Page 93 of Dirty Pucking Player

There’s no way I’m sticking around for any of the end of the season bullshit. Mac can clean out my locker for me. There’s nothing I need in there that can’t wait for him to ship it to me back in Chicago.

I just want to get back home. I never thought I’d be desperate to get out of Vegas and these swanky digs, but my condo on the river in downtown Chitown is calling my name.

My own bed.

My own TV.

My own stuff.

My own space.

Away from Greer and everything that reminds me of her.

Like this damn hotel room that has her scent all over it despite the fact that the maid service comes in daily to clean.

It’s psychosomatic. I know it. It’s me missing her, but I can’t begin to move on with her haunting me like this. I have to get the hell out of here—fast.

I open the dresser drawer, grab a stack of T-shirts, and shove them into my suitcase laid out on the bed. Even hours after the game, I’m still fuming. It wasn’t only my fault. We all played like shit, but I expected more out of the team and myself.

Bob was so pissed, he stormed out of the arena without even saying anything to us.

But what he said in his office to Greer and me made where we stand pretty fucking clear—both of our heads are on the chopping block until he decides what to do.

Other than thanking the team for a great season, Greer didn’t say shit, either. She just slipped out of the locker room with her tail tucked between her and legs and disappeared.

Which was for the best.

Standing there and giving some long, drawn-out speech wouldn’t have changed how things ended. For the team or between us.

I throw open my closet and start pulling shirts off the hangers. It doesn’t matter how I pack or what a mess it will be when I get home.

Fuck…I just need to get out of here.

I need to decompress. I need to relax. I just need some goddamn time.

Is that so much to fucking ask?

It seems so because my phone keeps ringing off the damn hook. And there it goes again. I glance at the screen, but this time, it’s someone I don’t mind answering for. “Hey, man.”

“So, that was kind of painful to watch.” Leave it to Caleb to make a joke out of my agony.

“No shit.” I grab another stack of clothes and shove it into my suitcase.

“You want to talk about it?”

“What do you think?” I down the last of the scotch in my glass and pour another shot.

He chuckles lowly. “I think not.”

“You’re a smart man, Caleb Carlson.”

“So, maybe we should talk about your dad instead.”

I freeze and drop onto the bed with my head in my palm. “Dude, don’t get started with me.”

The only reason I answered the damn phone was that it was Caleb and not Rachel or one of my teammates. I thought it would be safe with him.

He sighs. “Rachel called me. She told me what’s going on.”

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