Page 46 of Arrogant Puck

“Fine,” he says finally. “Get back to work. We’ve got three guys who need attention after that disaster of a practice.”

I nod and slip out of his office, closing the door softly behind me. The training room feels too light, too loud, and when I look toward the players’ area, I realize why.

Slater is gone.

I walk over to Davidson, who’s still nursing his shoulder from the check Slater delivered during practice. The same check that kept me busy while Slater cornered Riley. The same check that was probably planned from the moment he saw me treating Mitchell’s ankle this morning.

“How’s the pain level?” I ask, reaching for the ice pack.

“Better,” Davidson says, but he’s watching me carefully. “You okay?”

I force a smile. “Just a long day.”

But as I work on his shoulder, I can’t stop thinking about the cold promise in Slater’s eyes when he had me against that wall. The way he’d threatened me, intimidated me. I don’t get why he’s doing any of this.

And the most terrifying part is I think he might be worse than Tyler and Marcus.

Twenty minutes later, Riley calls me back into his office. This time, he’s got his laptop open and several files spread across his desk. The look on his face is darker than before, more determined.

“Sit down,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from him.

I perch on the edge of the seat, unease crawling up my spine. “What’s this about?”

“Research.” He turns his laptop toward me, and I see what looks like a personnel file. “If Slater Castellano wants to play games, I need to know what I’m dealing with.”

“Riley, maybe we should—”

“Did you know he overdosed three years ago?” Riley’s voice is clinical, detached. “Opioids. Right after his brother died on the ice during a game. Freak accident—took a puck to the head, died right there on the ice.”

My heart squeezes. What the fuck? I try to keep my expression neutral, but something must show because Riley continues with renewed intensity.

“His parents are loaded—old money, trust fund kids. They shipped Slater off to rehab after his overdose and haven’t spoken to him since.” He clicks through more files. “The coaches say he keeps to himself, has serious anger management issues.

Never had a girlfriend that anyone knows of. Hockey is literally the only thing he has left.”

Each revelation hits me like a physical blow. The cold, dangerous man who threatened me in the parking lot suddenly makes more sense. All that rage, all that violence—it’s not just cruelty. It’s pain with nowhere to go.

“He’s a broken man with nothing left to lose,” Riley says, leaning back in his chair. “Which makes him incredibly dangerous.”

I think about the way Slater looked at me when he had me against the wall, and now I wonder if what I saw wasn’t just a threat—but irrevocable pain.

Riley’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “I can’t lose this job, Sage.” His professional composure is cracking, and I can see the panic underneath. “My family depends on this income. Do you know what the economy is like right now? My wife’s been out of work for eight months, and we’ve got two kids to feed. This job is all we have.”

His hands are shaking as he reaches for his coffee mug. “I’m losing my mind here. If Slater follows through on his threats, if he makes up some story about me, plants evidence or whatever the hell he’s planning—I’m done. Blacklisted. No team will touch me.”

I lean forward, instinctively shifting into caretaker mode. “Riley, take a breath. You’re spiraling.”

“How can I not spiral? Did you see what he did to Davidson today? The guy’s unhinged.”

“Okay, but freaking out isn’t going to solve anything.” I keep my voice calm, steady. “You need to be a problem solver, not a problem dweller. What are your options here?”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Options? Against Slater Castellano? The guy who’s untouchable because he puts up thirty goals a season?”

“There has to be another way. Document everything. Keep records of interactions. Maybe transfer to another team if you have to.” I’m grasping at straws, but I need to keep him focused on solutions rather than panic. “But first, you need to calm down. You can’t make good decisions when you’re this wound up.”

Riley stares at me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “You’re right. You’re right, I just—” He takes a shaky breath. “I’ve never dealt with anything like this before. Players who don’t like me, sure. But actual threats? Career destruction? This is a whole different level.”

I nod, even as guilt twists in my chest. Because I know exactly why Slater targeted Riley, and it has nothing to do with hockey. It has everything to do with how I mentioned my pretty privilege yesterday, isn’t it?

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