Page 47 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

Today’s game was going to be interesting, I thought, a slow grin spreading across my face. Watching Tyler struggle…should be fun.

* * *

Watching Tyler from the stands was actually almost painful—not because I wanted him to succeed, obviously, but because I suffered from secondhand embarrassment. I had always been that way, blushing when people embarrassed themselves in books or on TV.

But this was on another level.

Tyler looked awful out there, barely skating at half his usual speed. His cheeks were hollow, his movements sluggish, and he seemed more focused on staying upright than actually playing.

My phone buzzed in my lap. I sighed, pulling it out, half expecting some scolding message about keeping up appearances. Instead, the name on the screen made my stomach clench.

Everett.

I hesitated, knowing that another call from him in the middle of a job meant bad news. Finally, I swiped to answer, pressing the phone to my ear.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, skipping pleasantries.

“Tyler Miller.” Everett’s voice crackled through the line, sharp and businesslike. “He’s about to be suspended after this game.”

The words hit me like a slap, though I wasn’t sure why. “Suspended? For what?”

“Performance-enhancing drugs. The NHL had some players give samples for their ‘random’ tests based on a tip. The powers that be will be testing them during the game.”

My brow furrowed. That didn’t make sense. Tyler wasn’t the type to use something like that. He was too arrogant, too convinced he was naturally superior to everyone else. “That doesn’t sound like him. How did you even find that out if the NHL itself hasn’t tested the samples yet?”

His silence had me rolling my eyes. Naturally, Everett had an in. He watched his company’s clients closely, tracing their every move to make sure something they did didn’t come back to bite him. “None of that matters. What matters is that he’s done after this game. And since he’s done, you’re done with him.” Everett’s tone was cold, final.

I sat up straighter, glancing down at the ice. Tyler was wobbling on his skates, the puck slipping past him like he wasn’t even there. Logan York skated by effortlessly, moving across the ice with all the ease and precision that Tyler lacked.

“What happens now?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper as I greedily took Logan in.

“You have a new client,” Everett said, his tone suddenly stern. “One who’s paying a lot more than Miller ever did.”

The knot in my stomach tightened. Everett usually gave me time off between clients. Although I guess I really hadn’t done anything worth taking a break—he wouldn’t even have to arrange for anytestingsince Tyler hadn’t gotten anywhere near me.

I gripped the phone harder, my gaze drifting to Logan, who was now leaning against the boards, his eyes scanning the crowd. I froze when his gaze landed on me, piercing and unrelenting.

“Who?” I asked, the question coming out as a breathless whisper…a strange sense of foreboding filling my insides.

Everett paused, and I could hear the faint sound of papers shuffling in the background. “Logan York.”

My chest tightened, and the world seemed to tilt slightly. I barely heard the rest of what he was saying, his usual instructions about keeping things professional, about following the rules.

Logan knew what I was.

I wasn’t prepared for the shame suddenly coating my insides, for how the arena suddenly became hazy and the sharp taste of self-hatred filled my mouth.

Somehow in my head, some ridiculous, never-going-to-happen part of me had been picturing Logan and me in a real relationship—one untainted by the choices I’d made in my life. I felt that part of me was dying when I realized Logan was just like all the others.

“This job, Sloane?” Everett said, his voice slicing through my daze like a knife. “It goes against my better judgment, but it would be wrong of me to have you miss out on the amount of money he was willing to pay. His time with you starts immediately following the game.”

“Of course,” I whispered, only faintly aware of him hanging up on me.

My hand was trembling as I dropped the phone in my lap. My eyes darted back to the ice, to Logan, who was still looking at me. He tilted his head slightly, like he could tell something had shifted.

“It’s just a job,” I whispered.

And I’d never hated those words more in my life.

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