“Six months seems like an unnecessarily long time,” Tank muttered, pissed they were trying to curtail his off-season fun as well.
James narrowed his eyes. “We are in danger of losing one of our biggest sponsors. If this was your first offense, maybe we could be more lenient, but you’ve made it very clear that you’re incapable of reining yourself in. So we’ll do it for you.”
Tank crossed his arms, fighting to calm down. This punishment did not fit the crime as far as he was concerned, but it was obvious the jury had already handed down their decision.
“The PR department has been in the office since the wee hours this morning, working on strategies to salvage your reputation,” James said. “You will do everything they say, follow every edict they issue to the letter. Do you understand?”
“Tank,” Coach Fields said, the first to speak to him in a gentle tone. “Do what the president says. Do what the PR guys say. Take your punishment and then let’s learn, grow, and move on from this. Your primary focus should be on the game anyway. Keep your nose clean for the rest of this season and start next year fresh.”
Tank clenched his jaw, pissed as fuck. He was being treated like a naughty schoolboy, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong.
When he didn’t respond, the coach forced the issue. “Tank.”
“Fine,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
Coach Fields lightly tapped his hand on the table. “Good. During the suspension, you’ll be banned from games, practice, and workouts, so I’ll expect you to keep up with your conditioning on your own.”
Tank nodded once, his body vibrating with anger.
“One more strike,” James said, lifting his pointer finger. “Do one more thing that reflects poorly on the Stingrays’ program, and I promise, you will find yourself off the team.”
Off the team.
What the fuck?
“I have a contract,” Tank pointed out, his anger quickly morphing to panic. He’d dedicated his whole life to hockey, fighting tooth and nail for his shot in the NHL. And now that he was here, he refused to give up his spot, determined to break all the records and hoist the Stanley Cup over his head.
“With a standards-of-conduct clause that gives us every right to terminate it.” James looked all too pleased to put that final nail in Tank’s coffin.
Rising, the president nodded at the others in the room before leaving without saying goodbye to anyone. Hugh dismissed his assistants and Kendra, none of whom had said a word, but they still managed to speak volumes with their disapproving glares. They filed out as well, leaving Tank alone with just Hugh, Benny, and Coach Fields.
Hugh looked at his watch. “The press conference is at three. From now until one o’clock, I want you to go with Benny and meet with the PR team. After that, go home and clean yourself up. Be back here by two-thirty, ready to act a hell of a lot more contrite than you are right now.”
Tank blew out a long, slow breath, not that it helped to calm him down.
“There will be no more second chances,” Hugh said, reiterating James’s warning.
Tank stood, as did Benny and the coach. The three of them walked out of the GM’s office together.
Coach Fields put a hand on Tank’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “See you in two weeks.”
Tank got a lump in his throat as he watched his coach walk away. The idea of missing six games and letting his teammates down hurt…bad.
“This way,” Benny said, pointing in the opposite direction. “The rest of my team is waiting for us in our department’s conference room. In addition to me, you’ll also be answering to my assistant, Roger, and McKenna Bailey.”
Tank knew both Roger and McKenna. Roger was perhaps the biggest Stingrays fan on the planet, something that served the team well, considering the guy did a lot of their publicity. His press releases were always glowing and practically likened him and his teammates to gods.
McKenna was also familiar, though definitely less of a fan—at least of him. She was a nerdy woman, with an awkward sense of fashion and glasses that never managed to stay on the bridge of her nose. Tank had started calling her Mouse, which probably hadn’t helped endear him to her.
The nickname was the result of her appearance during their first introduction. He’d been on his way to Hugh’s office for one of his usual slaps on the wrist. Benny had been showing McKenna around, and he’d stopped Tank to introduce them. McKenna had been wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, her hair pinned up in two high buns that had reminded him of those Mouseketeer hats with the ears that people got at Disney World. Between that and the fact she was a tiny little thing, he’d taken to calling her Mouse.
Despite her small size, McKenna was a hell of a lot better at her job than the team’s former director of social media marketing, an out-of-touch woman who thought TikTok was the sound a clock made.
Since that first meeting, McKenna had made it clear she didn’t approve of him and his playboy ways with more than a few sideway scowls—which was, of course, a red flag to someone with his personality. So he tended to go full-on Tank whenever she was around, because her narrowed-eye glares amused him.
Tank followed Benny into yet another conference room. He’d expected the atmosphere in this room to be less tense, but damn, was he wrong.
The pressure was even thicker, as McKenna and Roger turned and looked at him with the bleary-eyed expressions of two people who hadn’t gotten much sleep—and they were grumpy about it.
