Tank growled. “That Mindy bullshit was not my fault. She followed me into the men’s restroom and started taking off her clothes.”
“I know,” Blake said. “But your fault or not, it didn’t help that a sports reporter walked in on the two of you and told everyone in the world a very different tale. Between that and the pictures of you and that model in Turks and Caicos in the hot tub at that resort?—”
“That was last summer and off-season. Besides, I took Lara and Emily to the team’s fall gala, and no one complained,” Tank pointed out.
“Maybe not, but I also heard the marketing department couldn’t use any of the pictures of you with your two dates because they didn’t want the bad press that could bring. Instead, they got ahead of things and minimized the damage on that appearance.”
Tank raked his fingers through his hair, aware he was looking pretty rough, and he had zero time to change that state. “I got called in by the GM.”
Blake—good friend that he was—cursed. “When’s the meeting?”
Tank looked at the time. “In forty minutes. I’m still at the hotel, and I don’t have time to go home for clean clothes. My jeans are…”
Blake had been at Pat’s Pub with them when Emily spilled the wine. “You can’t go to the meeting in last night’s clothes. Come to the locker room first,” he said. “You can wear my clothes. I’ll go home in my workout gear. All I have are jeans and a sweatshirt, but I figure it’ll look better than going in smelling like a bar.”
“Thanks, man. I’m grabbing a quick shower. Should be there in thirty.”
“See you then,” Blake said, disconnecting the call.
Tank hopped in the shower, washing away the smell of sex, beer, and tequila. Today wouldn’t be his first time getting a slap on the wrist for his behavior, and if he was being honest with himself, it probably wouldn’t be the last, either.
He chuckled, unconcerned. The team management, HR, and especially that stupid PR department, always thought the sky was falling when it wasn’t.
Hell, as far as Tank was concerned…this was just another weekend.
* * *
Tank tugged on the sleeves of Blake’s sweatshirt, sorry he hadn’t had time to grab his own clothes from home. He and Blake were relatively close in size, but Tank was larger, so he was currently squeezed into clothing that was one size too small.
He gave Gertrude, the general manager’s secretary, a charming smile, and she flushed just as she always did. Her reaction amused him because she was pushing sixty, had been married for nearly forty years, and had three grandkids.
“They’re waiting inside for you,” Gertrude said, glancing at the clock.
Tank didn’t have to look to know he was ten minutes late. Traffic had not been on his side.
“Thanks, Gertie,” he said, tapping the top of her desk lightly. “That blue is your color,” he said, gesturing to her blouse. “Really makes your eyes pop.”
Gertrude waved him away. “Go on, you big charmer,” she said, smiling briefly before her expression sobered. “Best not to keep them waiting any longer.”
Tank nodded, knocking twice on the GM’s door before opening it and stepping inside. He’d expected this conversation would consist of him and maybe the coach. That was who’d been in attendance the last couple of times he’d been called in for one of Hugh’s “come to Jesus” meetings about his extracurricular activities.
Today, instead of sitting behind his big desk (definitely overcompensating), Hugh was at the head of the conference table that filled the left half of his large office. Also seated were two assistant general managers, Coach Fields, Kendra Kingsolver, who was the head of HR, Benny Truman, who ran the PR department, and—fuck him—James Finnigan, the President of Hockey Operations.
“Mr. Phillips,” James said, gesturing to the empty seat—the hot seat—at the end of the long table. “Please join us.”
Tank walked across the room, claiming his spot. “I apologize for my tardiness. Traffic was?—”
“You know why we’re here today, Mr. Phillips, yes?” James interjected.
Tank nodded. “Yes, I do. I understand that?—”
James continued as if he wasn’t speaking. “There’s a video of you that’s creating problems for us, both with our fans and our sponsors.”
“With all due respect, sir, I’m not sure the video was really that?—”
“It was bad,” James stressed. “You were drunk in public, half naked, and one of the women was wearing chains.”
“Handcuffs,” Tank corrected, aware the second he opened his mouth it was a stupid thing to say.
