I groan as I do as he orders.
His office smells like leather, sweat, and disappointment.I flop into the chair across from his desk, trying for casual charm.
“Look, before you say anything, I’d like to point out that technically, I won.”
Pearson stares at me.“Do you think this is funny?”
“Well… kind of.”
“It’s not.”He leans forward, his voice sharp.“After last year’s scandal, this team is hanging by a thread.Management is breathing down my neck, sponsors are watching our every move, and you decide to act like a frat boy on camera?”
“On camera?”I blink.
He swivels his monitor around.
Oh, hell.
There I am in glorious high-definition, courtesy of someone’s phone.The video already has thousands of views on social media.Comments are rolling in:Thunder’s goalie losing his mind,Maple Creek milk challenge,and my personal favorite,goalies are built different.
“Okay,” I say slowly, “in my defense, that was not supposed to go online.”
Pearson’s glare could melt ice.“In your defense, you’re an idiot.”
“Harsh.”
He doesn’t flinch.“You’re lucky management didn’t suspend you.Instead, they’ve decided on a different kind of punishment.”
I sit up a little straighter.“Punishment?Like… running laps?Extra drills?Please don’t say kale smoothies.”
“Community service.”
I blink, my mind stalling for a beat.“Come again?”
“You’ll be working at the Maple Creek Youth Center for the next two months.Three days a week.No exceptions.”
“You’re kidding,” I gape at him.
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“Honestly?Sometimes.You’ve got that deadpan thing going on.”
His stare hardens.“One more word and I’ll make it four days a week.”
I snap my mouth shut.Community service.At a youth center.I mean… how bad could it be?
I find out the next afternoon when I show up at the Youth Center in my Thunder hoodie, backward cap, and with my most charming grin.Turns out, the youth center is not impressed with CJ Morgan, NHL goalie extraordinaire.
The place is a converted brick gym with posters of smiling kids and motivational quotes peeling off the walls.
The woman waiting for me in the lobby is not smiling.“Cameron Morgan?”she asks, clipboard in hand.
I wince.“CJ, actually.No one calls me Cameron.”
Her eyes flick up.Sharp, assessing, unimpressed.“Right.I’m Jada.Follow me.”
I do as she says, debating whether to make eye contact as I follow her down to an office.The sign on the door says Olivia Walker, Director.I’m guessing this is who I’ll be reporting to.
Better make a good first impression,I think, taking a deep breath and stepping into the room.
