6. Brett

Brett

I wake up with my cheek against the leather couch, head pounding, and I instantly know that I've made a huge mistake. Peeling my face from where it's stuck, I raise my head, feeling like it's three sizes too big. Alcohol is still sloshing around in my stomach, making me nauseous, and my mouth feels like a dental hygienist stuck a tube in there and sucked it dry.

Crawling across the floor, I find a random glass of water and take a sip, only to gag when I realize it's straight vodka. Cursing my luck, I get to my feet, shuffling to the kitchen like a zombie and pawing at the bottles of water in the fridge.

My house is trashed .

Garbage, empty bottles, broken glass, and piles of vomit are strewn around the floor. Toilet paper hangs from the light fixtures, silly string stuck to the walls and in the curtains. When I walk through the hallway, I see a discarded bottle of super glue on its side, the contents spilled out and cemented to the hardwood.

My housekeeper is going to be pissed. I'll have to give her another bonus just to keep her from quitting.

Sitting down in my recliner, I bring the bottle of water to my lips and try to remember what happened last night. Vaguely, I recall going out to the bar with the guys. But then, Coach left after half a drink to go back to his wife and kid. Devon at least managed to finish his beer, but then he was gone too. When the other guys started flirting with girls from a bachelorette party, I just wasn't into it. I sat at the bar, drinking and almost wishing I'd just gone home to my big, empty house.

And somewhere between that moment and now, I'd managed to go from the bar to here, and managed to invite enough people to make a mess of the place.

Going to social media, I find my answers. The bachelorette party was here, all the girls wasted, dancing and singing and grinding on Vipers. Sammy and Eddie having the time of their lives. Someone shaking a bottle of champagne and squealing as it sprays up onto the ceiling. When I glance up, I see the dark stain in the plaster.

Groaning, I set the phone down and sink into the recliner until I'm almost fully flat. My head is pounding, and I still slightly feel like I'm going to be sick. The only thing that could make this worse would be if we had practice today.

Luckily, we don't, and I'll have at least twenty-four hours to get this out of my system before Coach Aldine berates me for putting myself before the team again.

My house may be trashed, and my head may be killing, but at least I managed to black out for a few blissful hours last night, forgetting the pressure of playing, the stress of taking over Devon's role, the knowledge that he plans to retire soon...

Pretty soon, I'll be the only top player on the team. And I have to make sure the Vipers are worth watching. Without that, Devon's youth camps could go away. No ticket sales means no bonuses for the smaller staff.

I suck in a halting breath. I just can't think about that stuff.

Instead, I find myself thinking about Fallon, about how her fingers graze my skin when she moves my legs into different positions. About her easy smile, her confidence, and the way she looks in a pair of scrubs.

And I think about the fact that I've never seen her out of them.

I remember how she looked the other day—out of it, tired, stressed. I think that part of the reason I wanted her to tell me what was bothering her was that I was feeling exactly the same way. I thought that maybe if she told me her problem, I could focus on fixing that rather than returning my attention to my own life.

I'm just about to drift off, still thinking of Fallon, when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I groan loudly, then decide to ignore it. If it's an emergency, they'll call again.

The phone rings again, and I fumble around, clumsy from the hangover. Finally, I reach for the phone and pull it out, reading the name on the screen.

"Fuck," I say, before hitting answer. "Hello?"

"Hey, Waterski," Coach Aldine grunts. "Come on into the arena today. We have a lot to discuss."

***

I know it's bad the moment I walk into the meeting. It's not just Coach Aldine—it's also Naomi Wilde, the new general manager for the Vipers. Since the moment she showed up in Burlington, she's started ruling the team with an iron fist. She hates everything about the town and everything about the team, and frequently talks about wishing she could go back to L.A.

"I heard something really scandalous went down," Lola, Devon's fiancée, had said at their last dinner party. Their house is beautiful, and they throw dinner parties for the team at least once a month. "Apparently, she had to take the only general manager position that was open. Which was here."

"Long ways from L.A.," Coach Aldine had muttered.

"Yeah," Devon said, raising his glass, "and let's toast to that, huh?"

"Good morning Mr. Ratcliffe," Ms. Wilde says now, her bright blue eyes narrowing in on me. Everything about her is severe, from her slicked-back ponytail to the heels that clack across the floor and strike fear into the hearts of hockey players.

"Good morning," I say, swallowing and taking a seat next to Coach, who looks pissed. His jaw is ticking, and he won't even look at me.

"I hear you had quite the party last night," Ms. Wilde continues. She grins conspiratorially at me. I know this is a trick—that she's not actually happy to hear it, but I nod, pressing my lips together.

"Yeah," I joke, "wish I could remember it."

"Oh, don't worry about that, Mr. Ratcliffe." Ms. Wilde clicks a button and pulls up something on the screen. "I think the internet is doing a perfectly good job of remembering it for you."

On the screen, there's a video playing that's clearly inside my home. People are shouting, laughing, dancing—I recognize the bachelorette party from last night, and yet, somehow, there's not a single Viper in the shot.

Except me.

I come into frame when the camera tilts up, showing me at the top of the banister. I watch, wincing, as I grab hold of the sparkling chandelier and swing across the foyer, laughing and belting a Sia song at the top of my lungs.

Ms. Wilde pauses the video mid-swing, turning and fixing me with a stare. "Do I have to tell you what people are saying about this online, Ratcliffe?"

I'd say, "That it looks fun?" but I value my life more than that. I give her an inquisitive look, and she clicks over to another page, showing the comments under various versions of the video.

WTF, is this guy trying to sabotage the season again?

No class.

Think Chambers will be able to pull off the win again? Clearly Ratcliffe doesn't give a fuck about the team.

I watch as she clicks over to someone commenting on the video, my body swinging behind their head, the Sia song playing gently in the background.

"…dude, I've been telling the Vipers to trade this fool for a long ass time. He doesn't take anything seriously. We see it all the time—talented young players who take it for granted. Well, I say trade him away. Maybe he'll sober up and learn to get with the program for another team."

Ms. Wilde pauses the video and turns, raising an eyebrow at me.

I clear my throat, holding my hands up. "I didn't—"

"Shut the fuck up, Waterski," Coach Aldine says, giving me a serious side eye. I gulp and nod, putting my hands back down on the table.

"Explain to me what your thought process was when you started to do this," Ms. Wilde says, gesturing at the screen with her free hand. "Because I thought, based on our previous discussions, that you were done jeopardizing this team's success with your silly little stunts?"

I stare at her, at a loss for words. I'm trying to decide if it will be better or worse to tell her that I blacked out. I glance at Coach Aldine. He usually puts a strict, one-drink rule on everyone during the season. Luckily, games haven't actually started yet, but I doubt he'd be happy to know I was "mistreating my body," as he puts it.

I'm an athlete. That's my worth to this world—what my body is able to accomplish.

"Right," Ms. Wilde says, a moment later, when I still haven't explained myself. "Well, I'll tell you what, Mr. Ratcliffe, this is your final warning—got it? I'm inclined to follow the suggestions of this fellow—" She gestures behind her, toward the screen "—and trade you. We have interest from the Wild and the Golden Knights. They know they can get you at a discount, at this point."

I stare at her, my mouth going dry. The Wild?

"Not Minnesota," I say, clearing my throat and shaking my head.

"Anywhere I want," she says, standing up straight and clicking the screen off. "So, I suggest you straighten up your act."