Page 15 of Penalty to the Heart

Nate, the new team captain and my supposed best friend.

Piper, my sports agent.

And Lawrence Preston III, the new owner of the club.

They are all here, staring at me as if I were a dead man walking.

“I didn’t know we were throwing a party,” I snicker. “If I’d known, I would have dressed up.”

“Sit down, Donovan,” Nichols orders, unamused.

“Is this some kind of intervention?” I ask, throwing the question in Piper’s direction.

“Something like that. Just take a seat, Caleb. Please,” she says, with a warm and patient tone that is so unlike her.

You see… Piper Lee is a hard ass.

She takes shit from no one. Especially me.

Just one of the many reasons why I like her so much.

So, to see the sad glimmer in her eyes as she pleads for me to sit down only pisses me off to no end. It reminds me too much of that horrid day when she gave me the news about Jack at the hospital. After the ambulance brought me back to Mass General, I must have been knocked out from the concussion. And when I came to, I had no recollection of anything that had transpired the night before.

Not until Piper gave me the news with that look in her eyes.

The look of heartbreak and loss.

The look of devastation.

The look of utter sorrow.

I hate that fucking look.

Hate it to the point of pain.

I intentionally avoid making eye contact with her as I walk past the others and settle into the chair positioned in front of Trent’s desk. Rex and Lawrence loom beside him, projecting an image of authority and unity.

But I can tell that Trent is the one calling the shots here.

And if he’s to be the judge, jury, and executioner in this mock trial, then I might as well look my fate dead in the eye.

Not that I’m going to make it easy on him to shell out his sentence.

“If this is about yesterday’s game, I already know what you’re going to say. And I get it. I’ll play nice from now on.”

“I wish I could believe that,” Coach Byrne says, standing at the side, running his hand over his bald head.

“Believe what you will,” I turn to him and say. “I was having a bad day. People are entitled to bad days,” I arrogantly justify.

“They are,” Trent acknowledges, pulling my focus back on him, “but we all know that what happened in Florida wasn’t a one-off. And it would be imprudent of me to let it slide. There is too much on the line.”

Right.

We are all but a shoo-in to qualify for the Stanley Cup playoffs, and my little stunt almost ruined that for the whole team. That’s why I’ve been called here today. To get a good telling-off so that I don’t fuck it up for the rest of the team.

The thing is, I don’t give a fuck about the cup.

Not now, anyway.

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