Page 110 of Slap Shot Scandal
Oh fuck.
Fuckity, fuck, fuck.
Face flaming, I race through all the possible reasons I could be up here, with Weston up in his bedroom.
None of them seem remotely believable. Not the way his teammate’s staring at us right now.
“Hey, Ford. You lost?” Weston answers smoothly, his tone calm and controlled. “Party’s downstairs, man.”
“Coulda fooled me.” The guy—Ford—shoves off the wall with a smirk.
“We were just talking about the youth clinic. Great job with the kids out on the ice!” I flash him a bright smile, my voice high-pitched and overly enthusiastic.
“Sure.” Ford’s eyes flick between me and Weston. Then he leans into Weston and points at his zipper. “Your fly’s down, bro.”
Oh god.
He totally knows.
FUCK.
Rule #1 blown to smithereens. Rule #2’s probably right behind.
And if Keller finds out? It’s over, for both of us. Weston could be benched—or worse—cut from the team. And I’m done. Cooked. My chances of proving I belong here gone, in one stupid second.
Red-hot panic pumps through my veins, my heart beating triple time. I’m probably in the cardiac danger zone right now, on the verge of a heart attack.
Weston nonchalantly pulls up his zipper. “Thanks. Hate when that happens.”
The bass ramps up and people cheer from the yard, and Weston nods his head toward the stairs.
“Shall we?”
Without a word, I move down the stairs, taking one careful step at a time. I do not need to trip on top of everything else.
At the bottom of the staircase, Weston pulls Ford to the side. They’re a few feet away from me, not fully within earshot. But I’m able to make out a few words from the conversation, the most important ones beingKeep it between us.
I bounce from foot to foot, trying to remain calm. Inside though, I’m an absolute wreck.
Ford could go straight to Keller. Or Prince. He could out us to the entire freaking locker room and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it, other than deny, deny, deny.
A solid PR strategy, and one I’m not above using. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
But that would chip away at the team morale and put Weston in a terrible position.
Dammit.
Why does this have to be so freaking complicated?
Exactly why you weren’t supposed to get involved in the first place.
Winners don’t get distracted, Harbor.
I don’t need my dad’s voice in my head right now. I feel bad enough as it is, watching Weston navigate the sticky situation with his teammate.
Spinning my bracelets on my wrist, I bite the inside of my cheek and shove down the flutters of panic rising in my chest.
Stay calm. Freaking out isn’t helpful to anyone.
