Page 8 of Slap Shot (Blades Hockey #5)

Weston

¨Take a deep breath, man,〃 Jackson Carter murmurs from beside me, his Southern drawl thick with reassurance. ¨Itˇs going to be fine, youˇll see.〃

G oing to be fine doesnˇt really cut it when itˇs my girlˇs head thatˇs on the metaphorical chopping block.

After Coachˇs announcement earlier this week about holding a team meeting to discuss Daisyˇs alter ego, I thought thereˇd be a stampede of angry hockey players all trying to squeeze through the door at once, but the meeting was scheduled to start five minutes ago, and the conference room is still relatively empty.

Only the usual suspects have shown up.

Marshall Hunt is seated beside his wife, Gwen, who Iˇm pretty sure is only here because she represents more than half of the team with Golden Lights Media. Two seats down from the happy couple is Kammer, though heˇs so focused on whatever heˇs reading on his phone that I doubt he even remembers why he showed up here today. The Canadiens, Henri Bordeaux and Andre Beaumont, are shacked up next to each other at the far end of the tableevery so often, I catch the low, rumbling notes of their conversation. Pretty sure theyˇre discussing the beagle Bordeaux wants to adopt.

Coach isnˇt here yet.

As nerves gnaw away at my stomach, I reach up and readjust my ball cap. ¨You think he forgot?〃

¨Not a chance.〃 Leaning back in his chair, Carter casually folds his arms across his big chest. Retirement hasnˇt done anything to shrink him down in size. Dude was known as the Beast of the Northeast for a reason. ¨Gotta admit, itˇs a weird position for him to be in. Canˇt imagine he ever thought that heˇd find Daisy swimminˇ in hot waternever mind hot water that could easily drown every single one of his players, too.〃

¨Has he mentioned anything to you?〃

Itˇs a ballsy move, pumping the new assistant coach for information, but Carter was my captain first. Weˇve bled together. Played together. Take hockey out of the equationI was one of the few people he welcomed into his inner circle after his divorce with Holly, and I was right there with him last year when they figured out all their shit and realized how much they still love each other. The way I see it, history doesnˇt just come to an end because the timeline continues.

And look at that, Lady Luck must be shining down on me because Carter doesnˇt tell me to fuck off. Instead, he adopts the same intense expression that he used to before one of his game day pep talks.

¨To be honest, itˇs been radio silence, but . . .〃 He gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head. ¨Heˇll be here. End of the day, heˇs not gonna let this sink the team when the seasonˇs barely gotten started. Not to mention that he has twenty-three players banking on him to figure it out.〃

¨Twenty-two.〃 Under the table, I knock his knee with mine because yeah, I really appreciate him talking this out with me. He could have easily told me to mind my own business. ¨Obviously, I have Daisyˇs back.〃

¨Make it nineteen, then.〃 Carter grins at me. ¨Every guy at this table has her back, too. Actually, might as well drop the count to eighteen.〃

¨For Kasey?〃 I ask, referring to our goalie who couldnˇt make it today.

¨For me, asshole,〃 Carter fires back with a laugh.

¨Wow, name-calling from a coach? Lemme go talk to HR real fast.〃

In retribution, he kicks me in the shin, and no one bats an eye when I let out a yelp of surprise. To be fair, I wouldnˇt have it any other way.

Carter, Hunt, the otherstheyˇre my closest friends outside of Daisy and Tory. Over the years, Iˇve heard some wild stories about shitty team dynamics come out of the hockey rumor mill. Youˇve got players who have been traded so many times that it must feel pointless to put in effort with your new teammates when youˇre always living out of a hotel room, and then there are other guys who are so determined to climb their way to the top of the food chain that they seem to forget that hockey isnˇt a one-man show.

Iˇve gotten really lucky with the Blades.

Even when I was on IR, no one ever let me forget that I was one of themI had teammates FaceTiming me whenever they went on the road and others showing up to my physical therapy sessions just to keep me motivated. Canˇt lie, playing with Connie and Felix back at UConn doesnˇt even come close to the level of joy I feel every time I step out onto the ice for the Boston Blades. This is where I was always meant to end up . . . Even if living my dream comes at a cost with my family.

Guilt churns in my stomach.

Yeah, not gonna think about that right now.

Luckily, thatˇs when the door to the conference room swings open, but instead of Coach appearing, in walks

¨Pizza order for Joshua Kammer?〃

Swear to God, we all stop to stare at the rookie as he stuffs his phone into his pocket and rises to greet the entry-level staffer. With the exchange of a twenty-dollar tip, Kammer accepts four boxes of pizza and then turns back to us with a triumphant grin. ¨Pizzaˇs here.〃

Beaumont is the first to break the silence. ¨What the fuck , Kammer.〃

¨What?〃 Utterly unfazed, the rookie sets the boxes down on the table only to shoot a wide-eyed glance at the empty doorway. ¨Shit, I didnˇt think about plates. I guess we could use paper towels from the bathroom?〃

Carter narrows his gaze. ¨You do realize that tomorrowˇs Opening Night, donˇt you?〃

¨I havenˇt been able to think about anything else, honestly.〃 Kammer pops the lid on the top box. When he peers inside, revulsion flits across his face. ¨Hawaiian just for you, Cain. By the way, youˇre welcome, you freak. Pineapple does not belong on pizza. Itˇs in the Constitution or something.〃 With a flick of his wrist, the cardboard box skates across the table in my direction, stopping maybe a foot away.

I blink at the company logo printed across the box.

Blink at Kammer, too, whoˇs tending to the next pie with the same treatment that he did the Hawaiian, sending it toward Beaumont and Bordeaux with a laser-eyed precision that heˇs honed after years of stick handling.

¨Rookie,〃 I say slowly, ¨you ever hear of a diet?〃

¨Donˇt believe in ˇem.〃 Without lifting his head, he tears a slice of pepperoni pizza away from its brethren and then drops into the closest chair, kicks his feet up on the table, and takes a bite. ¨Iˇm young. My refractory period is, like, nonexistent.〃

¨Pretty sure that a refractory period generally refers to sex,〃 Hunt chimes in. ¨And I canˇt believe that I need to tell a grown-ass adult this but get your feet off the table.〃

¨Oh. Sorry.〃 A flush creeps across Kammerˇs cheeks as he drops his fancy sneakers to the floor. ¨Back to the refractory thing for a secI donˇt need much time for that, either. Like, gimme four or five minutes, maybe, and Iˇm good to go.〃

¨My wife doesnˇt need to hear about your recovery stats, rookie.〃

Dutifully, Kammer turns a repentant gaze on Gwen, who I swear is fighting a grin. ¨Sorry, Mrs. Hunt. Didnˇt mean to make you regret the fact that your husband is aging every single day and canˇt get it up for back-to-back sessions anymore.〃

Huntˇs jaw falls open. ¨You fucking dick .〃

Beside me, Carter lets out a low, youˇre-in-for-it-now whistle.

Not to be outdone, Bordeaux says, in his Quebecois accent, ¨ Ostie de criss de tabernacle, you are an idiot.〃

Suddenly, Kammer is laughing too hard to swallow correctlyor at all, I guessand he ends up choking on what Iˇm pretty sure is a piece of doughy crust, which sets the rest of us off, too. By the time Coach walks in ten minutes later, itˇs to the crime scene of untouched pizza boxes littering the conference table and one unhinged rookie munching happily on his third slice of pie, not a single plate or paper napkin in sight.

Coachˇs mustache twitches. ¨Is that pizza?〃

With the slice paused criminally halfway to his mouth, Kammer has the common sense to squeak out, ¨No?〃

¨Good answer. Youˇve got three seconds to get rid of it before I get the team nutritionist up here to give you a lecture on treating your body like a temple.〃

Almost pitifully, the rookie sends a longing glance toward his half-eaten slice. ¨But, Coach, this temple really likes cheese.〃

Coach stares at him.

Kammerˇs throat clicks with an audible swallow.

¨You know what,〃 Coach mutters, ¨Iˇm not even going to dignify that with a response.〃 He shuts the door behind him with the heel of his shoe and then takes a moment to skim over the rest of us with a critical glance. ¨This it?〃

Beaumont tilts his chin. ¨Were you expecting the whole team?〃

¨Donˇt know what I was expecting.〃 Claiming the chair nearest to the door, Coach lowers himself into itbut not before pulling a fresh pack of toothpicks from the back pocket of his slacks and tossing them onto the table in front of him. ¨All right, letˇs hear it. Who here has an issue with Daisy?〃

Silence.

Or rather, silence except for the fact that Kammer is currently making a racket while trying to stuff one of the pizza boxes into the garbage can.

Coach presses his thumb to the furrow between his brows. ¨Rookie,〃 he utters on a tired sigh.

¨Yeah, Coach?〃

¨Just〃 He waves a hand. ¨Just fucking put them to the side and sit down.〃

¨Oh.〃 Sheepishly, Kammer sets the boxes down by the door and returns to his seat. ¨Sorry, yeah. Iˇm here. I mean, Iˇm readywhat did you ask again?〃

Coachˇs pale cheeks burn such a bright red that Iˇm surprised his head doesnˇt automatically explode.

Maybe I should be annoyed by the rookieˇs ability to turn every situation into a bonafide circus, but I find myself feeling endlessly grateful to him instead. Sure, the kid is a ball of chaotic energy but since weˇve all been asked here today to either defend of condemn Daisy like some modern-day witch hunt, Joshua Kammerˇs antics are single-handedly keeping shit from getting too tense.

Even Coach cracks a smile after thirty seconds of stewing.

¨Moving on.〃 He leaves one hand resting on the table while the other fiddles restlessly with his pack of toothpicks. ¨Management suggested that we hold this meeting today to give all of you the chance to voice any grievances. With that said, if you donˇt feel comfortable sharing your opinions in a public space, youˇre more than welcome to come to me directly. End of the day, we want to keep lines of communication open, and if Iˇm not the guy you want to talk toon account of Daisy being my daughteritˇs why weˇve asked Gwen to sit in on the conversation as well.〃

Gwen waves hello.

¨All right, then,〃 Coach says, ¨where are we at?〃

Beaumont immediately lifts his hand. ¨Iˇd like to know what the team is doing to protect Daisy.〃

¨Same here,〃 Hunt jumps in after briefly meeting my gaze. ¨Off the record, Gwen and I have been talkingweˇre worried about how the public backlash might be impacting her.〃

Sam Hall looks visibly shaken.

Itˇs not often that heˇs caught off guardI can probably count on one hand the number of times that Iˇve witnessed him stunned silentbut anyone can see that heˇs scrambling. He clears his throat. Somehow manages to look at us without truly making eye contact. For a man who prides himself on always being prepared, Iˇm surprised that instead of breaking out a concrete, step-by-step plan on how to get his daughter through this, heˇs fumbling the puck, so to speak, and stammering his way through a series of excuses.

¨Itˇs been a long week. For everyone, not just me. That is, Daisy and I havenˇt had the chance to sit down to have that conversation. Iˇve been . . .〃

Busy .

The word is clearly on the tip of his tongue, desperate to escape, but he clamps a wooden toothpick between his back molars instead, effectively ending whatever other B.S. he was about to dish out.

Part of me doesnˇt blame him for trying to duck the question.

Like Carter said, itˇs Coach Hallˇs responsibility to handle any potential damage control with his players. If he doesnˇt, then the GM might start looking at him like heˇs incapable of doing his joband thatˇs never been the case. Since my days with him at UConn, Sam Hall has always been the one-percent of the one-percent of hockey coaches. Weˇre lucky to play for him. Hell, weˇre even luckier when you think about how often he sticks his own neck out on the line to make sure that weˇre all good. And here he is, doing it again.

Still, itˇs impossible to miss the heavy bags under his eyes or the way he keeps surreptitiously checking his watch as if heˇs expecting someone to come along and rescue him from the conversation.

As one of his veteran players, I appreciate the work heˇs doing to put us first, but what about Daisy? Whoˇs putting her first?

Before I can think better of it, I admit, ¨Sheˇs freaking out.〃

Coach visibly flinches.

¨Sheˇs worried about what this means for us〃for me , I almost add¨and what it might mean for the rest of the season.〃

¨We want another shot at the Cup,〃 Beaumont says plainly. ¨I donˇt know about the rest of you, but Iˇm not about to let what happened the other night with Morley get in my head.〃

¨Told her that, too.〃 Kicking my chair back a little, I lower my elbows to my knees and clasp my fingers together. Keep my stare locked on my teammates, though, because they need to hear what I have to say. ¨I lost my cool, and it wonˇt happen again. But Daisy . . . sheˇs letting the worry eat away at her. Just because she puts on a brave face doesnˇt mean that sheˇs okay.〃

Iˇm watching Coach closely, so I notice the second that he drops his gaze.

In shame?

Frustration?

¨Her personal social media accounts are a dumpster fire.〃 When I direct my attention to Gwen, she offers me a strained smile. ¨The board gave her explicit instructions to deactivate any accounts linked to Bunnywhich she didbut no one said anything about the ones listed under her real name. I took a look at them this morning, and theyˇre . . .〃 Biting her lip, Gwen winces. ¨Theyˇre not great.〃

Hunt reaches for his wifeˇs hand. ¨Gwenˇs sugarcoating things. Itˇs fucking awful.〃

As one, the rest of us all reach for our phones.

Thereˇs an uncomfortable feeling crawling under my skin as I pull up Daisyˇs Instagram profile. Something worse than dread. It clings to my lungs. Turns my palms clammy. I run my hand along the thigh of my jeans and get on with it, not even surprised to discover that Daisy hasnˇt bothered switching her account from public to privatesheˇs never been one to hide, not even when under fire, apparently. I want to wring her fucking neck for giving the trolls of the internet free access to her. In the same breath, I want nothing more than to drag her into my arms, turn my back against the fire, and weather the flames in her stead.

Beneath the weight of my hand, my knee starts jumping nervously.

Bypassing her bio, I click on her latest photo, scroll down to the comments, and

¨Jesus,〃 Carter breathes.

Across the table, Bordeaux makes a small sound of distress.

¨Itˇs a fucking bloodbath.〃 The words slip out before I can snatch them back. ¨Bloodbath〃 is a devastating understatement. Itˇs not just random strangers on the internet flinging nasty words at Daisy, but comment after comment telling her to do unspeakable things. Things that I . . . I canˇt even

Lurching to my feet, I make it to the trash can just in time.

My periphery goes dark. Beneath my hands, the trash bag crinkles as I tighten my grip on the bin, squeezing hard enough that Iˇm almost surprised when I donˇt break the damn thing in two. Thereˇs movement behind me. The muffled sound of a chair being scraped back over thin carpet. The gruff demand for someone to grab me some water from the bubbler down the hall.

Letting my head hang low, I drag in jagged breath after jagged breath, trying to pick my way through the landmine of emotions pummeling me from all sides.

Disgust. Anger.

Most of all, Iˇve been sidelined by the horrifying realization that the same peoplethe same fans who come out to support us at every game could be so cruel to the person I love most in this world. And all because she made the decision to help those who probably felt as though they couldnˇt help themselves.

A hand settles between my shoulder blades.

Every muscle in my body turns to stone for

One heartbeat.

Two.

And then the tension in my body simply fades away.

I know that touch. Know the shape of those delicate fingers and the weight of that small hand. Turning at the waist, I peer down to find Daisy standing so close that I can smell the floral-scented perfume she only wears when sheˇs worried about the world taking her seriously. Cozy Daisy prefers vanilla. I personally donˇt have a preferenceIˇll take Daisy however she wants to present herself to the world.

¨Hi,〃 she whispers.

¨Hey,〃 I whisper back.

Though her eyes are more tired than Iˇve ever seen them, she offers me a crooked grin. ¨What did the garbage do to you to deserve such treatment?〃

¨It was trash talking.〃

Her nose wrinkles. ¨Gross.〃

¨I know.〃

¨No, I mean that Dad joke. Be ashamed, West. Be very, very ashamed.〃

Iˇm not ashamed, or embarrassed, about the way I loop both arms around her waist and pull her into a hug that lifts her onto the balls of her feet. Iˇm not ashamed, or embarrassed, in how I immediately tuck my chin into the crook of her neck, where I inhale the sweet scent of jasmine straight from her skin. Iˇm not ashamed. Or embarrassed. Because fuck me, but just holding Daisy in my arms feels like a balm to the anxiety ravaging my soul.

Someone clears their throat.

Lifting my head, I catch sight of Coach studiously looking at his phone. With one last squeeze, I set Daisy down on her feet and step away. Reach up and lift my hat from my head, raking my fingers through my hair before pulling my cap back on and situating the brim just how I like it. A quick glance over at my best friend reveals that sheˇs watching me closely, so I offer her what I hope is a reassuring grin.

Her cheeks are pink as she gives me a tiny smile in return.

¨Sorry,〃 I mouth to her, but before I can do more to apologize for the PDA, Coach draws my attention back to the meeting.

¨It was Gwenˇs idea for Daisy to come in today. We thought weˇd start the meeting without her and then bring her in to hopefully find some common ground.〃 Beneath his bushy mustache, his lips tilt upward in a humorless smile. ¨Clearly, we overestimated how many on the team might have an issue that theyˇd like to see addressed.〃

Gwen tucks a strand of red hair behind one ear. ¨If I may?〃

Coach waves a hand. ¨Floor is all yours.〃

¨I donˇt think anyone on the Blades roster has an issue with Daisy. They all know her. I mean, some of themthe guys in this room especiallyhave known her for years, which means that they know Daisy isnˇt out to get them. Right, Daisy?〃

Everyone turns to stare at my best friend.

¨I wouldnˇt,〃 she blurts out, her already flushed cheeks deepening to a ruddy red. ¨Thatˇs not how I . . . What Iˇm trying to say is, Iˇve worked really, really hard to make Confessions of a Puck Bunny a last resort. Like with Amber Morleyshe spent over a year trying to get Joe to do the right thing. He was hooking up with girls all over the country, even telling them that him and Amber were in an open relationship.〃

¨Guess they werenˇt?〃 Beaumont asks dryly.

¨Amber was so upset with him, she wouldnˇt have agreed, anyway. But no, he never even mentioned it to her.〃

¨What a fucking douchebag,〃 Hunt mutters.

Daisy jerks her head in agreement. ¨It was really bad. He was stringing these poor girls along and putting them all at risk because he wasnˇt being careful . . . Anyway, Amber had had enough but Joe wouldnˇt sign the divorce papers. Thatˇs when she DMed me.〃 Daisy pulls in a slow breath. ¨I donˇt sit around like some internet sleuth hunting down a conspiracy trail. Maybe itˇs wrong. Maybe I should send these people away and tell them that none of it is my problem, but I canˇt, you know? Iˇm likelike〃

¨Youˇre like Robin Hood.〃

Clearly flustered, Daisy swings her gaze over to the rookie. ¨I mean, not really like Robin Hood, but I guess the comparison kinda works? Sort of. Not really.〃 She wraps her fingers around the strap of her purse, clinging tight to the leather. ¨Iˇve helped a lot of people. I know that it might not seem that waythat it might seem like Iˇm stirring up dramabut Iˇve tried to be a shoulder to lean on when no one else is listening. I-Iˇve given so many people closure they might not have had otherwise. And for what itˇs worth, Iˇve never used my connections with the Blades, or my dad, or West, to get information just so I can make content. I have too much integrity for that.〃

¨And youˇve never monetized the account,〃 Gwen murmurs.

¨No, never.〃 Daisyˇs quick to shake her head. ¨That feels icky, you know? To make money off people who are hurting.〃

¨A lot of people wouldnˇt care so long as theyˇre collecting a paycheck,〃 Gwen points out.

¨Iˇm not most people.〃

Sheˇs not. She never has been, not for as long as Iˇve known her. And while I know that she can stand on her own two feet, I find myself closing the gap between us, anyway, until Iˇm standing behind her like some ancient warrior guarding his queen. Not doing it because she needs the backupDaisy is uniquely qualified to stand up for herselfbut because I want her to know that however hopeless the situation might feel, she isnˇt alone.

Her loose blond hair slips over one shoulder as she flashes me a grateful smile. Itˇs quick, barely anything worth mentioning, but still, warmth floods my chest.

Gwen taps her pen on the table. ¨Hereˇs the thing. As much as Iˇd like to see you do an expose and educate people that not every player deserves to be put on a pedestal, I donˇt think bringing more attention to Confessions of a Puck Bunny is the way to go, not right now while itˇs still fresh. We need to bury the lead. Give fans something else to talk about. Maybe〃

¨I offered to marry her.〃