Chapter 4
4
CHUCK
I stretch out on the concrete bench, my legs dangling off the end of it because, apparently, the San Francisco Police Department didn't account for six-foot-four hockey players when they designed their drunk tanks. I wince at the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry wasps, and the air smells like a delightful cocktail of disinfectant, piss, and regret.
Just another Tuesday night for Chuck Newcomb, NHL star.
And occasional jailbird.
"Newcomb!" a gruff voice hollers. "Your fairy godmother's here to bail you out."
I sit up, wincing as my head throbs in protest. Note to self—next time you decide to play real-life Mortal Kombat in a bar, maybe dodge a few more punches.
I stumble to my feet, catching sight of said ‘fairy godmother’ as I’m led out of lockup. Vince Vincent, Aftershocks’ PR wizard and professional pain in my ass, stands there looking like he's sucking on a lemon that's been marinated in pure disappointment.
"Chuck," he says, his voice flatter than week-old beer. "Fancy meeting you here. Again ."
I flash him my best shit-eating grin. "Vince! Buddy! You didn't have to get all dressed up for little old me."
He doesn't crack a smile. I didn’t think he would.
The officer returns my belongings, and I saunter out ahead of Vince just to piss him off, and I try to ignore my dry mouth and the way the room is tilting under my feet. As we walk through the station, I can't help but notice the starstruck looks from some of the officers and other perps. One guy even asks for my autograph as I pass.
"Sorry, pal," I say with a wink. "Left my signing pen in my other orange jumpsuit." But I shake his hand.
Why not?
Vince grabs my arm, yanking me away from my dutiful fan, and steers me toward the exit with more force than necessary. Impressive. I am at least a half-foot taller than he is and probably have about a hundred pounds over his skinny little frame.
Gotta give the guy credit.
"Let's go, Gretzky,” he growls. “You can work on your fan club later."
I try not to laugh, and as we step outside, the early morning sun hits me like a slap to the face. I squint, raising a hand to shield my eyes. "Vince, give me your sunglasses. Now. Please."
Vince tosses his Ray-Bans my way and marches toward his sleek black car. I follow, trying to act like a scolded puppy to appease him. But the truth is, I’m in a great mood, headache notwithstanding.
I reach for the passenger door and frown, patting my waist.
"Dammit," I mutter. "Looks like I lost my belt in the chaos that is overnight lockup. Probably some souvenir hunter. You think someone’s gonna try to sell that? 'Authentic Chuck Newcomb Jail Belt – Only Worn Once!'"
Vince's disgust is unmistakable as he starts the car. "Oh yes, because that's exactly the kind of merchandise the team wants associated with its star player. I can see the billboards now: 'Chuck Newcomb—come for the hockey, stay for the jail swag.'"
I buckle up, settling into the plush leather seat. "Hey, you're the PR guy. If anyone can spin this into gold, it's you."
He pulls out of the parking lot, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. For a few blessed moments, there's silence. I close my eyes, hoping maybe I can catch a quick power nap before the inevitable lecture.
No such luck.
"Do you have any idea," Vince begins, his voice low and dangerous, "how close you came to seriously screwing up your career last night?"
I crack open one eye. "I guess somewhere on the scale of 'oops, my bad' to 'pack your bags for the minors'?"
"This isn't a joke, Newcomb!" Vince snaps, slamming his hand on the steering wheel. "Do you think I enjoy getting calls at 3 a.m. to bail your sorry ass out of jail? Do you think the team enjoys seeing their star enforcer's name in the police blotter more often than the sports pages?"
I sit up straighter, a flicker of anger igniting in my chest. "Hey, I didn't start that fight last night. Those guys were?—"
"I don't care if they were insulting your mother, your dog, and every goal you've ever scored," Vince cuts me off. "You're a professional athlete, for Christ's sake. You can't go around brawling in bars like some washed-up has-been looking for his glory days!"
The anger flares hotter and I try to tamp it down. This is the tempter that gets me into trouble. Every. Damn. Time.
Regardless, who the hell does this pencil-pusher think he is, anyway? I open my mouth, ready to tell Vince exactly where he can shove his bullshit scolding. But then I catch sight of my reflection in the side mirror – bloodshot eyes, a nasty bruise blooming on my jaw, my long hair a tangled rat’s nest, the elastic I use to keep it tidy having been confiscated by my jailers.
As if a hair elastic is a deadly weapon.
And I consider… maybe—just maybe—Vince has a point.
I clamp my mouth shut, swallowing a smart-assed remark. My temper's gotten me into enough trouble for one night, not to mention my big mouth and bigger fists. I look down and see the start of some nice purple bruises on the knuckles of my right hand.
Vince, apparently taking my silence as an invitation, continues his tirade. "You're lucky—no, beyond lucky—that no charges were filed. Do you have any idea what could have happened if this had gone further? Suspensions, fines, maybe even getting dropped from the team. Is that what you want, Chuck? To throw away all your talent and hard work over some drunken pissing contest?"
As he continues to mutter under his breath, I stare out the window, watching the early morning San Francisco streets blur by. Part of me wants to argue, to defend myself. But a smaller, more rational part knows he's right. Not that I’m likely to admit it.
"No," I mutter finally. "That's not what I want."
Vince sighs, some of the fight going out of him. "Look, Chuck. You're a good player. Hell, you're a great player when you're not letting your temper get the best of you. But you've got to get your act together. The number of fights you got into last season was already pushing it. The league's cracking down on that stuff, and the team can't keep covering for you."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The adrenaline from the night is wearing off, leaving me feeling hollow and, if I'm honest, maybe even a little regretful.
A little.
"I know you think I'm just some 'punk' who's giving you shit," Vince continues, and I start, wondering if I'd said that out loud earlier without meaning to. "But believe it or not, I'm on your side. My job is to make you look good, and let me tell you, you're not making it easy."
We pull up to my apartment building, and Vince puts the car in park. For a moment, we just sit there in silence.
"So," I say finally, "what happens now? Am I grounded? Do I have to write 'I will not punch drunken idiots' a hundred times on the locker room whiteboard?"
Vince snorts, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face. "Don't tempt me. For now, go home. Sleep it off. Be at practice tomorrow – on time – and try not to look like you went ten rounds with a grizzly bear."
I nod, reaching for the door handle. As I'm about to get out, Vince speaks again.
"Oh, and Chuck? The team's arranging for you to do some community service. You know, polish up that tarnished image of yours a bit."
I groan. "Please tell me it's not reading to kids or something. Last time I did that, their mothers all showed up, and well, you know how that shit goes.”
Vince shakes his head. "No, we learned our lesson there. We're still getting letters from the moms. This time, you'll be helping out at a soup kitchen. Cooking, cleaning, serving, that kind of thing. Should keep you out of trouble for a while."
"A soup kitchen?" I echo, incredulous. "Vince, come on. I'm a hockey player, not a waiter... person. Whatever they're called."
"It’s called a volunteer, and you will be carrying out this commitment," Vince supplies dryly. "And tough luck on getting your hands dirty. Consider it your penance. Who knows, maybe you'll learn something. Like impulse control. Or some humility."
I flip him off, but there's no real heat behind it. As I climb out of the car, my body protesting every movement, I can't help but wonder what fresh hell awaits me as Vince tries to humble me.
"Hey, Vince?" I call just before he drives off.
He looks at me expectantly.
"Thanks," I say, the word feeling strange on my tongue. "You know, for coming to get me. Again."
He nods, a hint of a smile on his face. "Just doing my job, Newcomb. Try not to make me do it again anytime soon, yeah? Hey, be in Coach’s office at eleven tomorrow. There’s a meeting, and it concerns you.”
A chill runs through me. “Vince–am I being kicked off the team?”
He shrugs, making it clear there’s no skin off his back if I get canned. “I don’t think so,” he says. “Pretty sure this is just to address some things. But, you know, I can’t be entirely sure. Eleven. Don’t be late.”
As I watch him drive away, I can't shake the feeling that my life is about to get a whole lot more... calm. Not that I want it to. I just want to keep my job.
Once I’m in the elevator, I let out a breath. God. Now I feel slightly sick with nerves to go along with the lingering effects of a hangover.
Fucking great.
I trudge up to my apartment, already dreading the mountain of ice packs and aspirin in my near future. I let myself into my tenth-floor apartment and don’t even have the usual rush of pleasure I get from being in the place. Instead, I go straight to the bathroom and turn the shower on before stripping.
Once the water is as hot as it can get, I step under the spray and let the wet steam surround me. I can feel the tension in my shoulders easing. My body relaxes while I soap myself, and I watch the suds swirl down the drain, taking with them my night-in-the-slammer grime. Finally, with a bracing breath, I switch the temperature to cold, and a blast of frigid water pounds away the last fragments of my lingering debacle.
Refreshed, I dry myself, find a new hair elastic for my mop, and yank on my favorite holey sweats and faded concert T-shirt. After checking my bag to make sure I have everything I’ll need for training later, I set it by the door and head into the kitchen in search of food.
I scramble some eggs, adding chunks of ham and cheese, while bacon sizzles in another pan. Plating that up with toast smeared with butter and strawberry jelly, I carry it to the table and pour myself a coffee. I leave it black but add two spoonfuls of sugar—not something I usually do, but the extra jolt will come in handy.I’ve got the hangover sugar cravings.
As I eat, my nerves settle. Vince is good at rattling people, and the smug little jerk knows it. I can’t deny that he was right about some of his observations about me, but it galls me to know he understands me that well. But he’s got me thinking, and I’m sure that was part of his plan.
Being a professional hockey player is my dream come true. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, even in the face of my less-than-supportive family. I can’t blow this ride. After all, being let go doesn’t inspire other teams to try and recruit you.
Feeling better with food in my stomach, I clean up the kitchen while I have another cup of coffee. Once the dishwasher is humming, I spend the next ten minutes picking up here and there until my place is neat again.
I tend to keep my apartment clean and tidy in part because I don’t like clutter, but also because it’s on the small side. I can afford a bigger place for sure, but that might attract the kind of attention from my teammates that I do not want. At this point, as the team newbie, I’m not earning as much as the other guys—yet. To upgrade my digs, I’d have to dip into my trust fund and alert the rest of the team that the family I come from is fucking loaded. So for now, I’ll stay put in this place that’s working out just fine for me. I can be at practice in twenty minutes, and there’s any number of restaurants and bars within walking distance. Some of the guys live close by, too, so that’s a nice bonus.
I plop onto my sofa and flip through my sport channels, spoiled for choice. But I don’t really have to make any decisions, because I’m asleep in minutes.
A night in jail will do that to you.