Page 44 of Slap Shot
Oliver's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "She had nothing to do with those contracts. Front office handles salary negotiations."
"Try explaining that to Twitter."
Heather's phone buzzed with another incoming call—Jack Westlake again. "I have to go. Jack's been calling nonstop, and I'm guessing it's not to congratulate me on my cybersecurity skills."
"Good luck with that."
"I'm going to need it." Her phone was ringing again—Stephanie this time. "I'll call you after I know how much trouble we're in."
She hung up and decided to put off Jack as long as she could. She answered Stephanie's call while grabbing her laptop bag and coffee.
"Please tell me you have a plan," Stephanie said without preamble. "Because the media is having a field day with this, and I'm running out of ways to spin 'our cybersecurity expert couldn't keep our salary data secure.'"
"Working on it," Heather said, already out the door and heading for her car. "How's the team handling it?"
"About as well as you'd expect. Liam's not speaking to Sven, half the guys are questioning why Oliver gets performance bonuses they don't, and Coach Vicky's facing a media firing squad about contract decisions she had nothing to do with."
Heather's stomach dropped as she started her car. "It's going to get worse before it gets better."
"How much worse?"
"That depends on whether Jack fires me before I can catch the guy doing this."
As if summoned by her words, her phone rang again. Jack Westlake, for the fourth time in ten minutes.
"I have to take this," she told Stephanie. "Crisis meeting in an hour?"
"Already scheduled. Good luck."
Heather switched calls, bracing herself for the verbal assault she knew was coming.
"Dr. Quincy." Jack's voice could have frozen hell. "I assume you've seen the news."
"Yes, sir. I'm on my way in now to—"
"My office. Immediately. We need to discuss whether you're still the right person for this job."
The line went dead, leaving Heather alone in her car with the sick certainty that her career was about to join Coach Vicky's on the chopping block.
THE CHILL HEADQUARTERSfelt like a war zone. Players clustered in small groups, voices low but tense. Heather caught fragments of conversation as they passed—"can't believe Sven makes more than..." and "management's been lying to us about..." and "if this is what they're hiding..."
In the main conference room, Coach Vicky stood at the head table, her usual commanding presence diminished by the weight of circumstance. Her auburn hair was pulled back severely, and the scar along her jawline seemed more prominent in the harsh fluorescent lighting.
"Gentlemen," she said as the last players filed in. "I assume you've all seen the news."
The room was silent, tension thick enough to cut with a skate blade. Heather took a seat in the back, technically present for security briefing but mostly here to observe the damage Kai had wrought. Stephanie sat next to her and looked mad enough to spit nails and sad enough to cry buckets, but she was holding it together. They all were.
"First," Coach Vicky continued, "let me be clear. I had no involvement in contract negotiations. Those decisions were made by management before I was hired. My job is to coach the team we have, not to second-guess front office decisions."
Liam sat in the front row, his usual easy demeanor replaced by something harder. Beside him, Sven hunched in his chair, looking like he wanted to disappear entirely.
"That said," Vicky's voice carried an edge, "we need to address the elephant in the room. Some of you are going to have questions about salary disparities, bonus structures, performance clauses. Those are conversations for you to have with management and your agents—not with each other, and certainly not with the media."
Kane raised his hand. "Coach, the reporters are already asking if this affects team dynamics. If guys are resentful about contract differences."
"And what did you tell them?"
"That our focus is on winning hockey games, not counting each other's money." Kane's response was textbook, but Heather could see the strain around his eyes.
