Page 128 of Slap Shot Scandal
I shrug, ready to take the hit. “Not particularly. It wasn’t on company time.”
I say this more in an effort to protect Harbor than myself.
Because obviously it’s a big fucking deal to the team owner, given the fact that he interrupted practice to address the situation.
“Doesn’t matter, Weston. It’s all over the internet. I’m getting calls from the media. Sponsors will be next. This is the very thing we moved down here to avoid. Scandal. I gave this team one directive—stay out of trouble. Why can’t anyone do that?” His voice is loud now, and guys are stopping drills to stare.
Next time I’m ripping that C off your motherfucking jersey myself.
My face burns, muscles firing with the fight-or-flight response.
Guess I’m a Steele through and through because that fight response is strong AF.
“Yeah, I kissed her. In my own damn house. And I’d do it again.”
I pause, enjoying the look of shock on Prince’s face.
“The only thing I’m sorry about is that some asshole took a video of me in myprivate homeand then uploaded the damn thing to social media. But the rest? I don’t regret any of it.”
Most of that’s true.
I don’t regret her.
But I sure as hell regret the way this is going down right now.
How it’s breaking us in slow motion—and I can’t do a damn thing to stop it.
“Weston—” Keller’s voice is even, controlled. His face more concerned than angry.
Like a father scolding a misbehaving child, urging him to apologize and make nice.
I hold up my hands. “I’ll do what’s best for the team. You wanna bench me for kissing Harbor? Do it. Trade me? Wouldn’t be thrilled, but I get it. What I won’t stand for is management telling me who I can and cannot date. Because that’s not in my contract.”
Prince glares at me, a vein throbbing at his temple. Keller stays calm, but I catch a slight twitch of his right eye.
“Hit the showers, Steele. Team meeting in an hour. We’ll figure out the next steps and let you know.” Prince dismisses me and I storm off the ice, throwing my blade guards on and grabbing my gear bag.
I’m in the tunnel when my phone rings. I pick up the phone, noting I have about fifteen missed calls—three of them from Harbor. And double that many text messages.
“Hey, Harbor.”
“Hey. We need to talk.” Her voice is tight, clipped. Not cold—more hollow. “Meet me in my office?”
“Sure. Give me ten.”
I disconnect and toss the phone into my bag.
I don’t know what Harbor’s going to say, but I’m guessing it isn’t going to be good.
I take the world’s fastest shower, tossing on a T-shirt and joggers, and head to Harbor’s office. A nervous dread slithers through me and pools low in my gut as I hustle past offices. I’m on edge, my world collapsing around me, a strange contrast to the bright white fluorescent lights of the hallway.
The captaincy’s all but lost.
I may be benched. Or traded.
Coach doesn’t trust me and Prince hates my fucking guts.
But the worst part of it all? Harbor’s collateral damage.
