Page 1 of Slap Shot (Blades Hockey #5)

Boston, Massachusetts

Daisy

¨This is a shit show.〃

Never let it be said that Sam Hall, head coach for the Boston Blades, isnˇt a drama king.

His players know it. His ex-wife knows it. As his only kid, I know it, too. Which is why I donˇt even bat an eye at his red-faced bluster. ¨Itˇs not ideal, obviously, but hey〃I offer him a strained smile¨at least I wasnˇt caught having sex on camera like Andre Beaumont, right? It could definitely be worse.〃

¨An absolute, goddamn shit show , Daisy.〃

I wince. ¨Dad, itˇs not like I〃

¨Confessions of a Puck Bunny ?〃 He shakes his head, his white mustache twitching furiously. ¨What the hell were you thinking?〃

About a lot, actually. Not that he seems particularly keen on hearing any of it.

Itˇs pretty much been the two of us against the world for the last fifteen years. Heˇs the one I called when I first got my period and the boys at the rink made fun of me for bleeding through my leggings. At twelve years old, it hadnˇt even occurred to me to feel embarrassed about running to my dad for help. When life sours, Sam Hall makes lemonade. Thatˇs the way itˇs always been. Same goes for when he held my hand while the doctors told me that my figure skating career was over. He never left my side, not even once. Through thick and thin, weˇve always been a dynamic duo.

Until an hour ago, that is.

Turns out that running an anonymous social media account, ironically titled Confessions of a Puck Bunny , has the ability to make him look at me like Iˇm public enemy number one. Better yet, like Iˇve personally betrayed him.

¨Well.〃 He closes his laptop with a decisive click . ¨What do you have to say for yourself?〃

Out of sight, I dig my fingernails into my thighs. Logically, I get that he has every right to be upset. He coaches a pro hockey teama team that won the Cup last seasonwhile Iˇve been secretly airing out hockeyˇs dirty laundry for the better part of the last five years online. So, yeah, I donˇt blame him. But also, logic can kiss my ass. Iˇm just as angry at being outed as he is that this whole thing has blown up in our faces, especially when I have no idea who even pulled the plug on my alter ego.

Finally, I say, ¨I donˇt have anything to say that youˇll want to hear.〃

¨ Daisy .〃

¨Fine. What do you want me to say?〃

¨That you messed up.〃 He riffles impatiently through his desk, probably in search of a toothpick. ¨That youˇre sorry. That you never planned to get hacked〃

¨Who plans to get hacked, Dad? Literally no one.〃

¨And that youˇre feeling a shit ton of guilt over all the careers youˇve had a hand in ruining.〃

Well. I shift a little. ¨ Ruining is a bit of an exaggeration, donˇt you think? I was just〃

¨Jesus-fucking-Christ, where the hell are my goddamn toothpicks?〃

¨Second drawer, in the back.〃

Grumbling under his breath, he yanks open the appropriate drawer with more force than necessary, rips open the plastic casing around a new pack, and then clamps a toothpick between his teeth as if itˇs the only thing keeping him sane. His blue eyes are sharp and unwavering as they return to my face. ¨Well?〃

Appearance-wise, Sam Hall isnˇt exactly intimidating. Whatˇs left of his hair went white years ago, and much to his chagrin, no amount of yoga ever stretched out his wiry frame past five-foot-eight. Appearances arenˇt everything, though, and thereˇs a reason why heˇs one of the most respected coaches in the league.

For one, heˇs got a deep, imposing voice that could shrivel a thousand dicks.

Secondly, my dad is intense .

Unfortunately for him, he single-handedly raised me, which means that I have absolutely no qualms with standing up to him. ¨I didnˇt mess up and Iˇm not sorry. If some players spent half as much time keeping their dick in their pants as they did worrying about the game, maybe their reputations wouldnˇt be〃

¨Thatˇs it, Iˇm calling your mother.〃

¨Youˇve got to be kidding me. Like Iˇm five ?〃

¨Like youˇre our daughter.〃

¨Iˇm your daughter,〃 I say before I can bite my tongue. Instead of acknowledging the bitter truth, Dad puts the call on speakerphone. And okay, I should probably keep opinions on Alice Hall to myself, but Dad and me, weˇve never had that sort of relationship. We say what we mean, the good, the bad, and the downright ugly. ¨I donˇt even know why you bother.〃

When the endless dial tone solidifies my point, Dadˇs jaw clenches. ¨Sheˇs your mother.〃

¨If youˇre wanting backup, youˇd be better off calling the Bladesˇ PR team.〃

His brows arch toward his hairline. ¨Oh, Iˇm heading there in thirty. And youˇre coming with me.〃

¨Fuck.〃

¨Language, kid.〃

¨Youˇre the one who taught me to curse.〃

¨Yeah, and I also taught you to keep your head down and not start drama like your mother, but clearly that lesson went out the window, too.〃

Itˇs a direct hit. One that I feel like a knife to the chest.

I was ten when my mom took off for California. Eleven when I accepted the fact that Alice Hall had really, truly left us for a chance at making it in Hollywood. Dad has always maintained that she planned on coming back; personally, I think that my fatherˇs honest to a fault but has a hard time being honest with himself. Because Mom didnˇt return to Connecticut. Even worse, as the years wore on, she seemed to forget that we existed at all.

Sheˇs as flaky as Dad is dependable, like a baby bird caught in a cross-breeze, willing to take flight at a momentˇs notice, consequences be damned.

Iˇm nothing like her.

I mean, Iˇm an accountant . Boring would be my middle name if it werenˇt for Confessions of a Puck Bunny , and being Bunny has never been about being dramaticitˇs always been about taking a stand for whatˇs right, and I thought . . . Well, stupidly, I always thought that if my dad ever found out, heˇd at least see that the only reason I have the courage to call hockey players out on their bad behavior is because he taught me to always know my own worth.

¨Dad.〃 I wrap my arms around my middle as he stabs at his screen, presumably to try calling Mom again. ¨Dad, please listen. I just〃

This time, she sends him straight to voicemail.

Hollow-eyed, he stares at his phone while hurt ripples across his weathered features. I know him well enough to recognize that he wants to rage at his ex-wifefor ignoring him, for leaving him, for abandoning me, their only kidbut despite keeping Dadˇs surname, the woman who birthed me dumped us years ago. A fact that Iˇm assuming he remembers right about the time he bites down on the toothpick hard enough to break it in half.

¨Fuck, this is going to be a headache.〃

Youˇre going to be a headache is what he doesnˇt say out loud. I havenˇt been a headache to anyone since shit went sideways at Worldˇs and twelve years of hard work circled down the drain. Just like then, when I watched from a hospital bed as the medalists took to the podium, Iˇm at a total loss for words. Thereˇs so much that I want to say

Ask me why I started posting as Bunny.

Donˇt you care that Iˇm actually doing a good thing here?

Please ask if Iˇm okay.

but heˇs already gone into Coach Hall mode. And sure, I might be a full-grown adult with a decent salary and a now not-so-secret platform with almost a million followers, but as I listen to my dad panic over the Blades possibly firing him, I feel smaller, and more invisible, than I have in years.