Page 1 of Rinkmates

One

RILEY

“We need to talk,” Ethan says firmly.

“Are you breaking up with me?” I say, but my publicist doesn’t think I’m funny.

On the contrary, his facial expression worsens as he throws his phone in my face.

“Shut up and read.”

Swallowing hard, I take his smartphone and read the headline ofThe New York TimesSports section and—oh damn. I’m so glad we’re sitting on this bench right now.

Hockey game in New York leads to further fisticuffs. Huntington is onthehunt for drinks and a ton of trouble again. Is this the end of the star player’s career?

Ethan theatrically throws his hands up, as if pleading with the universe to comprehend the monumental headache of handling my shit.

In any other circumstance, I would have another witty comeback ready, something along the lines ofThey call meDeadshotfor a reason.My shots come like a hammer, just like my fists, but…well, not today.

Because right now, we’re far from the rink.

We’re sitting in a fucking police station, watching the harsh fluorescent lights cast shadows on the worn linoleum floor beneath my shaky feet while my assistant, Nina, works her magic nearby. She’s trying to salvage my tattered reputation after I lost my cool again and gave a rival player a lesson in bar breaking. Great for viral videos, not so great for my image, which has gotten worse and worse over the past few years.

I’ve had numerous discussions with my coach, and the only thing keeping me from losing my contract is my status as the top scorer in the league. But despite leading in scores, my coach made it clear that the lawsuits—yes, plural—and negative media coverage were tarnishing the league’s reputation, and if I don’t improve my behavior, I’d be let go.

And yet, here I am, tucked away in a quiet corner of the NYPD station’s rear office with an alcohol-drenched shirt and someone else’s blood on my jeans.

Classic.

My career’s over.

Ethan lets out another dramatic sigh and snatches his phone back. If I didn’t already feel like a mess, his judgmental gaze would do the trick. So, I glance away, trying to ignore headline after headline spreading across his smartphone while I run my free hand through my jet-black hair.Fuck. I fucked up.

Since I don’t know what else to do, I try to focus on Nina.

She’s standing across the office, separated by a large window, with her back to us. Her tight coils of black hair bounce with each fervent gesture as she argues in my defense, desperately trying to talk me out of it. When they brought me here, I felt as though I was a child again, being ushered into the back room and warned to stay silent while they worked to get me out again.

But alas, even with Nina’s efforts, all I can see are three stone-faced police guards and a disgruntled PR manager, pointing at me, clearly blaming me foreverything. But howcould they not? I can’t even be mad at them. The Boston Bears are missing their center for tomorrow’s game.

I practically smashed Houston with my fists.

My gaze locks with his agent and I offer him a smile.

I refuse to show any remorse in front of him. I don’t regret socking the fool, he deserved it, but I do feel bad for Nina having to clean up my mess. For my coach since I’ll be blocked for the next game for sure.

Oh, my fucking mess of a life.

It’s as if some deep-seated, self-destructive desire has been fulfilled, and at the same time, it’s eating away at me.

Damn me and my left hook.

Ethan scoffs. “‘Does Riley Huntington need timber? Because he chops down the bar!’ ‘Watch Riley Huntington taking down the Bears and defending better than their own defender.’ ‘Riley Huntington mistaking hockey for rugby.’ ‘Riley and his tantrums—a timeframe?’”

Ethan slams his phone on the bench and slumps over, his fingers raking through his usually perfectly styled golden hair.

I wish I knew what to say, but all I do is stare at the ugly floor again.

What the heck was there to say, anyway? It’s not the first time I get my ass booted because of my “rink aggression.” I’m an idiot. Always have been. Maybe it’s time to just accept it. But there we have my next problem. I just can’t. If only I could understand why this anger is consuming me from within, refusing to be swallowed down.

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