Page 53 of Slap Shot Scandal
Shrugging into my T-shirt, I slam my locker shut and follow Bennett out of the locker room. I’ll tackle the Harbor issue later.
Spoiler alert: I run out of time to tackle the Harbor issue before the team dinner. The housing tour takes longer than expected, leaving us only about twenty minutes to change before heading over to the restaurant.
I shoot Harbor a quick text while I wait for my brothers in the lobby of the Driftwood Inn.
Weston: We need to talk about what happened this afternoon
But she never responds.
That silence feels louder than anything she could’ve said.
Now I’m pulling up to The Rusty Anchor with Callum, Bennett, and a truckload of anxiety.
At least I’ll be able to pin it on the move and the coaching changes. In reality, though, most of the gut-churning is due to a certain blonde PR consultant.
“Wow, this place is…special.” Bennett lets out a low whistle as we take in the weathered façade of the local bar. The siding’s a chipped and faded brown, with salt-crusted windows flanked by shutters still mostly attached. A wraparound porch holds a few old wooden rocking chairs—you’d be risking a splinter in your ass if you sat in one. The place is aptly named, the sign sporting an actual rusty anchor.
“Gia said this restaurant’s a Driftwood Cove landmark. Best burger in town.” Callum grips the hook of the anchor serving as a handle, holding the wooden door open for us.
“They must have something going for them. Otherwise, I imagine this place would’ve closed down a long time ago.” I blink, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the bar as I step inside.
The air’s only semi-cool and musty, with lingering hints of stale beer and fried food. The wood-paneled walls are covered with black-and-white photographs, a tribute to Driftwood Cove’s past.
“You boys here for the hockey dinner?” A hostess in a tight, white Rusty Anchor T-shirt tips her head at us.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“Of course they are. Look at them.” A man in a white Rusty Anchor T-shirt and khaki shorts sporting a reddish beard strolls over and extends his hand. “Beau Lawson. Owner of the Rusty Anchor. Welcome to Driftwood Cove.”
I shake his hand, and so do Bennett and Callum.
“Happy to have you boys here. Rachel, take them to the private room?” Beau cuts his eyes at her and she blushes.
“Absolutely. Follow me.” She spins and guides us through the main dining room. A few families sit in booths around the edges of the space, with larger tables filling the center. A long wooden bar takes up the back wall, a large fishing net hanging behind.
“Here ya go.” She waves her hand at a smaller second room, already filled with several players and Prince.
“Thanks.” Bennett smiles, giving her a quick once over, and she blushes.
“Anytime.” She spins and struts away, and I elbow Bennett.
“Remember—we’re not just visitors. We’re living here, at minimum for one season. Don’t hook up with every local. It’ll make things real awkward around town. This isn’t Manhattan.”
Bennett shoves a hand in his pocket, glancing around the dingy room. “Don’t I know it.”
“Boys, glad you could join us. Where’s Harbor?” Prince smacks Callum on the back but directs the question at me.
“Uh…she’s coming. She was finishing things up at the office.” I purposely keep things vague. Now’s not the time to tell Prince anything about the two of us and what happened in the locker room.
“Good, good. I want the team to get to know the mastermind behind this rebrand. We’re already getting great feedback from sponsors on the ‘Hockey with Heart’slogan. Everyone’s loving the new direction the team’s taking and the charity tie-ins. Great for our image.” Prince bobs his head, self-satisfied. “Weston—the two of you have been working together closely on the campaign. How are things going?”
Bennett scoffs under his breath next to me as my face burns. Hopefully I’m not as red as I feel.
“Fine. Things are going fine.”
“Yeah, Weston told me he’s loving the direction things are heading.” Bennett’s lips tip up in a smirk and I want to punch him. Knock that stupid grin right off his smug face.
Callum stays silent, his watchful eyes flicking from me to Bennett. I swear the proverbial lightbulb flashes on over his head.
