Page 2 of Playoff
Weasel pointed at me with a shaking finger. "You don't mess with a teammate's sister!"
“I DIDN’T KNOW!” I yelled, frustrated that he refused to listen. "Maybe you should tell your teammates who she is. Or, what the hell, tell your sister not to mess with us. She wanted it."
Weasel lunged for me. I loosened my arms, ready to vent my anger with my fists, but Beano pulled him back.
Marty, wearing most of his gear, stepped between us. "For fuck's sake, the two of you. That stunt cost us a goal. Denny, apologize. And Weasel, let it go."
I’d apologized to Weasel before, and I wasn’t doing it again. It obviously didn’t take, though he’d pretended everything was okay. "What am I supposed to apologize for? Do I have to ask every bunny I come across if she's related to Weasel?"
Some of the guys muttered. The fuckboys, the ones who didn't ask questions if they found someone willing, were on my side. The ones with female siblings supported Weasel.
Yeah, teams really were just one big happy family.
The assistant coach came in through the door, and, noticing the tension in the room, narrowed his eyes. "Better not be late, men. And Denny, manager wants to see you."
My teammates turned to me, curious about this unexpected summons. Weasel had a smirk on his face, so maybe this wasn't so unexpected. Had he been sitting on his anger, pretending things were fine and just waiting for the right moment?
"Now?" Coach was out for a couple of days with a family situation, so our assistant should be the one calling me out. The team manager didn’t normally deal with the players directly. He nodded, so I shrugged and pulled my shirt back on.
This was my third year in LA, my longest stay with a team so far. Weasel had been signed at the start of this season on a one-year deal. I wasn't all rah-rah kumbaya with my teammates, but Weasel and I had gotten along. Neither of us had family in the area, and we liked scoring with the puck bunnies. We hung out together on the road, since we were looking for the same things. I'd thought he was as close to a friend as I had on the team.
I should have known better. That dare, which he’d made into a bet—whether I could get away with our second line center's stick for a shift—meant he'd been planning to mess things up for me the whole time. Fuck him.
This was just one example of why I didn't buy into the whole “team is family” bullshit some coaches liked to spew. At the end of the day, we were coworkers, often competing for the same job. The only family the team resembled was one of those fucked-up ones that sent people into therapy.
I had time to consider possibilities as I took the elevator up to the management offices. My contract expired in a few months, at the end of the season. If this was about a new contract offer, I'd have heard from my agent. I was the top scorer on the team, so they weren't sending me down to the farm team. By a process of elimination, it must be a trade.
I'd been playing in warm states since I started in the league. I hoped I wasn't being sent to Edmonton. They had a good team, but the weather…
The GM's executive assistant, a woman about my age of thirty, who I suspected was having an affair with her boss, smiled at me when I entered the executive suite. She was pretty—hell, LA was full of beautiful people who'd come looking for a chance to make it in film or television. Actors took up most of the paparazzi attention, so there was less for athletes. And even then, basketball, football and baseball absorbed most of that space. Playing hockey here didn't get a lot of attention. Which was great—it gave us leeway to have fun.
"You can go on in." Her eyes ran up and down my body, lingering suggestively at my groin, then she smiled and turned back to her computer. Nice to be appreciated but I wasn't going to touch anyone management was banging.
The office was big, with expensive carpet and furniture, and a window looking down into the arena where the teams played. We weren't playing tonight, so the ice was covered by flooring for the basketball team. Behind a desk, close enough to the window to watch what was going on below, was the team’s general manager. He wore a bespoke suit, his face tanned and his hair perfectly cut. He smiled politely, but his eyes were cold. Definitely a trade.
Fuck Weasel. And fuck me for believing him.
"Have a seat, Alek."
I sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk, letting my legs spread and my arms relax. Never let them see you sweat.
"I won't waste your time. You've been traded."
I nodded.
His eyes narrowed. "Your coach complains that you're not a team player."
As if that’s why they’d signed me. "I was hired to score goals. And I do."
"This last stunt, with the illegal stick?—"
No, I was not taking the blame for that. "One of your 'team' players was the instigator on that. He dared me to do it, and then told San Jose so I'd be caught."
His jaw clenched.
I ran a hand over my shaved head. "This was the price for getting a penalty and losing the bet. I might not be a team player, but at least I'm honest."
I wasn’t sure why I bothered explaining myself. The trade was a done deal. Nothing I said would change anything. I was just so tired of taking the blame for other people’s bad behavior.
