“I think Coach is saying that he has to make an example of us,” Grey says.
“Not me. This is coming directly from the commissioner.” Hammer drops heavily into his leather chair and then tosses a newspaper down on the desk between us so we can see the headline for ourselves.
Full moon over Boston.
It’s accompanied by a photograph, blurred in select places, and let’s just say it’s less than decent. My grandmother has probably rolled over in her grave—that’s one of Cap’s sayings. He was full of ‘em.
Declan and Wolf chuckle. Despite myself, I crack a smile because it is pretty epic, but I’ll be sure to hear from my father. Grey is as stony as ever.
“You guys are terrible with the press,” Hammer scolds.
“They say any kind of press is good press. And we were in a meeting recently, discussing the importance of getting our names out there.”
Hammer gives me a look that suggests I was better off keeping quiet. “The problem is we’re lacking in actual good press. You’re all cocky. Not at all humble.”
“Come on, it’s all hype,” I say, trying to diffuse the situation.
“The fans love to see us getting rowdy,” Declan adds.
“We’re the Bruisers. We have a reputation to uphold,” Wolf says, elbowing Grey, who’s been on the team the longest. “Tell him.”
Coach’s lips form a thin line. “Starky wants you to clean up, learn some manners, and prove that you’re well-behaved gentlemen.”
Grey snorts like that’s the most hilarious thing he’s ever heard.
“Think of it like reform camp. You’ll be there a month.”
The room falls silent.
Hammer clears his throat. “You’ll attend several classes for your betterment. I hope I’ve made my point and you’ve learned your lesson. No mooning the commissioner’s daughter, or anyone else for that matter.”
The silence erupts with protests.
“What about training camp?”
“OTAs?”
“The program you’ll be attending is the only organized team activity you’ll be completing if you want to go to training in August.” Hammer, ever the picture of calm, grits his teeth.
“So, if we want to go to training camp, first we have to attend this camp?” I ask.
“That’s right. Your midpoint and final reviews will determine whether you hit the field with the rest of the team before the season starts.”
All at once, we each voice objections and try to talk him out of it.
Hammer seems to only hear one word among the chatter. “Unfair? Poor Elyse cannot wipe the sight of four pasty rear ends from her mind—neither can the rest of the country.” Hammer points at the newspaper with the photo. One of the officials must’ve snapped it with their phone.
“Hey, my rear end is not pasty. It’s muscular and tan,” Declan says.
“For an Irishman,” Grey mutters.
“Listen, my hands are tied. It’s this or walk, boys.” Hammer shuffles paper and folders around on his desk, indicating he’s done with us.
“This team is my life,” Grey says softly.
“All of our lives,” Declan echoes.
“Consider this probation.”
