Page 7 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
I end the call and toss my phone on the couch next to me, letting out a loud sigh-slash-groan. “This fuckingsucks.”
For the obvious reason of that asshole doing his damnedest to tank my career for no fucking reason, but also because I can’t even go blow off steam the way I normally would in this situation. “Keep your nose clean” is code for “don’t go out partying.” Because with sponsors already looking to dump me on my ass, being seen partying would just add fuel to the fire. And with the way we were grinding at the end of the season, plus the post-season, and then that fucking video, I haven’t been out partying inmonths.
Before this, no one really cared. I didn’t sexually harass anyone—or worse—I haven’t been caught up in any real scandals, and I’m a damn good hockey player. Sure, I might not be the best role model for little kids, what with the partying, but that’s why my endorsements are all for products that target adults—whisky and a few other companies from back home that like supporting a local kid who made it big. A few people have tried to take digs at me supporting a breast cancer foundation, but those people always look like assholes when the fact that my mom’s in remission gets brought up.
Grabbing my phone again, I call Connor Jenkins. He lives down on the seventh floor, not too far from Dozer. The three of us used to go out together a lot, but then Dozer got tangled up with some chick who worked him over hard, and he hasn’t been the same. He’s better off now, though, with a woman who appreciates him. But it also means Connor and I are down a wingman.
He picks up on the third ring. “What?” he barks.
“Get up here, asshole. I can’t go out, and I’m tired of sitting here by myself being pissy.”
“Aww, man. Why can’t you go out? It’s the off season! We got knocked out weeks ago. This is prime party time!”
I shake my head and throw my free hand up in the air. “Seriously? You saw that fucking video.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Molly got it taken down, though, right? Like two weeks ago now? So what’s the big deal? It’s all a fucking lie anyway.”
“Right, whileIknow that, andyouknow that, and hell, fucking BrockSavageknows that, my sponsors are threatening to cancel my contracts.”
“Fuck ‘em.”
Sighing, I run a hand down my face. “Much as I’d love to, I don’t think that’s the look I want to go for with my contract up for renewal at the end of next season. Max’s already starting to touch base with management about negotiations. I gotta do what he says. Plus, the cancer foundation’s talking about taking me off their campaign too. You know how important that one is to me. I can’t fuck that up.”
He blows out a long breath. “That fucking sucks, man.”
“Tell me about it.”
He’s silent for a beat, then, “What about The Salty Salmon? No one’ll bother us there. It’s not as good as a club, but at least we can go out and be somewhere else. I’ve been home all day, and I was planning on going out tonight. I’m tired of being cooped up inside.”
“We live in one of the most outdoorsy places in the United States,” I say dryly. “We could do something other than go to a club or a bar.”
He scoffs. “Like I said, Jack—it’s theoffseason. That means rest. Recuperation. Not running up and down a mountain. And anyway, it’s too late to drive out to the mountains now anyway. The Salty Salmon tonight. Hiking or camping or whatever the fuck you’ve got in your head about being ‘outdoorsy’ another day.”
I consider his suggestion. He’s right that The Salty Salmon shouldn’t get me in trouble—shouldn’tbeing the operative word. Is it worth the risk, even if it’s a small one?
Sucking in a breath, I hold it, then make a decision. “Fine. Yes. Let’s go to The Salty Salmon.”
“Woohoo,” Connor says sarcastically. “My dream night out.”
“Fuck you,” I tell him, but he’s already ended the call before I can get the words out.
Sighing again, I stand up and head to my room to put on something more suited for going out—even if it is to a sports bar where we won’t be bothered.
Twenty minutes later I’m dressed in jeans, loafers, and a robin’s egg blue button-down shirt that I leave untucked, the sleeves cuffed at the elbow, my longish hair pulled back in a small ponytail at the nape of my neck. Connor’s knocking on my door, and I open it to find him dressed in a T-shirt, an Emeralds hat, shorts, and flip flops.
He looks me up and down and whistles. “Getting all dressed up for me, Jack? Awww. I’m flattered.”
I shove him back into the hall, pulling my door closed behind me. “I’m driving,” I grunt.
“Such a gentleman,” he coos, cackling at the glare I shoot his way. “Seriously, though,” he says in a normal voice as we get on the elevator, “am I going to have to find someone else to go to the clubs with? We already lost Dozer, and now you have to pretend to be a Boy Scout. This sucks, man.”
I shoot him another glare. “Yeah, dude. I feel real sorry for you. Your life’s pretty rough over there with your freshly signed contract and no one trying to hang you out to dry for no damn reason.”
He sobers even more, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, I know, man. I’m sorry. I wish there were something I could do.”
“Yeah, well. Same.”
When we get to The Salty Salmon, we stop just inside the door and look around. It’s a pretty slow night, so there are plenty of seats to choose from. The manager, Ryan, is behind the bar tonight, and he gives us a nod when he spots us, waving us over.
