Page 4 of Trade Deadline

Blissfully unaware that this morning I woke up to a shitshow.

We’re on fire this season. Currently top of our division, and if we keep up this momentum, the playoffs are well within our sights.

Another reason why I can’t get traded.

“Blaine, you got a sec?” Ethan, the team captain, asks.

“Of course.” I nod and follow him to the player lounge.

He grabs two bottles of water from the fridge and passes one to me, where I’m propped against the counter. His brown eyes remain fixed on me as he takes a few gulps.

My skin prickles, knowing this is going to be an uncomfortable conversation.

“I spoke to Coach this morning about what happened,” he begins.

I’m not surprised Ethan’s already been made aware. Ethan Parkes is the best captain I have ever known. He’s grumpy and broody, but he will have your back no matter what.

Guilt weighs me down.

“Yeah, shit. I wish I could turn back time and erase it.”

“I’m sure you do, but you can’t. I think I’ve gotten to know you well enough over the years you’ve been here to believe you wouldn’t have followed through with that night had you known what they were going to do.”

I shake my head.

“What’s done is done. You can’t change what's happened, but I can help you move on from this, help keep you focused on what’s important, but you also need to help yourself now, Blaine.”

I’m expecting a similar conversation with Hayden when he lands in a few hours from Los Angeles, but I know Ethan has mine—and the teams’—best interests at the forefront of his mind.

“No more hookups. No distractions. Channel every ounce of energy into hockey,” Ethan says, counting them off on his fingers, leaving no room for argument.

I nod firmly, promising I will be better, when Coach Harris appears in the doorway. His thick arms are crossed over his equally thick chest. He was a big guy when he played defense for Dallas seven years ago, and even though he’s retired from playing, he’s worked hard not to lose too much muscle mass. The frown lines on his forehead are so deep, though, that they add decades to his forty-two years.

“Blaine, my office. Now.” He orders.

I swallow the lump that’s lodged in my throat.

Fuck.

I quickly follow him with my tail between my legs. I wince when he slams the door hard, surprised that it’s still on the hinges. The framed photographs on his wall shake from the impact.

Sitting down in the leather chairs opposite his desk, I risk a glance up at him. His jaw clenches as he grinds his molars, his glare burning a hole straight through me. His anger is so palpable, I’m just waiting for steam to come out of his ears.

He turns his laptop around, and there on the screen is a photo of the three puck bunnies I hooked up with, posing in front of the jersey I wore when I won the Frozen Four my junior year. They’re grinning from ear to ear, but it’s the caption that causes me to drop my head into my hands in shame.

Pucks in the net and his dick’s getting wet—hat trick for Blaine Olsen!

It’s followed by a photo of my very naked ass mid-thrust. You can’t see my face, but as Hayden said, there’s a clear image of the Spartan warrior tattoo on my upper back.

“Do you realize how bad this looks? Not just on you, but the team?”

This isn’t the first time we’ve been in this exact same situation. Something bad about me plastered across the puck bunny blogs, shaming me for whatever I had done the night before. Shining a negative light on me like I’m some kind of sexual deviant.

My hands begin to sweat. I wipe them down the front of my sweatpants, but no matter how many times my palms brush against the fabric, nothing seems to dry them. My throat clams up, and my skin suddenly feels too tight for my body.

“I worked so fucking hard to get Elliot on the team, knowing how much it meant to you, and this is how you repay me?”

I stare down at my feet. Struggling to find my breath as guilt weighs heavy in my chest, pressing against my lungs.

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