Page 78 of Huge Pucking Play

I'm reviewing game footage when the knock comes. Three quick taps. I open the door and she stands there, her professional mask slipping. Something's wrong. My stomach tightens.

"Hey." Her voice is tight.

"What happened?" I ask, anxious to know why she looks so downtrodden.

"Marjorie happened."

The name alone sends a ripple of irritation through me.

"Tell me." My voice drops an octave.

Cyn's eyes meet mine. "She came into the PT room this morning and proceeded to call me a slut in front of Adam and all the players that were in there. Then she said she’s going to see to it that I’m fired immediately."

My hands clench as she goes on to tell me the rest of the sordid story.

Heat crawls up my neck. My temples throb with the fury of it. Cyn doesn't deserve this—she's brilliant, hardworking, and this is bullshit.

"She said I’m not any better than a puck bunny just trying to get laid," Cyn continues.

My blood is lava now. I stand frozen, because even the slightest movement feels dangerous.

"This is about control. Not professional standards."

"I know that. But she outranks me, and?—"

"And nothing." I begin to pace my office. My hands are numb, but I feel a heat in my chest, an uncomfortable burn that I recognize as pure rage. "I’m putting an end to this."

Cyn's eyes widen. "Garrett, be careful. She's looking for ammunition."

"I don't give a damn." I modulate my voice. Fifteen years in professional hockey taught me when to unleash and when to strategize. "We've done nothing wrong."

"We're breaking an unwritten rule."

"Unwritten. Not policy." I move closer to her. "You're the best PT on staff. The players respect you. Your treatment protocols are amazing."

Her eyes soften slightly. "I appreciate that, but?—"

"No buts. Marjorie's been miserable for years. Everyone knows it." I run a hand through my hair. "This is about power, not propriety."

"I know what this job means to you. That's why we're not letting Marjorie's unhappiness destroy what you've built." I cross my arms. "We need to talk to George. He's fair. He’s reasonable."

"And if he's not?" Her voice is small.

The question hangs between us. The possibility that Cyn could lose her job makes me sick to my stomach.

"Then I'll step away." The words taste bitter in my mouth, but I mean them. "I won't be the reason you lose what you've worked for."

She flinches. "No, Garrett. You can’t?—"

"If that’s what it comes down to, that’s what I’ll do." I straighten.

Cyn's shoulders straighten, her chin lifts—the fighter in her resurfacing. God, I admire her.

"When do we talk to him?"

"Today. Now." I'm already dialing, already planning. I protect what matters. And Cyn—beautiful, brilliant Cyn who is pregnant with my baby—matters more than I can say.

An hour later, we’re entering George's corner suite which sits at the end of the executive hallway. Cyn walks beside me, her steps measured.

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