Chapter 9 Happy
HAPPY
“Ha! That’s out!” Rusty, our team captain, shouts with a victorious fist pump to his pickleball partner, Alex Henry, our alternate captain. “We win.”
“That was so not fucking out!” I argue.
“Dude, it was out,” Logan assures me with a grin. “By at least six inches.”
I glance from Logan to Alex to Rusty, who’s standing there shirtless, his thick tufted chest hair proudly on display. Tossing my racket to the floor, I throw my hands in the air. “This is a goddamn mutiny!”
“Cry about it.” Rusty snorts.
“Fist my dick,” I retort, because honestly, it’s the best I’ve got.
Alex laughs out loud.
“Okay, that’s enough pickleball for you, my man,” Logan says, patting my back in an attempt to placate me like the toddler that I am when it comes to pickleball.
I don’t know why I do this. Playing pickleball with the guys in our makeshift court underground at the arena only works me up more than it should.
This is supposed to be fun, supposed to chill us out before a game, but I suck so hard at this shit, it only pisses me off.
And with just seven games left in the regular season, I can’t afford to get pissed off and let it affect my game heading into my very first playoff series.
My agent, Linc, has warned me to prepare for a potential trade this summer, so I don’t have a lot of time left to prove to Coach Draper that instead of just a second pair reserve, I’m a serious, dedicated, and pivotal cog in the Thunder defense machine.
Because I can’t leave New York, so a trade to another team means the end of hockey for me.
Pulling my t-shirt from where it’s tucked into the waistband of my shorts, I use it to wipe the sweat from my forehead as I follow Logan down the corridor toward the locker room when we’re stopped by the social media crew, Brianna and Samara; Samara holds her camera up, and Brianna holds a sign that says WHO WILL WIN THE MASTERS?
Logan pauses, answering quickly, “Brookes, for sure.”
I look from the sign to Logan and then back to the girls, my eyebrows tugging together.
“Happy?” Brianna asks, a seductive purr to her voice. I’ve never fucked her. But she did send me an unsolicited nude one time. Me and almost every other guy on this team, apparently.
“What’s the Masters?”
“Golf!” Logan balks, looking at me like I’m an idiot. “The US Masters.”
Still baffled, I snort a laugh. “Who gives a fuck about golf?”
“Happy!” Samara groans, lowering the camera. “You can’t cuss on a social post.”
Logan smacks me in my chest. “That’s a five hundred buck fine, my dude.”
Before the girls can set up for take two, a deep voice calls my name, and I spin around, my shoulders falling at the sight of Chris fucking Garret standing there in his stupid suit, with his stupid slicked back hair and his stupid disingenuous smile.
“Got a moment?”
I grit my teeth, forcing a smile. “Sure thing, Chris.”
Casting Logan a sideways glance, his brow furrows a touch as he watches on, clearly dubious like he knows something’s up, but I offer him a reassuring wave of my hand before turning to follow Chris.
I haven’t told Logan anything about what happened with Hannah and me over the weekend.
And I won’t. Which is why I can’t tell him about showing up at Hannah’s apartment to find this skinny sack of shit wasted, waiting for her.
No one knows, and I’ll keep it that way because Hannah told me her biggest fear is Chris’s wife finding out about his infidelity.
Chris pokes his head into the small, uninhabited office that sits between a utility room and a closet, checking there’s no one inside before entering and waiting for me to follow suit before closing the door.
I stand on the spot, folding my arms across my chest, my jaw ticking as he takes his sweet-ass time, moving to the leather sofa and unbuttoning his suit jacket before sitting down.
“Take a seat, Slater.”
Slater? “I’ll stand.”
He looks up at me, one eye narrowing despite his smile.
With a heavy exhale, he crosses one leg over the other, laying an arm along the back of the sofa, and I know what he’s doing.
He’s trying to look at ease, relaxed, because he’s the one in power here, so he has nothing to worry about. And fuck him.
“So, Hannah Draper, huh?” Chris says after a long pause.
I blink at him.
He shifts, his smile turning cocky as he says, “Are you two dating or… just fucking?”
Now he’s trying to get a rise out of me. And it’s working. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as a fire erupts low in my gut.
“With all due respect, Garret,” I practically spit, “that’s not really any of your business, now, is it?”
Chris’s smile remains in place, and he quirks a brow. “Maybe not, but a relationship with the head coach’s daughter seems like a serious conflict of interest, and that is my business.”
“You know what’s an even bigger conflict of interest?” I say with a goading smile. “The married father of two general manager of an NHL franchise cheating on his pregnant wife with his head coach’s daughter…”
Chris’s smile disappears, the look in his eyes cold as ice as he glares up at me. “I got a call from Utah this morning.”
I blink again, my molars grinding to the point of pain.
“With Kozlowski retiring, they’re on the hunt for a D-man.” Chris looks up to the ceiling, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.
And I’m not an idiot. I know a threat when I hear one.
This motherfucker knows my situation, and he’s using it against me.
My hands fall to my sides, fists clenching with the need to punch something; Chris’s smug face is looking like a mighty fine target right now.
“What the fuck are you getting at, Chris?”
Chris rises slowly, his smirk returning as he refastens the buttons on his jacket. “You’d better hurry,” he says like he’s the boss of me. “Don’t want to be late for warm-ups.”
I stare into his steely eyes for a few beats, biting my tongue as hard as I can before turning. Yanking the door open, I walk out of the room and straight into Dallas Shaw, our goalie one. He steadies me, placing his hands on my shoulders, offering me a leveled look. “Whoa, you good, my guy?”
Meeting his intense gaze, I tamp down my anger. “Yeah, all good.”
Dallas’s eyes lift, his brows dipping as Chris strolls out of the room, nodding at us both, that condescending smirk still remaining as he walks down the corridor with his head held arrogantly high.
“Everything… okay?” Dallas asks, lowering his voice.
I force a smile. “Yep. Gotta get geared up.”
Looking at me like he doesn’t fully believe me, Dallas nods once, letting me go, and I spin around, keeping my head down as I make a beeline directly for the locker room, all the while Chris’s threat lingers like a bad fucking taste in my mouth.
With less than ninety seconds left in the game, we’re up by one as the puck drops.
I’m like a stalker, watching it bounce from player to player, guarding the zone while still trying to keep an eye on the Chicago center who is probably one of the best forwards in the league when it comes to quick, high-pressure plays.
Don’t fuck it up. Don’t fuck it up. Don’t fuck it up.
I’m pushed in the back by the Chicago winger as he skates past to get into position, and my skate blade slips, almost making me fall. The center breaks away, and he strides directly toward me. I skate backward, glancing at the time. Thirty seconds.
He dekes once, then twice, and I anticipate a third because that’s his trademark move, but before I can reach my stick out to steal the puck, he shoots early and it flies past me.
I transition, turning to skate for our zone but I lose my edge and slip again, and, as if in slow motion, I watch as Dallas gets down into a butterfly, the puck whipping past him and straight into the back of the net, the buzzer signaling the goal as the Chicago players celebrate to the tune of the home crowd booing.
Only I can’t seem to stop myself and, barely missing taking Dallas out, I follow the fucking puck, flying face first into the crease and collecting the crossbar with my face right as the siren sounds off.
And it’s there, as I’m lying face down in the goal, blood pooling on the ice all around me, that I realize something; I’m going to be traded this summer, and there’s fuck all I can do about it.