Page 6 of Slap Shot
“Have you talked to my favorite redhead about all of this?”
“Nope. We actively avoided talking about it on our trip. Figured we could use a break from reality. Now we’re home, and it’s right in front of us. We can’t hide from it anymore.”
“Communication is important.”
“There you go with your relationship advice. Maybe one day I’ll be wise like you.”
“You’re married now, Mavvy. Pretty sure you’re wise enough. I’m here if you ever want to talk. I have your back, just like you have mine.”
“Fuck.” Maverick stares at the kids starting to make their way back to center ice. “Bet you didn’t think your day would turn deep as shit when you rolled up to the arena, did you?”
“I thought there would be a lot more dick jokes. Frankly, I’m disappointed.”
“You and me both, dude. What are you going to do about your interviews?”
“Scream, probably. Or sign up for a meal delivery service so I never have to interact with anyone ever again.”
“You sound like Liam,” he says, and I snort.
Our goalie, Liam Sullivan, is the most anti-social guy I’ve ever met. He’s a damn good hockey player, but he has an aversion to talking to people. I’m pretty sure the only person he likes is his girlfriend, Piper Mitchell, our rinkside reporter.
Turning into him wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but I’d prefer not to become a recluse who communicates in grunts and eye rolls.
“Lovely. Things are looking up.” I adjust my whistle around my neck and stand. “Are you sticking around?”
“Yeah. I think we should ditch the drills, though. Let’s do a scrimmage and see who’s the better coach. Loser has to talk to the rookies and media on the first day of Stars Camp next week.”
“That’s part of your job as captain.”
“You’re my alternate captain. I’m allowed to delegate.”
“Asshole.” I hop back on the ice and take off toward the kids buckling their helmets and putting in their mouthguards. “Knew you were slow, Cap,” I yell.
“You’re getting a hundred laps for that, Hayes,” he yells back.
I grin at the campers. “Who wants to see me beat Maverick Miller in a shootout?” I ask, and they all cheer.
THREE
MADELINE
A weekof job searching has left me empty-handed and on the brink of joining OnlyFans.
Every restaurant I visited told me they admired my resume. They applauded my experience, but they didn’t have any job openings.
I got the dreadedwe’ll let you know if anything comes upsmile a dozen times. Every day I’m losing faith I’ll find anything comparable to my previous salary, and every day I’m closer to selling pictures of my feet on the internet.
I settle on my bed with a glass of wine after another long afternoon of wandering around the Strip, exhausted, frustrated, and with dwindling optimism. Lucy is with my parents until tomorrow morning, and I was tempted to bring the whole damn bottle in here with me.
If I’m going to figure out my future, though, I need to keep my head clear. Getting drunk off cheap pinot noir is unfortunately not going to help the situation.
Stretching out my legs, I set my purse on my lap and rifle through it for my phone. Doomscrolling on LinkedIn sounds like the perfect way to cap off another crappy day. My fingers brushagainst the curve of cardstock instead of the edge of my phone, and I frown.
I set my drink on the bedside table and pull out the folded piece of paper. It’s a business card, and judging by the smudged numbers and letters, it must’ve been in my bag for ages. The right corner is ripped, but I can make out a logo on the top of the rectangle.
“‘DC Stars. Piper Mitchell, rinkside reporter,’” I read, and the night I came into possession of the card comes flooding back to me. “Oh.”
The Stars are Lucy’s favorite hockey team, and I splurged on tickets when they played in Vegas last season. We sat five rows up from the ice, and after the game, Piper came out of the tunnel with a stack of gear to distribute to waiting fans. She said hello to Lucy, even signed with her for a bit, and gave her one of the players’ jerseys.
