Page 174

Two hours before puck drop, Hendricks appeared in the doorway of the locker room, his face red, hair askew. “Porter, Callahan!” he barked. “Get your asses upstairs!” He stomped away. In the distance, a door slammed.

“Oooh, you and your boyfriend are in trouble,” Nelson sing-songed, a poor excuse for a chirp if I’d ever heard one.

“Fuck off.” I dragged my compression pants up my legs and popped him in the gut with the back of my hand.

I turned, expecting to see Cally already making his way toward me, but he was nowhere to be found. The spot in front of his stall was empty, his gear all still hanging in place.

I scanned the room a second time. Nothing. “What the⁠—?”

I shoved my feet into my slides and made my way down the row, stopping at Kovalev’s stall. “You seen Cal?”

He poked his head out the neck of his jersey and jerked his chin toward the door. “Phone call.”

“Thanks.” I clapped him on the shoulder and headed for the exit, only to be stopped by Bell stepping directly into my path.

“Nope.”

“I need to find Cal,” I said, trying to sidestep him.

He blocked my path again, crossing his arms over his chest. “No,” he said, drawing out the word. “You need to get your ass upstairs.”

“Come on, man,” I begged, my voice a whine I knew I’d regret later. “Shit’s going down.”

He blinked, long and slow. “Go. Up. Stairs. Porter,” he gritted out from between clenched teeth.

“Fuck. Fine.” I tossed up my hands in frustration and shoved past him, throwing my weight against the door, only to be yanked back by the collar of my shirt.

“Put some goddamn clothes on first,” he hissed.

I opened my mouth to tell him I had clothes on, when his meaning sank in. I couldn’t meet with management dressed in nothing but my compression gear. In my rush to find Cally, I’d completely blanked on how I looked.

“Fuck,” I bit out, turning on my heel.

I’d never been upstairs before. The security guard who’d badged me in was a nice touch. We didn’t have security, but nice to know the execs were protected.

I swung a right off the elevator and headed toward the executive wing, passing a glass case that was sorely lacking in trophies, filled instead with black and white photos from the expansion draft and a few signed pucks. Given the way things were going, I didn’t think it’d be filled anytime soon.

Pushing through a set of heavy glass double doors, I was greeted by a young blonde woman popping up from behind a desk.

“Mr. Porter!” she exclaimed, her voice laced with relief. “Mr. Voss and the others have been expecting you.” She hurried out from behind the desk, gesturing for me to follow.

“The others?” I asked, sliding my hands into my pockets to hide how badly they were shaking.

“Coach Hendricks, Silas James, Hunter Callahan, and Robert Callahan,” she informed me over her shoulder, her feet moving surprisingly fast for heels that high. Her voice had gone a little bit breathy when she said Cally’s dad’s name.

I stopped dead in my tracks. “Robert Callahan?”

Fucking fuck. What was his dad doing here? And why hadn’t he warned me?

She looked back at me again, her face betraying her surprise at finding I was no longer behind her. “Sir?”

“You said Robert Callahan is here. Why?”

Her eyes darted down the corridor and back to me. “He … uh. He came in with his son.” Her eyebrows furrowed, her nose scrunching. “That is weird, now that you mention it.”

I strode past her. “Very.”

She scrambled to catch up, her heels click-clacking against the marble floor. She overtook me near the end of the hall, reaching the frosted glass door first. She gripped the handle and pushed it open, announcing, “Mr. Porter is here.”