Page 2 of Slap Shot Scandal
I gratefully roll down the street to the side entrance of the arena’s parking garage, happy to avoid the press. Swiping my key card, the gate lifts and I idle through to my personal parking spot.
CAPTAIN.
The title still sends a thrill shooting through me. Tangible evidence of hours sacrificed on the ice for the team and the game.
If only we’d had a better season. One that ended with a heavy-ass cup held high above my head.
We’ll get ‘em next season, I know it.
I throw my Porsche into park and hustle through the metal doors, half-jogging down the concrete hallway. One I’ve traversed many times before.
Somehow, this time feels different—and not in a good way.
My morning coffee rolls around my empty stomach like battery acid. I regret the split-second decision to bypass the meal plan egg frittatas. Seems like a big mistake right about now.
Rounding the corner toward the conference rooms, I run straight into a petite blonde, her attention locked on the phone in her hand.
“Oof.” She collides with my chest, bouncing back slightly and wobbling on her sky-high heels.
I reach out and grab her by the elbow, steadying her. “I got you.”
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.” She awkwardly pats at my chest, her delicate hand gliding over the cotton of my T-shirt. She’s a tiny thing, her head barely clearing my pecs.
“I wasn’t watching where I was going, I’ve never been here before…” The apples of her cheeks turn pink as she gazes up at me through thick lashes, hazel eyes locked on mine.
“It’s fine. No biggie.” She’s so close to me I catch the sweet scent of shampoo drifting up from her long golden hair, her breath warm on my skin. An electric zing shoots through me right below her palm.
She bites at the corner of her glossy lip, and my eyes dart to the spot before I tear them away. I’ve never had any sort of HR complaint about me and I’m not about to start today.
“You lost?” I tip my head, trying to place her. She’s definitely not on staff. Or at least she doesn’t work directly with players. Not wearing that tight pink dress perfectly molded to her curves and heels. Clearly not a trainer or nutritionist.
“No. I’m in the right place. Main conference room, right?” She glances to the right, hooking her thumb at the open door, the room buzzing with people.
“Yeah. That’s where the meeting is.”
“Okay, great. Thanks. And sorry again about running into you.” A blush creeps up her neck, almost matching the bright pink shade of her dress.
I rake a hand through my hair, trying to ignore the sudden acceleration of my heart rate. Has to be from racing to the meeting.
“Cap, what’s up?” One of the trainers smacks me on the back as he passes by.
The woman’s cell buzzes in her hand and she flashes me a quick smile, then scurries away, her heels clicking loudly as she moves down the hallway.
“Dude, any idea what this meeting’s about?” Vic, one of the veteran players, mutters as I swing into the conference room.
I shrug. “None.”
But obviously it’s a big fucking deal, considering every seat in the room’s filled with personnel of all types. Players, athletic trainers, assistant coaches, equipment managers, the community relations coordinator.
Everyone but Coach.
What the fuck?
I glance at my watch. 7:55. Maybe he’s running late.
Callum waves me over to the corner and I stalk in his direction.
“What’s up?” I shoot my brother a sideways glance, taking the spot on the wall next to him. Dark shadows ring his eyes. No doubt he’s as haunted by the shitty playoff run as me.
