Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Jack
It takes far longer than I’d like—over a week—but Molly manages to get that video taken down.
Too many people saw it, though. And as much as Coach Bowers, Molly, and my teammates have all reassured me that they know I’m not responsible for our loss in the second round, the amount of hate mail I’ve gotten has increased substantially and a couple of companies I have endorsement deals with are making noises about canceling my contract.
“This is bullshit,” I tell my agent, Max O’Connor, for what has to be the hundredth time this conversation.
“I didn’t fucking do anything. I didn’t even have a beer at home in my underwear that week!
And I definitely didn’t show up to the game drunk or hungover like Savage implied.
Forward everyone copies of the game tape!
Bowers wrote a letter stating that I’m an asset to the team and part of the reason we made it as far as we did.
How could I be the fuckup Savage painted me as and have the third highest points on the team this season? ”
It’s bad enough that two of my corporate sponsors are making noises that they’re unhappy with me and wanting to cancel my contract.
The thing that really pisses me off is that the cancer foundation that helped my mom a few years ago when she was battling breast cancer is saying they don’t want me to be the face of their next fundraising campaign.
While I like the money I get from endorsements, I can survive without that.
If they cancel their contracts, it’d suck, but I’d eventually get more once this all blows over.
But the cancer foundation? That’s personal.
And that jackass Savage fucking that up pisses me off the most.
“I know, Jack,” Max says, making a quelling motion with his hands.
I growl in response, and he stops, putting his hands on his desk, out of sight of his camera for the video call.
He sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Look, Jack. I can’t make any real promises.
I’m doing my best for you, though. I always do. You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” I answer, my tone gruff. I’m still pissed. That fucking asshole. “What are my options?”
Max doesn’t say anything for a moment, his lips pursed as he stares off to the side. He lets out another sigh. “Let’s see if I can talk everyone around. You know I’m a charmer.” He gives me a cheesy grin that makes me roll my eyes. “No need to plan for worst case scenarios yet, okay?”
Sighing, I nod. “Okay.”
“I’ve got another meeting, though, so I’ll talk to you later, Jack. Hang tight, keep your nose clean. I’ll keep you updated on any news.”
“Thanks, Max.”
I end the call and toss my phone on the couch next to me, letting out a loud sigh-slash-groan. “This fucking sucks .”
For the obvious reason of that asshole doing his damnedest to tank my career for no fucking reason, but also because I can’t even go blow off steam the way I normally would in this situation.
“Keep your nose clean” is code for “don’t go out partying.
” Because with sponsors already looking to dump me on my ass, being seen partying would just add fuel to the fire.
And with the way we were grinding at the end of the season, plus the post-season, and then that fucking video, I haven’t been out partying in months .
Before this, no one really cared. I didn’t sexually harass anyone—or worse—I haven’t been caught up in any real scandals, and I’m a damn good hockey player.
Sure, I might not be the best role model for little kids, what with the partying, but that’s why my endorsements are all for products that target adults—whisky and a few other companies from back home that like supporting a local kid who made it big.
A few people have tried to take digs at me supporting a breast cancer foundation, but those people always look like assholes when the fact that my mom’s in remission gets brought up.
Grabbing my phone again, I call Connor Jenkins.
He lives down on the seventh floor, not too far from Dozer.
The three of us used to go out together a lot, but then Dozer got tangled up with some chick who worked him over hard, and he hasn’t been the same.
He’s better off now, though, with a woman who appreciates him.
But it also means Connor and I are down a wingman.
He picks up on the third ring. “What?” he barks.
“Get up here, asshole. I can’t go out, and I’m tired of sitting here by myself being pissy.”
“Aww, man. Why can’t you go out? It’s the off season! We got knocked out weeks ago. This is prime party time!”
I shake my head and throw my free hand up in the air. “Seriously? You saw that fucking video.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Molly got it taken down, though, right? Like two weeks ago now? So what’s the big deal? It’s all a fucking lie anyway.”
“Right, while I know that, and you know that, and hell, fucking Brock Savage knows that, my sponsors are threatening to cancel my contracts.”
“Fuck ‘em.”
Sighing, I run a hand down my face. “Much as I’d love to, I don’t think that’s the look I want to go for with my contract up for renewal at the end of next season.
Max’s already starting to touch base with management about negotiations.
I gotta do what he says. Plus, the cancer foundation’s talking about taking me off their campaign too.
You know how important that one is to me. I can’t fuck that up.”
He blows out a long breath. “That fucking sucks, man.”
“Tell me about it.”
He’s silent for a beat, then, “What about The Salty Salmon? No one’ll bother us there. It’s not as good as a club, but at least we can go out and be somewhere else. I’ve been home all day, and I was planning on going out tonight. I’m tired of being cooped up inside.”
“We live in one of the most outdoorsy places in the United States,” I say dryly. “We could do something other than go to a club or a bar.”
He scoffs. “Like I said, Jack—it’s the off season.
That means rest. Recuperation. Not running up and down a mountain.
And anyway, it’s too late to drive out to the mountains now anyway.
The Salty Salmon tonight. Hiking or camping or whatever the fuck you’ve got in your head about being ‘outdoorsy’ another day. ”
I consider his suggestion. He’s right that The Salty Salmon shouldn’t get me in trouble— shouldn’t being the operative word. Is it worth the risk, even if it’s a small one?
Sucking in a breath, I hold it, then make a decision. “Fine. Yes. Let’s go to The Salty Salmon.”
“Woohoo,” Connor says sarcastically. “My dream night out.”
“Fuck you,” I tell him, but he’s already ended the call before I can get the words out.
Sighing again, I stand up and head to my room to put on something more suited for going out—even if it is to a sports bar where we won’t be bothered.
Twenty minutes later I’m dressed in jeans, loafers, and a robin’s egg blue button-down shirt that I leave untucked, the sleeves cuffed at the elbow, my longish hair pulled back in a small ponytail at the nape of my neck.
Connor’s knocking on my door, and I open it to find him dressed in a T-shirt, an Emeralds hat, shorts, and flip flops.
He looks me up and down and whistles. “Getting all dressed up for me, Jack? Awww. I’m flattered.”
I shove him back into the hall, pulling my door closed behind me. “I’m driving,” I grunt.
“Such a gentleman,” he coos, cackling at the glare I shoot his way. “Seriously, though,” he says in a normal voice as we get on the elevator, “am I going to have to find someone else to go to the clubs with? We already lost Dozer, and now you have to pretend to be a Boy Scout. This sucks, man.”
I shoot him another glare. “Yeah, dude. I feel real sorry for you. Your life’s pretty rough over there with your freshly signed contract and no one trying to hang you out to dry for no damn reason.”
He sobers even more, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, I know, man. I’m sorry. I wish there were something I could do.”
“Yeah, well. Same.”
When we get to The Salty Salmon, we stop just inside the door and look around. It’s a pretty slow night, so there are plenty of seats to choose from. The manager, Ryan, is behind the bar tonight, and he gives us a nod when he spots us, waving us over.
With a shrug, we claim a couple of stools near the wall. Ryan tosses a couple coasters in front of us. “Fancy seeing you two here. Slumming it, huh?”
Connor punches my shoulder. “Pretty boy over here’s gotta keep himself outta trouble.”
Ryan’s face turns serious, and he shakes his head slowly. “I won’t play that asshole’s bullshit show in here anymore. Not after that farce of an interview he did with you.”
I duck my head and mumble, “Thanks. ‘Preciate it.”
Ryan scoffs, propping his arms on the bar.
“It’s the absolute least I can do. We don’t hold with people slandering our team around here.
We all know you enjoy having a good time, but you take your job seriously.
Anyone who believes otherwise isn’t welcome here either.
” He blows out a breath and shakes his head one more time.
“What can I get you boys? It’s on the house tonight. ”
Connor perks up in his stool. “Oh, yeah?” He smacks my arm with the back of his hand. “You’ll have to get yourself slandered more often if it means we get free drinks.”
Pointing a finger at him, Ryan shakes his head. “Careful. You start getting your teammates treated like our boy Bouchard over here, and I’ll cut you off too. Don’t think I won’t!”
Connor holds up his hands in surrender, laughing. “I’d never! I’m just saying, we might as well take advantage of any perks that happen to come our way, though.”
Rolling his eyes, Ryan turns back to me. “What can I get you?”
We place our drink orders—an IPA on tap for me and a Sam Adams for Connor.
They stock it in bottles just for him, basically.
He’s a Boston boy, born and bred, and he brings it up pretty often.
I see him drink plenty of other beers, but if we’re here, it’s a Sam Adams every time.
Ryan gets our drinks for us right away. I lapse into silence, not really paying attention to what’s going on around me while Connor chats with Ryan and whoever else he can con into talking to him.
I ignore them until Connor bumps into my arm, nodding at Ryan who’s apparently been trying to discreetly get my attention.
He’s helping someone near the other end of the bar, and at first I don’t get what the big deal is, but then it clicks.
It’s Maggie.
And she’s alone.
“Do you know that chick?” Connor asks, leaning over and pitching his voice low.
My mouth inexplicably dry, I nod.
This is a sports bar. A hockey player hangout. What’s Maggie doing here?
Obviously she knows about it because I met her here a few weeks ago, but what made her decide to come back?
Is she hoping to see me again?
I scoff internally as soon as the thought enters my mind. She might’ve felt bad for me after her boss released that train wreck he called an interview, but I know she didn’t feel any kind of spark between us even if I wasn’t joking when I asked for her number.
“We’ve met, yeah,” I mutter to Connor, wondering what Ryan is expecting from me.
Just then, she turns her head my way. I hold my breath as her eyes pass over Connor and me without really noticing either of us.
Then she does a double take. And I know she recognizes me.