Parker (Face-Off 1)

“Yep, that’s me.”

“I thought so,” he says, pleased. “You’ve been all over the news today. Everyone on campus has been talking about you.”

“Yeah, I got traded to Philly.”

His interrogation annoys me. Just ask me to sign something already and move on.

I stand when I see the car pulling up to the curb behind them. The blond opens his mouth wide enough to catch flies. He’s at least six inches shorter than me, and he must weigh about eighty pounds less, except I’m solid muscle and he’s nothing but a sack of bones. A few of the girls giggle and flash bright smiles, their lips parting as I wink at them.

He laughs as he pushes his cell phone in front of me and then hits the play button. “Nah, that’s not what everyone is talking about.”

I glance down at the screen, shocked by the video of me carrying two half-naked girls over my shoulders and into the dormitory. “Shit,” I mutter.

In the video, it’s dark outside, but there’s enough light from the exterior of the building to see all our faces perfectly. Neither of them is the same girl I woke up next to. One has long auburn hair and killer curves, and the other is a smoking-hot chick with short dark hair and huge tits.

What. The. Fuck?

This must’ve been all the team owner needed to make his decision about the trade. He had already been adamant about getting rid of me after his granddaughter, who’d lied about her age, went blabbing her mouth, and this footage probably sent him over the edge.

“You’re my hero, bro,” the husky boy says. “How many chicks did you bag last night? Seriously, teach me your ways. I’m a fast learner.”

I don’t remember the girls or how I ended up here. Was I drugged?

That’s doubtful but not completely off base. Some chicks will do anything to become a famous athlete’s baby mama. I must’ve blacked out. That happens a lot—more times than I care to admit.

I smirk and ignore his question. “My ride is here. Gotta go.”

Sidestepping around them, I inch my way through the crowd and hop into the car, thankful it showed up on time. A few more minutes with those guys, and I would’ve had to deal with the grand inquisition about last night. I give the driver my address, and he sets off toward the apartment I share with my former teammates—former being the operative word as of twenty minutes ago.

My phone rings, the sound of a hockey goal horn filling the silent air in the car. The driver jumps at the intrusion and presses his hand to his chest. It’s an abrupt ringtone, but it does the job when I’m too shit-faced or in a drunken coma and need to be woken up. I already knew this call was coming, and when I see that it’s my publicist, Rebecca Stone, I have to answer.

“Hey, sweetheart. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Pleasure?” she screams. “No, this is not a fucking ple

asure, Alex! What is wrong with you?” A beat passes between us, and then she continues, “Have you seen YouTube yet? Better yet, have you seen the news? They’re calling this one Puck of Shame. You really dug yourself a grave this time. I’m done. I can’t help you anymore. You’re—”

I interrupt, trying to keep my cool as she lays into me, “What do you mean, you’re done? You’re done when I say you’re done. You work for me.”

Rebecca laughs, and it’s a cackle that reminds me of the Wicked Witch. “I work for you because you pay me, you little prick. You need to find yourself a new publicist. I don’t get paid enough for this shit.” She groans and slams something down that makes a crashing sound. “I’m over here, breaking out in stress hives from you and this bullshit you pulled at that campus. Of all the schools, you had to pick one as prestigious as Georgetown? You’re lucky the dean wants this to go away as much as the rest of us. After this, there’s nothing I can do for you.”

“Yes, there is. You can do your job, Becs.”

“I want triple my normal fee. No one will touch you with a ten-foot pole. You’re a PR nightmare!”

There’s no sense in denying the truth. I’ve been driving her crazy for the past year. On one occasion, I even tried to seduce Rebecca to keep her on my team, thinking that a cougar like her wouldn’t turn down a young hockey star. That plan backfired and was more embarrassing for me than it was for her.

“Fine,” I agree. “Whatever you want.”

“You need to get some help, Alex. I’m telling you this as a friend and not as your publicist. I know you haven’t taken your father’s death well, and I don’t blame you, but you need to clean up your act. Even with my connections, there’s only so much I can do for you. At some point, you’re going to have to help yourself.”

“Thanks, Becs.” I pause and hold the phone away from my ear to check the caller ID, showing an incoming call from DMG—Donoghue Media Group, the company Mickey founded after college. What now? “Look, I gotta go. Mickey’s on the other line. I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one,” she says before ending the call.

If there’s one thing she’s right about, it’s that I need to get back on track. A midseason trade to Philadelphia should be a wake-up call. Instead, it’s making me want a drink.

Coach