Page 112 of Slap Shot Scandal
“Bennett doesn’t do anything small.” Weston stares at his brother swaying with Piper in the middle of the crowd, his hands on her narrow hips.
“I heard about him.” Tori stares at Bennett, gyrating with my sister, and a cold sweat breaks out on the small of my back.
“He’s the fun one.” Weston scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, a vein popping in his thick neck.
“Hmmm.” Tori’s tone’s non-committal, like she’s sizing up Bennett—and the entire situation.
“Want something to drink, Tori?” Weston gestures to a nearby cooler, and she nods.
“Sure, I’ll take a water. If you have that.” Her tone’s borderline snarky, and I wonder why, exactly, she’s here.
Did Prince send her to check up on the team?
Or me specifically?
I fidget with my bracelets and pray Weston returns with the drinks sooner rather than later.
“The rebrand’s going well.” Tori floats the compliment, not taking her eyes off the dancing.
“Thanks. It’s been intense, but I’m happy with how things are going.”
“Daddy’s been pleased.”
“Wonderful.”
“Listen—can I give you a little advice? Hockey daughter to hockey daughter?” She cuts her eyes at me and a prickly tingle skates down my arms, every single nerve in my body on edge.
“Sure.” I play it cool, even as the tiny hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“You’re doing great work. But the lines between personal and professional are starting to blur—people notice. And when Daddy’s investors notice, contracts get reevaluated. Quickly.”
My stomach clenches and my chest tightens, forcing most of the oxygen from my lungs. Suddenly, I’m struggling to breathe.
Victoria Prince is warning me.
Away from Weston.
FUCK.
Weston sidles up with the drinks and I fight back the panicky sensation rushing over me.
Breathe.
No oneknowsanything.
Plausible deniability.
We still have a loophole, an out.
“Thank you.” I take the drink from Weston, resisting the urge to chug the entire Solo cup of wine in one long gulp. “And thanks, Tori. For the advice. Would you excuse me a moment? Ladies’ room.”
Pretending I have to pee, I hurry away. I feel badly leaving Weston alone with Tori, but I’m sure he can handle her. I need a second to pull myself together. Between Ford and Tori, I’m about to burst.
“Whoa, little lady—” A sweaty palm darts out, grabbing my arm. I stagger on my heels and try to steady myself, tottering. “Where are you running off to in such a hurry?” The man leers at me, his words slightly slurred.
I vaguely recognize him from all my community outreach. The reddish beard and shocking jade green eyes jog my memory—he owns the Rusty Anchor.
“You’re that PR lady, right? The eye candy the hockey team hired to get their franchise out of the shitter.”
