Page 9 of Slap Shot Scandal
Did he really throw the playoffs?
In the heat of the moment, I didn’t consider anything other than wobbly stick skills coupled with shitty luck. But now, in retrospect…
Maybe he did. I mean, it’s not out of the realm of possibility. Callum rarely lets the puck slip through. Yet somehow, Chicago scored multiple goals on us in the last game of the series, the one that ended our season.
Bennett spent more time than usual in the penalty box throughout the playoffs, giving the other team the massive advantage of an extra player on the ice.
Vic missed an easy goal. The veterannevermisses.
And now here I am. Standing in the living room of my airy penthouse apartment overlooking the twinkling skyline, getting ready to say goodbye.
To my home, the city I love. To a team I thought I knew.
All to move to a new place and rebuild the team from the ground up because the coach I trusted and respected fucked Prince’s wife and maybe bet against us. His players, the guys he called family.
I rake my hand through my hair, a harsh exhale fogging the glass window.
This whole thing sucks.
Knock, knock.
Only two people besides me have access to the penthouse via elevator keycards. I lumber over to the door and crack it open.
Callum and Bennett, and they’re carrying a wobbly tower of moving supplies.
Guess shit’s about to get real.
“Hey. Where’d you get all this stuff?” I swing the door open wide, and the two of them lumber in.
“Grabbed all I could carry from headquarters. Big stack of shit in the conference room. Figured I should scoop some before it’s gone.” Bennett drops the pile unceremoniously in the middle of the floor.
Throb, throb, throb.
I hate clutter even more than change.
“Figured you’d want some boxes. To pack up your meager belongings.” Bennett straightens up, waving his hand at my admittedly minimalist living space.
“Just how I like it,” I grumble, kicking at the cardboard with my toe.
“Should only take you about ten minutes to pack up your shit. You own more than one set of towels, bro?” Bennett teases.
“Yeah. I have two. Both white.”
“Of course they are.”
“That way you can bleach them. Get them extra clean.” Callum elbows Bennett and my brothers break into laughter.
“Shut the hell up, you two. Are neither of you bothered by all of this?” I scowl down at the moving supplies. “A new coach, a new city, a new team name? How about being bossed around by the PR lady? That feel good to you?”
“Malibu Barbie? I have no issue with her bossing me around. Bet she’d be good in the bedroom, with that take-charge attitude.” Bennett’s lips tip into a smirk and the pounding in my head intensifies.
A vision of Harbor in lacy black lingerie dances through my mind and every muscle in my body tenses.
“Shut the hell up about Harbor.” The words come out harsher than intended, my jaw clenching so tight I could crack a molar.
And not because he’s wrong.
Because he noticed what I noticed—and I fucking hate that.
