I heave a sigh and comb my fingers through my hair. “Shape up or ship out? This isn’t the military.”
“You’re right. It’s hockey, and you’re fucking it up,” Fitzgerald says then gestures to Malcolm, who begins to count off my offenses on his fingers.
“The girl coming in here?—”
“Was not my fault. I have no idea how that happened.”
“The STI story.”
I wave it off. “An untrue rumor. Ask the team doctors. I’m tested regularly. Whoever she got that infection from, it’s not me.”
Although at this point, it doesn’t matter. I met some girl at a party at the beginning of June, and by the Fourth of July, my name was all over every hockey Reddit thread for spreading the clap.
“You have fans throwing their panties at you on the ice.”
I try to hide my laugh at that one. “I mean… They might be a little overzealous, but…”
“You were traded here because you slept with Jared Craft’s wife.”
I deny it, offering them the same excuse Florida gave me. “It was about the salary cap.”
“It was because you slept with his wife,” all three of them say in surround sound.
In my defense, I didn’t know she was the wife of one of the owners of the Seadevils. She was a hot twentysomething, and he has to be mid-seventies. I probably gave her the ride of her life. I only found out who she was when Jameson called to tell me Jared Craft personally requested I be traded. If I were first or second line, I’d probably be safe. Craft could always find a new young wife, but he couldn’t find a star winger. Lucky for him, since I was third line. I’m disposable.
“None of this changes your reputation,” Malcolm says, and the leather of my chair creaks when I sink back down, deflated.
“So, what now?”
“Now you do what I say.”
I raise my brows in silent question, so he goes on. “I will be working closely with you to rehab your image. Not only do you need to prove to the entire front office that you are a reformed playboy, you need to quiet the whispers about you.”
“This organization is serious about conduct,” Fitzgerald adds. “You knew that when you arrived here.”
Yeah, the Philadelphia Iron are all about building community and disproving hockey stereotypes. When we put on the jersey, we not only represent ourselves, but the team and all of Philadelphia. We’re the City of Brotherly Love, blah-blah-blah. I received the lectures and sat through the slide-deck presentation.
But I’m not hurting anyone. If anything, I’mspreading the love.
Shit, one of the guys I used to play with on the Seadevils was arrested for hitting his wife, and he barely got a slap on the wrist from the team and league, when he should have been blacklisted from ever playing again. There have been so many instances of players doing things I’d never dream of, yet it’s no big deal. But I give a few ladies some orgasms, and I’m the one who needs to be made an example of? Fucking ridiculous.
“I haven’t broken any laws,” I say. “Of all the scandals and bullshit behavior other players and teams have caused, my stuff is on the bottom of the list.”
Fitzgerald huffs. “The only list I care about is the lineup, and I’d prefer not to lose you because you can’t fucking keep it in your pants.”
“Yeah, all right. I get it.” I sigh, rolling my eyes up to the ceiling. “Shape up or ship out.”
“You think you can do that?” Jameson asks, and I slowly drag my attention back to his wary gaze.
“Sure.”
Malcolm tugs on his tie. He’s wearing pressed slacks and a white sweater over a collared shirt like a nerd on a boat. “I’ll make sure he toes the line.”
“May I be excused?” I say with all the attitude of a surly thirteen-year-old and stand without waiting for an answer. Malcolm follows me.
In the hall, I take big steps to lose him, but he keeps up with my pace. “So, what? We gonna hang out together? Go to the movies? You going to take the place of my dates?”
He readjusts the bag he’s carrying. “I wouldn’t call what you’re doing dating, but to take the temptation away, I’d like your phone.”
