Page 16 of Penalty to the Heart

“We’ve discussed what we believe is the best course of action from this point on,” Nichols continues to explain, his face blank of all emotion.

“And what’s that?”

“We’ve all come to a consensus that it’s best that you sit out the next few games,” he finally pulls the trigger I saw coming a mile away.

I knew in my bones that this was what he’d say. That he’d keep me within arm’s reach so that I don’t pose a threat to myself while simultaneously keeping me at arm’s length from his team so I don’t fuck things more than I already have.

I should be relieved.

I should be fucking ecstatic that he’s giving me an out since my heart isn’t in the game anyway.

But instead, I’m pissed.

Pissed beyond measure.

“The fuck you are!” I shout, standing up from my seat.

“Caleb, sit down,” Nate orders to my right

I stare at him with daggers in my eyes.

He’s family.

Nate is fucking family.

And right now, I hate him.

I hate every goddamn person in here.

“No,” I state with venom in my tone. “I’m not going to sit down, and I’m not going to recuse myself from what I worked so hard to accomplish. The only way you’ll be lifting that cup over your heads is with me right there beside you.”

“Caleb,” Piper interjects to my left.

“No! I don’t want to hear it. A Donovan will hold up that Stanley Cup!” I shout, hating the pitying looks they give me in return for my outburst. “Do you hear me? A Donovan will hold up that Stanley Cup!”

I’m not sure if it’s the manic look in my eyes or the desperation in my voice, but Trent is quick to relent.

“Fine,” Trent says.

“Nichols,” Lawrence interjects with a warning, but Trent just ignores him.

“If Caleb wants a shot at the title, then we’ll give him one. We all know that he’s worked for it.”

Finally, someone is talking sense.

“But don’t think for a minute that I’ll make things easy for you. Not if you insist on disrupting my team. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.” I sit back down and stare only at the general manager. “So what do you want me to do?”

His shark-like grin stretches across his face, signaling his satisfaction that I’ve been paying attention over the years—when you make a deal with Trent Nichols, there are always strings attached.

“For the time being, you’ll warm the bench and let someone else be the goalie. You’re not in the right headspace to defend, and right now, you’re more of a liability than an asset. I won’t have it.”

“How am I supposed to win a title if I can’t play?” I ask in confusion.

“I’ll give you a shot to prove to me and the rest of the team that you’re still worthy of playing. First, no more fighting. And no more drinking. If I even smell a whiff of alcohol on you, your ass is out,” he explains, scrunching his nose.

Even after taking a shower and putting on fresh, clean clothes, I’m sure the alcohol is still flowing out of my pores as we speak.

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