Page 16 of Home Game

Jensen turned and walked around the corner, out of view.

“You guys looked like a bunch of clowns out there tonight. I'm embarrassed to be your coach. Tomorrow, be here at 7 AM sharp. We will be doing cardio drills all fucking morning, so bring your A game.”

That elicited groans from around the room.

He turned and stared at me.

“See a medic about that. You need stitches.”

In response, I turned my back and sat down to unlace my skates. In all my years, I had never been cold-cocked by a member of my team. I was seething, but hell if I would let anyone know how pissed I was. What a shit show.

I showered in record time. By the time the medic put three stitches above my right brow, my eye was swelling.

“Put ice on that to prevent your eye from closing,” he advised.

I started the long walk to my vehicle when my cell phone sounded.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Krista.”

“Jensen jumped you in the locker room?”

I stopped walking momentarily. “How do you know this stuff?”

“It’s all over social media.”

I unlocked my SUV and tossed my bag in the back. “It’s done.”

“What’s going on, Ryan?”

“We lost the game and tempers flared.”

A long pause hung between us. My face hurt like a son of a bitch and I wanted to go home and find a bag of frozen peas.

“Are you okay?”

“Don’t you have a life?”

“Don’t get smart with me,” she pretended to be offended.

“I gotta go.”

“Want to do breakfast this week?”

I paused and sat looking out my windshield. My entire social life comprised of my weekly meals with my agent who charged me for the time. “Yeah sure. What the hell.”

I stopped at the grocery store on the way home and then settled down to watch the game again while eating two bags of salad and an entire cooked chicken. We had been a sloppy mess out there and it was a miracle the other team hadn’t handed us our asses. How we ended up losing by only one point was beyond me. One of my goalshad been a complete fluke and the other one had only happened because their goalie was half asleep.

I looked at my phone, debating calling Gina, an old favorite on-again-off-again bunny that had warmed my bed more than once in LA. Maybe she would be up for some phone sex. I looked at my watch. It was late, and she was one of the few puck bunnies that had a real job so that was out.

I wokeup on the couch, stiff and cramped, to the sound of my cell going off. Groggily, I looked at the number. It was my answering service. I let it go to voice mail and headed to bed. I needed to get up in a few hours.

I set my alarm and noted that the answering service had called four times.

I should just leave it until morning. Anyone close to me had my cell number. Instead, I dialed them back.

“This is Ryan Parker. I had a few calls tonight?”

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