Page 1 of Slap Shot Scandal
CHAPTER 1
WESTON
Big Boss: Meeting at HQ at 8 AM. Don’t be late
Red-hot panic surges through me as I stare at the message on the screen. Is this about getting beat in the second round of the playoffs? We barely scraped through to five games. But surely that’s no reason to call an emergency team meeting.
Scrubbing my hand over my jaw, I tap out a quick message to my triplet brothers, Bennett and Callum.
Weston: You clowns awake?
A nanosecond passes before Callum responds.
Goalie boy: Barely. What the fuck is the meeting about, Cap?
Weston: No idea
Goalie boy: Bro, what good are you?
It doesn’t take long for Bennett to jump in.
Puck bunny: I’ve been asking him that for years. You’re slow on the uptake, Cal
Goalie boy: Shut the fuck up, Bennett. YOU know what it’s about, smart guy?
Puck bunny: No. But this time it doesn’t involve me. Thank fuck
So my brothers are as in the dark as I am. At least neither of them seems to be involved. Thank god for small favors. Not that Callum gets into trouble, but every once in a while Bennett manages to drag him into the mix.
After all, Bennett earned the nickname Puck Bunny. He loves the ladies as much as they love him. With that predilection comes trouble—with the media, other players, rival teams. Hell, even the women themselves. I’ve had to bail him out more than a few times. And not to pat myself on the back, but if I wasn’t team captain, he’d likely be in a helluva lot more trouble.
Weston: No ideas then?
Goalie boy: Nope
Puck bunny: Nada
My gut twists into a tight knot as I kick out of the sheets and lumber over to the wall of windows overlooking the Manhattan skyline. The first weak rays of light spill into my bedroom, the sky a milky gray. The muted tone perfectly matches my mood.
What in the hell is this gonna be about?
I bet Coach knows.
Weston: Hey Coach. Know what the meeting’s about this AM?
I wait for the three swirling dots to appear, like they always do. But nothing happens. Uncharacteristic for Coach not to text back immediately. He’s faster on the draw than Callum, his cell practically glued to his hand when we’re not on the ice.
A few minutes pass and all I get back is radio silence.
Well, fuck. Coach probably doesn’t even know.
Rolling my shoulders up and back to relieve the tension lodged between the blades, I hit the shower to get ready for the mystery meeting.
Thirty minutes later, I drive past a line of media vans, reporters milling about on the sidewalk in front of the arena. Normally, a few paparazzi hang out, hoping for a shot. But today, this place is a circus. Odd, considering we’re out of the playoffs.
A few hawk-eyed photographers recognize my car, bright flashes of light popping and reflecting off the windshield. Instinctively, I duck my head and pull my ball cap lower to hide my face. I’d rather not be on the front page this morning, especially after losing in the playoffs.
What the hell’s going on? Why is the media here during off-season?
