Page 27 of Dirty Pucking Player

“Why? He sure as hell hasn’t earned it.”

“You want to know why Bash went after Berglund?”

I push up to my feet. “Of course, I do, if there is one.” Not that it’s going to change how I feel about the entire situation, but it might shed a little light on what was happening in Bash’s head.

“Because that fucker said something to Bash about how hard he banged you the night before the game.”

I jerk back and search his face for any signs of humor. “You’re shitting me.”

He shakes his head, and his lips twist into a scowl. “I wish I could say I was. I’m sorry I even have to repeat it to you, but I thought you needed to know. He said it to Bash, but I was only a few feet away and heard it, too. Bash didn’t go after Berglund for no reason or because he was pissed about that hit. He went after the douchebag because he was defending you.”

Well, shit.

That definitely does put what happened in a different light and makes me look like a real fucking asshole.

* * *

BASH

All I want to do is lie on this bed, eating room service, and drinking the bottle of scotch Caleb sent over. Nothing else exists as far as I’m concerned. The ten voicemail messages I received since the game last night can go not listened to forever, for all I care.

I don’t need to hear everyone in my life tearing into me about what happened. I don’t need everyone trying to make me feel like shit when they have no idea what really went down. It was bad enough having to hear Greer say those words last night…

Rachel…Caleb…

Hell, even Jameson has tried to get in contact with me.

No doubt to weigh in on a situation they have no clue about.

I’m determined to just lie here and drink and wait for word on my suspension.

It’s a position I’m more than familiar with, one I really thought I could avoid until Berglund had to open his stupid fucking mouth.

The Department of Player Safety should hand down a decision today. And after the agonizing telephone hearing today after getting off that plane, I just want it to be over with.

For some reason, Bob stood behind me with the panel, even without knowing the real reason behind what happened, but it won’t be enough to avoid a massive suspension. Not with my record. If they knew why it happened, it wouldn’t have changed anything, anyway. But I never plan to repeat what was said to anyone.

Given my history, it’s likely going to cost me six games, maybe more.

Two more fucking weeks lost…

At the worst possible time for the Scorpions.

I pour a glass of Lagavulin and down it in two swallows. The smoky burn down my throat is a welcome break from the fire of anger over what Greer said.

She really does think I’m a piece of shit on her otherwise pristine shoes. That woman doesn’t believe it’s possible for me to have acted for a reason she would deem justifiable. All she sees is the man the press presents me as. She sees “Bash” Fury and doesn’t want to listen or take the time to find out the truth about Sebastian.

Well, she’s not worth my fucking time.

No doubt Greer will be telling Bob she’s benching me the rest of the season since we’re past the trade deadline. And as soon as this season is over, I’ll ask Bob to trade me somewhere far the fuck away from the Scorpions. I may end up somewhere shitty, but it will be worth it to go somewhere I can play on a team with a coach who trusts me and wants me on the ice.

Something I’ll never find here.

A knock at the door sends my empty glass tumbling to the bed.

Shit. I’m jumpy.

It’s probably my food.

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