The Mighty Quinns: Thom

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.

“I hired you to contain all this Flitter business. We never had these kinds of problems in the past. Now the moment one of our players steps out of line, there’s someone there to take a photo and blast it all over the internet.”

“It’s Twitter,” Malin said. “And I can only control our players and what they post. I can’t control the whole world.”

“Then what good are you? I don’t understand how something as ridiculous as that damn Flitter—”

“Twitter,” Malin corrected him again.

“What?”

“It’s called Twitter. Instagram. Snapchat. Skype. Tinder. Didn’t you read the handbook I wrote for the players?”

“I don’t need a damn handbook to tell me what’s happening to the reputation of my team, and this man is dragging it into the gutter with him. I want him watched 24/7. Until we work out a trade, I want Thom Quinn on complete lockdown, and I’m putting you in charge of that. If there is even a hint of trouble—if a single photo of him is put on Twitter—this job you created for yourself is done and you can head back to your fashion designer friends in New York.”

Malin gasped. “You’re the one who begged me to come home and handle this problem for you. You said if I wanted a role in the organization, I’d have to prove myself.”

“And so you will,” her father said. “Protect my investment.”

Malin turned to Steve McCrory. “Are you really planning to trade him? He’s one of our best players. And the fans love him. I’m sure I can smooth this over. Just give me a little time.”

“We can’t continue to let his off-ice behavior bring negative publicity to the club,” McCrory said. “He’s gone from drunken brawls to teenage hookers. What’s next? I don’t want to wait to find out. It was my decision to trade him, and your father backs me on that.”