting in his office, the third bedroom of the small house, typing away on his computer.
Ash never even tried to make it into the NHL. Maybe he was the smart one out of the two of us. Maybe neither of us inherited the right talent genes from our dad. Ash played hockey in college, but he was more focused on getting his journalism degree and now works as a sports reporter for Playmaker, an online hockey blog that’s getting huge.
“Hey,” I call to him. “I’m home. Mail for you.” I walk in and toss envelopes on his desk.
He glances at them. “Bills and junk mail. Why do I get the bills? Both our names are on the lease.”
I grin. “Because you’re more stable and responsible than I am, and we don’t want our electricity cut off.”
He smiles and shakes his head.
“I pay my share,” I add, before heading to my bedroom.
I still believe in a good, long nap on game day. Part of it is probably just the routine, but whatever, if it helps, I’m not stopping. It’s only about one-thirty, but my room is dark with the blinds drawn. I strip off my clothes and climb into bed naked, setting my phone on the nightstand with the alarm set.
As I lay in bed, I can’t stop thinking about my meeting with Coach. How many times have I heard from coaches that I’m not living up to my potential? It makes me nuts. I may be Bob Wynn’s son, I may have some of his talent, but that doesn’t mean I can be a god like him.
The challenge of being in the AHL is that it’s so close to that ulti
mate goal—and yet making it that next step is sometimes the biggest hurdle. All of us are good players. We’ve all probably been top performers at some point in our hockey lives. And then here we are, one step down from the major leagues. From being the best.
Have I let it wear me down? Have I given up the goal, subconsciously?
I won’t have too many more chances. After this season, I’ll be twenty-seven, which is the average age of an NHL player. I still feel like I’m in good shape. I take my health and fitness seriously. I’m not injury prone, like some guys. I probably have a lot of years left in me to play. But…realistically, not many guys make the permanent move from the AHL to the NHL at this age.
The one person I need to talk to right now is Dad. He’s always been my best coach, my biggest supporter. He’d be honest with me about whether I’ve been coasting, about whether I really need to work harder. He’d understand.
But right now, he’s the last person I can talk to.
My dad may have Alzheimer’s.
We’ve all been worried lately about his memory and confusion. When my brother and I tried to talk to him about it, he denied it. I haven’t seen a lot of evidence of it myself, but everyone else apparently has. And now we know Mom is worried too, it scares the shit out of me.
I may not have that much longer to prove to him I can do it. My gut becomes a rock, and I try to relax.
I’m not ashamed to admit that I want my dad to be proud of me. Especially when it comes to hockey. He’s the King.
Fuck. I have to figure things out on my own. I have to prove myself. This time I have to do it.
Chapter 2
Arya
It’s a gorgeous morning in Marina del Rey. The sun is warmer now that spring is here, and we’ve even had a little rain, so things are fresh and green. I’m inside Makara Yoga, which is part of Stand-Up Guy Paddleboards, owned by my friend and roommate Taj, getting ready for my Saturday morning stand-up paddleboard yoga class. I didn’t invent this kind of yoga class, but there aren’t many places that offer it, and it’s getting more and more popular.