One #2
I nod. “Well, turns out they’ve framed me big time. They’ve shared some photos online, and they’ve written some post on the bunny blog, a play-by-play about that night.”
His jaw drops and his eyes widen as the word “no” comes out in a shocked gasp.
“I wish I was joking,” I grunt. “Hayden said I’ve gotta keep my head down, at least until the trade deadline passes. I’m guessing he’s worried that Coach might cut me because of it.”
“You’re gonna do what he says, right?” Elliot chews on the side of his thumb, his eyes filled with worry. “Like, you can’t be traded. I just got here! We have our whole dream to live out, like we’ve planned since we were kids.”
Knowing he can feel the inner turmoil that’s running wild through my mind right now, I place my hands on his shoulders in reassurance.
“I promise you, I’ll do whatever he tells me. I’m just pissed that this happened, you know?” I shrug, shoving my hands into the pockets of my sweats. “I was just having fun. I didn’t want to cause any trouble.”
Ever since I was drafted, I’ve been sucked into the vortex of people wanting a piece of me. Guys, girls, the media. I relished it. I felt in control for once, that everything was happening on my terms, and I craved the attention they gave me.
But maybe I became too greedy, and this is my reckoning.
* * *
When I enter the locker room twenty minutes later, everything seems normal. The rookies are shooting the shit on the far side of the room, throwing wads of tape at one another, while the rest of the guys are either listening to music or deep in conversation as they get ready.
Everything is normal.
Blissfully unaware that this morning I woke up to a shitshow.
We’re on fire this season. Currently top of our division, and if we keep up this momentum, the playoffs are well within our sights.
Another reason why I can’t get traded.
“Blaine, you got a sec?” Ethan, the team captain, asks.
“Of course.” I nod and follow him to the player lounge.
He grabs two bottles of water from the fridge and passes one to me, where I’m propped against the counter. His brown eyes remain fixed on me as he takes a few gulps.
My skin prickles, knowing this is going to be an uncomfortable conversation.
“I spoke to Coach this morning about what happened,” he begins.
I’m not surprised Ethan’s already been made aware. Ethan Parkes is the best captain I have ever known. He’s grumpy and broody, but he will have your back no matter what.
Guilt weighs me down.
“Yeah, shit. I wish I could turn back time and erase it.”
“I’m sure you do, but you can’t. I think I’ve gotten to know you well enough over the years you’ve been here to believe you wouldn’t have followed through with that night had you known what they were going to do.”
I shake my head.
“What’s done is done. You can’t change what's happened, but I can help you move on from this, help keep you focused on what’s important, but you also need to help yourself now, Blaine.”
I’m expecting a similar conversation with Hayden when he lands in a few hours from Los Angeles, but I know Ethan has mine—and the teams’—best interests at the forefront of his mind.
“No more hookups. No distractions. Channel every ounce of energy into hockey,” Ethan says, counting them off on his fingers, leaving no room for argument.
I nod firmly, promising I will be better, when Coach Harris appears in the doorway.
His thick arms are crossed over his equally thick chest. He was a big guy when he played defense for Dallas seven years ago, and even though he’s retired from playing, he’s worked hard not to lose too much muscle mass.
The frown lines on his forehead are so deep, though, that they add decades to his forty-two years.
“Blaine, my office. Now.” He orders.
I swallow the lump that’s lodged in my throat.
Fuck.
I quickly follow him with my tail between my legs. I wince when he slams the door hard, surprised that it’s still on the hinges. The framed photographs on his wall shake from the impact.
Sitting down in the leather chairs opposite his desk, I risk a glance up at him. His jaw clenches as he grinds his molars, his glare burning a hole straight through me. His anger is so palpable, I’m just waiting for steam to come out of his ears.
He turns his laptop around, and there on the screen is a photo of the three puck bunnies I hooked up with, posing in front of the jersey I wore when I won the Frozen Four my junior year. They’re grinning from ear to ear, but it’s the caption that causes me to drop my head into my hands in shame.
Pucks in the net and his dick’s getting wet—hat trick for Blaine Olsen!
It’s followed by a photo of my very naked ass mid-thrust. You can’t see my face, but as Hayden said, there’s a clear image of the Spartan warrior tattoo on my upper back.
“Do you realize how bad this looks? Not just on you, but the team?”
This isn’t the first time we’ve been in this exact same situation. Something bad about me plastered across the puck bunny blogs, shaming me for whatever I had done the night before. Shining a negative light on me like I’m some kind of sexual deviant.
My hands begin to sweat. I wipe them down the front of my sweatpants, but no matter how many times my palms brush against the fabric, nothing seems to dry them. My throat clams up, and my skin suddenly feels too tight for my body.
“I worked so fucking hard to get Elliot on the team, knowing how much it meant to you, and this is how you repay me?”
I stare down at my feet. Struggling to find my breath as guilt weighs heavy in my chest, pressing against my lungs.
Do I regret every reckless thing I’ve ever done? No.
But apparently this is the wakeup call I needed.
Being one of the few twins in NHL history has given Elliot and I an automatic entry in the hockey record books, and we're the second set of twins to play on the same team in the NHL. Which means more to me than I could ever explain.
Coach waves toward the screen of his laptop, motioning to the photo again.
“This behavior needs to end. Now. Stay away from the bunnies. I don’t want to see your name on this shit again.
The only thing I want to see on the internet about you is how good of a fucking hockey player you are, how many goals and assists you have after each game, and how you deserve to be an Art Ross finalist.” He slams the laptop closed and crosses his arms over his chest. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Coach.” I nod, clearing my throat. “I’m sorry.”
He lets out a tired sigh and runs a hand down his face.
“Your sorry means jack shit to me right now. Show me that you’re sorry, Blaine.
Show me you want your fucking spot on this team.
Show me that you respect me, your team, and your-fucking-self.
Now get ready for practice, you’re on the ice in five.
” He stands to step behind his desk. “And don’t think for a fucking second that I’m not having you run bag skates for this bullshit. ”
I grimace. I suppose it’s better than getting benched.