Page 6 of Revenge Puck

“I don’t want to leave D.C. You know I can’t.”

“I know that moving is a last resort. So, keep your head on straight during the finals and help the Warhawks win the championship trophy. Don’t waste a single minute in the penalty box for that prick Christian Riley. He’s not worth it.”

I wish keeping my fists out of Christian’s smug face was as easy as it sounds. It’s not.

Riley is the league’s golden boy. He scored more points than any other player during the regular season and is looking at a potential MVP award. That is, if the Bobcats weren’t going to lose the finals to us.

I don’t despise Riley just because he’s a good player. I hate him for a whole other list of reasons. Ones that date back to the days when we played together in the minor leagues.

There’s so much on the line now, though. Deep down I know I can’t screw this up, that Riley’s not worth losing a contract or my bonus money.

At the same time, whenever I see the asshole’s smug face, my anger just takes over and I lose my shit. All I want to do is hurt him. Winning the game isn’t nearly as important as that when we meet on the ice.

“Listen,” Tommy says. “I’ll put out some feelers, try to get another team to make an offer before the playoffs are over. Best case, it’ll light a fire under D.C.’s ass, make them wake up and want to keep you around instead of losing you to a team they may have to face. Worst, at least you’ll have backup options in case they pull the plug.”

“Do what you need to do, but I’m not leaving D.C.,” I tell my agent before ending the call.

3

Elle

Audrey was able to snag us two seats thanks to clients of ours having zero interest in accompanying their husbands to the game. It only cost us a year’s worth of free cuts for the whole entire family. I feel bad for the husbands’ friends that got booted, but my needs are greater than theirs. Audrey wanted to come with me to the parking lot, but I told her that there was no reason for both of us to get arrested and/or permanently banned from the Bobcats’ arena.

Tickets were the easy part. Sneaking into the Bobcats’ back parking lot will not be. Sure, I’ve gotten through the gate a few times before, but that was only because Christian vouched for me.

Today, the first game of the series for the finals, I don’t even recognize the short but stocky man in black standing closest to the players’ back gate entrance. I stroll up to the chain-link fence, shouldering my way between dedicated sports reporters with their phones out, hoping to catch glimpses of players.

The man standing guard at the charter bus has a small hawkish bird logo on his polo. I’m guessing he’s part of the visiting Warhawk’s security team.

“Players and staff only,” the one and only burly security guard in the lot says when he glances at me.

“Hi. I know it’s player’s only, but I was hoping you would make an exception.”

“No exceptions. You’ll need to go to the fan entrance on the other side of the street.”

“But I’m a friend of the team.” I don’t tell him I have connections because I used to sleep with the star player of the Bobcats. “I just need to talk to Preston. Preston Lawrence. He plays for the Warhawks. It won’t take but a moment of his time.”

“I know who Preston Lawrence is, woman. Are you press or something?”

“Sure,” I say, hoping it’ll get me in.

“Yeah, right. Even if you are, Preston doesn’t do interviews before, during, or after games.”

“Ah, right. He’s not a people person, doesn’t date, doesn’t take questions about his personal life, punches people who try to take photos of him without his permission. Trust me, I’m aware of all that,” I tell the guard because I’ve done my homework on the defenseman. “But this is super important.”

The man lifts his eyebrows as if to challenge that statement.

“Okay, so maybe it’s not super important to Preston Lawrence. It’s important to me and I…”

“The answer is no, blondie. Preston Lawrence doesn’t do puck bunnies. Now don’t make me arrest you for trespassing.”

I start to tell him he’s not an actual cop so he can’t arrest me when, by some miracle, the big, and I mean BIG man himself walks off the bus. At least I think it’s him based on the image search Audrey and I did on the web. It’s hard to tell since he’s wearing a suit that had to have been custom made to fit hisenormous frame. He looks more like a giant businessman than a hockey player. But players like to dress nice when traveling for away games. Playoffs are apparently no exception.

From about twenty feet away, the woolly mammoth, as Audrey referred to him, makes eye contact with me, then the guard, then his dark eyes return to me. There’s not a hint of emotion on his scowling face. Not that you can see most of it thanks to his thick, black beard and long, floppy hair.

“Hi, Preston. You are Preston, right? Could I have just one moment of your time?”

The sports reporters around me scatter like mice, as if avoiding the man’s wrath is more important than getting his photo or a sound bite. After watching the GIF of him punching a guy in the face so hard it knocked him out cold, I don’t blame them.

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