But I don’t make it to the parking lot.
Hell, I don’t even make it five feet down the hall before my phone rings again.
“Fuck,” I mutter, pulling it out of my pocket.
“That good, huh?” Colt says, walking by with his messenger bag hitched on one shoulder, clearly here taking advantage of the free ice time that Joey arranged for the team this afternoon.
“It’s the job,” I grumble. “But not a fun part of it.”
“Hopefully it’ll be a quick one.”
I nod my thanks, turn back for the office, and answer the call.
Spoiler alert: it’snota short one.
But it eventually ends, and I start to leave again.
The fuck of it all is that when I’m attempting to make my escape—this time with Colt passing me, now completely geared up—my cell rings a-fucking-gain.
His eyes come to mine and he winces.
I just drop my chin to my chest, walk into my office, and answer, listening to an update from a scout.
The best thing is that it’s short.
When it’s done, I hang up and glare down at my phone. “Don’t you fucking ring again.” It stays silent. “That’s right, asshole,” I mutter.
I shove it in my pocket and…wait.
When it doesn’t immediately ring again, I release a relieved breath, gather up the rest of my shit, and push out into the hall again.
There, I wait again, half expecting my phone to go off.
Because that’s my day today.
When it doesn’t, I turn down the hall.
Unfortunately, my escape is stymied yet again.
Not by a phone call.
But rather, by a voice.
“Damon?” I hear.
Biting back a curse, I turn to see that Colt’s back a third time. He’s still dressed in his gear—which means that, thank fuck, I haven’t lost a year to the fucking phone calls, just a few hours.
“Yeah?” I ask him, hoping that I sound patient.
Based on the way he smiles, I have the feeling I fail at that.
Though, he doesn’t seem offended. Instead, he grins as he holds up a stick and pair of skates.
“I think you may need these more than me.”
THIRTY-ONE
Joey
