Page 38 of Best Kept Secret
Who the fuck even is this guy? Millie’s literally been in thecity for what? A week? And she’s already going on dates? Where has he taken her? Is she safe? What if he’s an asshole just trying to take advantage of her? Only assholes wear turtlenecks.
When the attendant opens the door to the box, I realize my two minutes are up. Shaking my head in an attempt to clear the possible scenarios of what Millie is currently doing with Turtleneck from my traitorous mind, I grab my stick and skate out onto the ice, racing down to where the action is happening in our zone. But before I can get there, I’m called off the ice by Coach. I glance back at the bench to find him waving me over, Josef waiting to climb over the boards and take my shift. And, I don’t know why, but that only pisses me off even more.
Don’t get me wrong, Coach Draper is the boss. I know that. And, with the way I’ve been playing tonight, giving away seven power plays, instigating shit and looking for trouble, he’s not wrong to call me off. And, normally, I would never disobey my coach. But tonight, I’m not myself. And instead of doing what I’m told, I play dumb and continue toward the fray currently starting behind our net, throwing my stick and gloves before launching myself onto the back of Montreal’s center.
The final siren sounds. We win by one. But I’m not there to celebrate the win with my teammates on the ice. I’m sitting alone in the locker room, one ice pack pressed against my left eye, one pressed against my fat lip, staring down at my phone as it lights up with message after message from my father.
Dad: What the fuck was that about?
Dad: A game misconduct, Logan?
Dad: You’re a disgrace.
Dad: Levi would be rolling over in his grave.
I switch my phone off after that last one, tossing it onto the bench next to me.
I’m still fully suited up, although my helmet is lying on the floor on the opposite side of the room where I hurled it against the far wall when I walked in after receiving a game misconduct because tonight’s refs are a bunch of fucking pussies.
When I hear the telltale sound of the team on their way down the tunnel, I drop my head, staring down at my skates, spitting bloodied saliva onto the floor. From my periphery, I see the guys start to file in, the energy suddenly palpable with tension, despite our win. Happy takes a seat in front of his cubby next to mine, reaching over and slapping my leg in a show of support.
I cast him a glance, meeting his eyes, but I say nothing, giving him a quick nod before I’m suddenly hit in the head with an empty Gatorade bottle that bounces off me and onto the floor. I snap my head up, glaring at the culprit, expecting it to be Rusty, but when I see Coach Draper standing there, hands on his hips, jaw chomping on his gum like a man possessed, I tamp down the rage inside of me. I know better than to go to toe-to-toe with Lance Draper. Sure, he’s old, but he’s also six-three and built like a brick fucking shithouse.
“What the fuck was that, Cullen?” Coach yells at me.
I swallow hard.
“Roughing, hooking, holding, high sticking, holding,” Coach reads off a piece of scrap paper in his hand like it’s a grocery list, his eyes narrowed as he looks down at me. “You’ve always been a hot head, but that wasn’t you tonight, son.” He shakes his head, studying me like he’s trying to figure me out.
I stare up at him through my good eye, unsure what to say because he’s one-hundred percent right. I wasn’t myself tonight. I played like a third line fucking goon.
“I’m sorry,” I finally manage, my throat thick with frustration.
“You what?” Coach leans down, making a show of cupping a hand around his ear.
I clear my throat. “I said I’m sorry.”
“Oh, you’resorry?” he mocks, turning to his coaching team. “He’ssorry.”
Gritting my teeth to stop myself from saying something I know I’ll regret, my jaw clenches painfully hard.
Coach turns back to me, scrunching up the piece of paper in his hand and tossing it at my head. “Well, you better get yourself ready to face tribunal tomorrow, because Chris Garret is calling for a suspension.”
At the mention of our General Manager, Chris Garret, the fury bubbling in my gut boils over, and I jump up from my seat, my skates giving me a couple inches height advantage over Coach, allowing me to glower down at him.
“Yeah, well, you can tell Chris Garret he can suck my fuckin’ dick.”
There’re a few audible gasps throughout the room, and next to me, Happy conceals a laugh with a cough, but other than that, you could hear a pin drop as Coach stares at me and I stare straight back at him, the tension between us snapping and fizzing.
Thankfully, before anything more can be said or before I can do something else I might live to regret, the moment is interrupted by our press manager, and Coach Draper is called away, but not before offering me one last warning look, his gaze scanning me from head to toe. And I remain tall, unwavering. Because honestly, right now, I dare anyone to fucking try me.
CHAPTER 17
MILLIE
The last thing I was expecting to wake up to on a Sunday morning after a few too many tequilas was an email from the boss from hell, Caroline, asking me to construct a board presentation from a bunch of haphazard and barely legible notes and a few screenshots of what looks like hieroglyphics on a whiteboard captured by Minh, one of the lead quantitative analysts. Yet, here I am, more hungover than I’d like to be while perched on the outdoor sofa on the balcony, basking in the morning sunshine despite the frigid chill in the air, laptop balancing on my knees, cussing out PowerPoint for being a temperamental little bitch.
My date with Maverick last night was fun. Although… it totally wasn’t a date. And I feel like such an idiot. When Maverick asked me out, I assumed it was a date. He bought me flowers. But two tequila shots into our non-date, and a hot guy suddenly appeared out of nowhere by our booth, smiling down at us. I thought he was the waiter and asked him for a margarita, only for Maverick to laugh out loud, introducing the man as his boyfriend. Yes, boyfriend. Maverick is as gay as they come. He thought it was hilarious that I hadn’t picked up on his sexual orientation from the tiny shorts he’d been wearing in the gym the night before, and the fact that he contoured better than anyone I know, but I just assumed he liked to take care of himself. So, although my date actually turned into more of a third-wheel situation, I had the best time. Maverick is a ball of fun; he and his boyfriend, Enrique, are grad students at Columbia, both of them studying their Master’s in mechanical engineering, so they’re that intimidating level of smart, but not cocky or arrogant. I really like them.
