Release (Stingrays Hockey #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Buzz.

Buzz.

Tank Phillips groaned as he slapped in the direction of the nightstand, not bothering to open his eyes. Rather than wood, he hit bare skin...and grinned.

Buzz.

Buzz.

“Make it stop,” a sleepy female voice mumbled next to him.

He blearily attempted to open his eyes, snapping them shut again quickly as sunshine from the window burned across the bed.

“Too bright,” he grumbled.

Another female voice sounded behind him, twisting away to pull the pillow over her head. “It’s too early,” she whined.

Tank drew in a deep, somewhat unsteady breath, covering his eyes with a hand before trying to open them again.

No more tequila, he vowed—not for the first time in his life.

Last night’s celebration ran into overtime and then some.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Tank managed to keep his eyes open this time, though he was squinting hard against the bright light. Pushing himself up to sit, he took a moment to admire the two shapely bare asses on either side of him.

Buzz.

“Fuck,” he muttered, reaching over Lara to grab his phone.

Glancing at the screen, his eyes widened in shock because his phone was literally blowing up with texts and calls. For a moment, his chest tightened in fear, wondering who had died.

He clicked onto one of the six or so texts he’d gotten from his best friend, Blake.

Wake the hell up.

Tank looked at the time stamps, discovering Blake hadn’t given him more than a minute or so between each text before sending the next. So Tank read through the entire thread, somewhat amused by his friend’s increasingly irate comments.

Seriously.

Get your ass out of bed.

Shit is hitting the fan.

Where the fuck are you?

I’m serious, man. Call me. This is bad.

Management is losing their shit over your escapades last night.

Tank frowned, confused. His escapades? What the hell did that mean?

Clicking off Blake’s text thread, he glanced at the countless others. No less than seven other teammates had texted, their comments running along the same theme as Blake’s.

Then he checked the missed calls; there were as many of those as texts.

His teammate and buddy, Victor, had called four times—no voicemails, of course, because Victor fucking hated leaving messages.

Then there was a call from his coach, one from the head of HR for the Stingrays, and one from—fuck—the general manager.

Tank climbed over Lara’s slumbering form and grabbed his boxers, heading toward the bathroom. Shutting the door, he pulled them on as he listened to the voicemail from the GM. It was short and to the point.

Tank was being summoned to the administrative offices for a meeting. At eleven o’clock this morning.

He glanced at the time on his phone and cursed under his breath.

It was just after ten now, which meant he didn’t have time to go home and change into clean clothes.

Emily, his other date for the evening, had spilled red wine on his jeans at some point last night, and God only knew how wrinkled his shirt was. Or…where it was.

Tank needed a shower. But more than that, he needed fucking answers. Clicking on Blake’s number, he put the phone on speaker and placed it on the counter of the sink, so he could splash cold water in his face. He didn’t have to wait through one ring before his best friend was on the line.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Blake demanded, by way of greeting.

“Sleeping it off,” Tank answered, clearing his throat, which was gruff.

“Jesus. Go to YouTube, type in your name.”

Tank snorted. “Highlight reels from yesterday’s game? In case you forgot, I was there, so I’m totally aware I scored an amazing hattrick.”

“That won’t be the first video that pops up,” Blake muttered.

Tank clicked on YouTube and typed in his name.

The first video was titled, “Tank Phillips Scores Again.” It took him a second before he figured out what he was looking at. When he did, he laughed.

“You think this is funny?” Blake shouted through the phone.

“It was a crazy night,” Tank said. “Me and the girls decided to celebrate in style, so we got a suite at the Pendry.” Tank loved the hotel because it was situated on the waterfront in Fells Point.

Which was actually pretty close to where he lived, but he had a hard and fast rule about never bringing women back to his place. “We were in the middle of—”

“I know what you were in the middle of,” Blake interjected.

Tank snorted and skipped ahead. “When the fire alarm went off.”

“Yeah, I figured out that much. Actually, I think I’ve managed to piece out everything that happened last night. So did management.”

“I don’t see why this is a big deal.”

Blake sighed heavily. “Tank, you walked outside in your boxers, drunk off your ass, with two half-dressed women, one of whom had handcuffs dangling from her wrist.”

Tank chuckled. “We couldn’t find the key.

” Which reminded him, he was going to have to pay for the damn bed he broke, trying to get Emily free so they could evacuate.

Maybe if they hadn’t been three sheets to the wind and laughing hysterically over the damn alarm, they might have tried harder to find the key.

Especially since, upon their return to the room after the hotel determined there was no fire, they realized the key was in plain sight on the nightstand.

“Do you know who Lara’s uncle is?”

Tank wasn’t entirely sure what Lara’s last name was, so it was safe to say he knew nothing about her family. “No.”

“Charles Steele. Of Steele Industries. One of the Stingrays’ biggest sponsors.”

“Ooookay,” Tank drawled.

“He’s not amused by the attention this video is garnering, especially considering Lara was wearing your shirt and nothing else, and the three of you were clearly under the influence. The views are astronomical. The thing is going viral.”

Tank looked at the video again. He didn’t think it looked that bad. The three of them were laughing and having a good time, even if it was a bit heavy on the PDA, and while they weren’t completely dressed, they were covered enough. It wasn’t like they were running around stark naked.

“I’ve been out with Lara several times in the past few months.” Last night had been his fifth booty call with Lara, and the second time, her bestie Emily, who was always down for a good time, had joined them. “Her uncle has never bitched about me going out with Lara before.”

“You’ve never made it quite so public before, so he’s bitching now. Loudly.”

“How do you know all this?” Tank asked.

“I came in early to work out with some of the guys. Coach asked if I knew where you were. Apparently, the general manager is pissed and looking to put your head on a stake. If this had been an isolated incident, maybe—”

Tank growled. “That Mindy bullshit was not my fault. She followed me into the men’s restroom and started taking off her clothes.”

“I know,” Blake said. “But your fault or not, it didn’t help that a sports reporter walked in on the two of you and told everyone in the world a very different tale. Between that and the pictures of you and that model in Turks and Caicos in the hot tub at that resort—”

“That was last summer and off-season. Besides, I took Lara and Emily to the team’s fall gala, and no one complained,” Tank pointed out.

“Maybe not, but I also heard the marketing department couldn’t use any of the pictures of you with your two dates because they didn’t want the bad press that could bring. Instead, they got ahead of things and minimized the damage on that appearance.”

Tank raked his fingers through his hair, aware he was looking pretty rough, and he had zero time to change that state. “I got called in by the GM.”

Blake—good friend that he was—cursed. “When’s the meeting?”

Tank looked at the time. “In forty minutes. I’m still at the hotel, and I don’t have time to go home for clean clothes. My jeans are…”

Blake had been at Pat’s Pub with them when Emily spilled the wine.

“You can’t go to the meeting in last night’s clothes.

Come to the locker room first,” he said.

“You can wear my clothes. I’ll go home in my workout gear.

All I have are jeans and a sweatshirt, but I figure it’ll look better than going in smelling like a bar. ”

“Thanks, man. I’m grabbing a quick shower. Should be there in thirty.”

“See you then,” Blake said, disconnecting the call.

Tank hopped in the shower, washing away the smell of sex, beer, and tequila. Today wouldn’t be his first time getting a slap on the wrist for his behavior, and if he was being honest with himself, it probably wouldn’t be the last, either.

He chuckled, unconcerned. The team management, HR, and especially that stupid PR department, always thought the sky was falling when it wasn’t.

Hell, as far as Tank was concerned…this was just another weekend.

Tank tugged on the sleeves of Blake’s sweatshirt, sorry he hadn’t had time to grab his own clothes from home. He and Blake were relatively close in size, but Tank was larger, so he was currently squeezed into clothing that was one size too small.

He gave Gertrude, the general manager’s secretary, a charming smile, and she flushed just as she always did. Her reaction amused him because she was pushing sixty, had been married for nearly forty years, and had three grandkids.

“They’re waiting inside for you,” Gertrude said, glancing at the clock.

Tank didn’t have to look to know he was ten minutes late. Traffic had not been on his side.

“Thanks, Gertie,” he said, tapping the top of her desk lightly. “That blue is your color,” he said, gesturing to her blouse. “Really makes your eyes pop.”

Gertrude waved him away. “Go on, you big charmer,” she said, smiling briefly before her expression sobered. “Best not to keep them waiting any longer.”