Page 9 of From Wink to Kink

"Sorry, pal," I say with a wink. "Left my signing pen in my other orange jumpsuit." But I shake his hand.

Why not?

Vince grabs my arm, yanking me away from my dutiful fan, and steers me toward the exit with more force than necessary. Impressive. I am at least a half-foot taller than he is and probably have about a hundred pounds over his skinny little frame.

Gotta give the guy credit.

"Let's go, Gretzky,” he growls. “You can work on your fan club later."

I try not to laugh, and as we step outside, the early morning sun hits me like a slap to the face. I squint, raising a hand to shield my eyes. "Vince, give me your sunglasses. Now. Please."

Vince tosses his Ray-Bans my way and marches toward his sleek black car. I follow, trying to act like a scolded puppy to appease him. But the truth is, I’m in a great mood, headache notwithstanding.

I reach for the passenger door and frown, patting my waist.

"Dammit," I mutter. "Looks like I lost my belt in the chaos that is overnight lockup. Probably some souvenir hunter.You think someone’s gonna try to sell that? 'Authentic Chuck Newcomb Jail Belt – Only Worn Once!'"

Vince's disgust is unmistakable as he starts the car. "Oh yes, because that's exactly the kind of merchandise the team wants associated with its star player. I can see the billboards now: 'Chuck Newcomb—come for the hockey, stay for the jail swag.'"

I buckle up, settling into the plush leather seat. "Hey, you're the PR guy. If anyone can spin this into gold, it's you."

He pulls out of the parking lot, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. For a few blessed moments, there's silence. I close my eyes, hoping maybe I can catch a quick power nap before the inevitable lecture.

No such luck.

"Do you have any idea," Vince begins, his voice low and dangerous, "how close you came to seriously screwing up your career last night?"

I crack open one eye. "I guess somewhere on the scale of 'oops, my bad' to 'pack your bags for the minors'?"

"This isn't a joke, Newcomb!" Vince snaps, slamming his hand on the steering wheel. "Do you think I enjoy getting calls at 3 a.m. to bail your sorry ass out of jail? Do you think the team enjoys seeing their star enforcer's name in the police blotter more often than the sports pages?"

I sit up straighter, a flicker of anger igniting in my chest. "Hey, I didn't start that fight last night. Those guys were?—"

"I don't care if they were insulting your mother, your dog, and every goal you've ever scored," Vince cuts me off. "You're a professional athlete, for Christ's sake. You can't go around brawling in bars like some washed-up has-been looking for his glory days!"

The anger flares hotter and I try to tamp it down. This is the tempter that gets me into trouble. Every. Damn. Time.

Regardless, who the hell does this pencil-pusher think he is, anyway? I open my mouth, ready to tell Vince exactly where he can shove his bullshit scolding. But then I catch sight of my reflection in the side mirror – bloodshot eyes, a nasty bruise blooming on my jaw, my long hair a tangled rat’s nest, the elastic I use to keep it tidy having been confiscated by my jailers.

As if a hair elastic is a deadly weapon.

And I consider… maybe—just maybe—Vince has a point.

I clamp my mouth shut, swallowing a smart-assed remark. My temper's gotten me into enough trouble for one night, not to mention my big mouth and bigger fists. I look down and see the start of some nice purple bruises on the knuckles of my right hand.

Vince, apparently taking my silence as an invitation, continues his tirade. "You're lucky—no, beyond lucky—that no charges were filed. Do you have any idea what could have happened if this had gone further? Suspensions, fines, maybe even getting dropped from the team. Is that what you want, Chuck? To throw away all your talent and hard work over some drunken pissing contest?"

As he continues to mutter under his breath, I stare out the window, watching the early morning San Francisco streets blur by. Part of me wants to argue, to defend myself. But a smaller, more rational part knows he's right. Not that I’m likely to admit it.

"No," I mutter finally. "That's not what I want."

Vince sighs, some of the fight going out of him. "Look, Chuck. You're a good player. Hell, you're a great player when you're not letting your temper get the best of you. But you've got to get your act together. The number of fights you got into last season was already pushing it. The league's cracking down on that stuff, and the team can't keep covering for you."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The adrenaline from the night is wearing off, leaving me feeling hollow and, if I'm honest, maybe even a little regretful.

A little.

"I know you think I'm just some 'punk' who's giving you shit," Vince continues, and I start, wondering if I'd said that out loud earlier without meaning to. "But believe it or not, I'm on your side. My job is to make you look good, and let me tell you, you're not making it easy."

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