Page 10 of From Wink to Kink

We pull up to my apartment building, and Vince puts the car in park. For a moment, we just sit there in silence.

"So," I say finally, "what happens now? Am I grounded? Do I have to write 'I will not punch drunken idiots' a hundred times on the locker room whiteboard?"

Vince snorts, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face. "Don't tempt me. For now, go home. Sleep it off. Be at practice tomorrow – on time – and try not to look like you went ten rounds with a grizzly bear."

I nod, reaching for the door handle. As I'm about to get out, Vince speaks again.

"Oh, and Chuck? The team's arranging for you to do some community service. You know, polish up that tarnished image of yours a bit."

I groan. "Please tell me it's not reading to kids or something. Last time I did that, their mothers all showed up, and well, you know how that shit goes.”

Vince shakes his head. "No, we learned our lesson there. We're still getting letters from the moms. This time, you'll be helping out at a soup kitchen. Cooking, cleaning, serving, that kind of thing. Should keep you out of trouble for a while."

"A soup kitchen?" I echo, incredulous. "Vince, come on. I'm a hockey player, not a waiter... person. Whatever they're called."

"It’s called a volunteer, and you will be carrying out this commitment," Vince supplies dryly. "And tough luck on getting your hands dirty. Consider it your penance. Who knows, maybe you'll learn something. Like impulse control. Or some humility."

I flip him off, but there's no real heat behind it. As I climb out of the car, my body protesting every movement, I can't help but wonder what fresh hell awaits me as Vince tries to humble me.

"Hey, Vince?" I call just before he drives off.

He looks at me expectantly.

"Thanks," I say, the word feeling strange on my tongue. "You know, for coming to get me. Again."

He nods, a hint of a smile on his face. "Just doing my job, Newcomb. Try not to make me do it again anytime soon, yeah? Hey, be in Coach’s office at eleven tomorrow. There’s a meeting, and it concerns you.”

A chill runs through me. “Vince–am I being kicked off the team?”

He shrugs, making it clear there’s no skin off his back if I get canned. “I don’t think so,” he says. “Pretty sure this is just to address some things. But, you know, I can’t be entirely sure. Eleven. Don’t be late.”

As I watch him drive away, I can't shake the feeling that my life is about to get a whole lot more... calm. Not that I want it to. I just want to keep my job.

Once I’m in the elevator, I let out a breath. God. Now I feel slightly sick with nerves to go along with the lingering effects of a hangover.

Fucking great.

I trudge up to my apartment, already dreading the mountain of ice packs and aspirin in my near future. I let myself into my tenth-floor apartment and don’t even have the usual rush of pleasure I get from being in the place. Instead, I go straight to the bathroom and turn the shower on before stripping.

Once the water is as hot as it can get, I step under the spray and let the wet steam surround me. I can feel the tension in my shoulders easing. My body relaxes while I soap myself, and I watch the suds swirl down the drain, taking with them my night-in-the-slammer grime. Finally, with a bracing breath, I switch the temperature to cold, and a blast of frigid water pounds away the last fragments of my lingering debacle.

Refreshed, I dry myself, find a new hair elastic for my mop, and yank on my favorite holey sweats and faded concert T-shirt. After checking my bag to make sure I have everything I’ll need for training later, I set it by the door and head into the kitchen in search of food.

I scramble some eggs, adding chunks of ham and cheese, while bacon sizzles in another pan. Plating that up with toast smeared with butter and strawberry jelly, I carry it to the table and pour myself a coffee. I leave it black but add two spoonfuls of sugar—not something I usually do, but the extra jolt will come in handy.I’ve got the hangover sugar cravings.

As I eat, my nerves settle. Vince is good at rattling people, and the smug little jerk knows it. I can’t deny that he was right about some of his observations about me, but it galls me to know he understands methatwell. But he’s got me thinking, and I’m sure that was part of his plan.

Being a professional hockey player is my dream come true. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, even in the face of my less-than-supportive family. I can’t blow this ride. After all, being let go doesn’t inspire other teams to try and recruit you.

Feeling better with food in my stomach, I clean up the kitchen while I have another cup of coffee. Once the dishwasher is humming, I spend the next ten minutes picking up here and there until my place is neat again.

I tend to keep my apartment clean and tidy in part because I don’t like clutter, but also because it’s on the small side. I canafford a bigger place for sure, but that might attract the kind of attention from my teammates that I do not want. At this point, as the team newbie, I’m not earning as much as the other guys—yet. To upgrade my digs, I’d have to dip into my trust fund and alert the rest of the team that the family I come from is fucking loaded. So for now, I’ll stay put in this place that’s working out just fine for me. I can be at practice in twenty minutes, and there’s any number of restaurants and bars within walking distance. Some of the guys live close by, too, so that’s a nice bonus.

I plop onto my sofa and flip through my sport channels, spoiled for choice. But I don’t really have to make any decisions, because I’m asleep in minutes.

A night in jail will do that to you.

5

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