Trying to Score

by Kendall Ryan

  I was clearly living in a fairy tale where I thought this creeper would just magically disappear. Poof. No more sex tape, no more threatening emails, no more threat of my sex life being available with a couple of clicks on the internet. Our little PR scandal cover-up plan would all be for nothing, and I would be okay with that. Because I’d still have this. Whatever this is that Teddy and I have going on.

  But that’s the thing about fairy tales. They’re about as real as the dream I just woke up from.

  Teddy’s phone starts ringing again, and his shoulders absolutely deflate. “Shit. It’s Coach.”

  My whole body clenches. It looks like Teddy’s Denver dream, the one where he gets to live and play in the city where his grandfather lives, might be coming to an end too.

  17

  * * *

  Nowhere to Hide

  Teddy

  I’m so angry. I wish I could punch something, scream, and maybe disappear for a day, or fuck, maybe even a year.

  Instead, I’m dressed in a suit (LaShonda’s idea) and seated across from the Ice Hawks’ head coach, inside his office while he lectures me sternly. I’ve only ever been in Coach Bryant’s office one other time, right after I got drafted to the team. Mostly I deal with Coach Dodd, which is a breeze compared to this.

  I hear myself say things like yes, sir, and I agree, and I’m sorry, sir while blood pounds in my ears and I suppress my rage.

  My sex tape is making the media rounds and has been viewed on all the porn pages, hockey blogs, and entertainment gossip sites. I don’t care that people are seeing me; the fact they’ve seen Sara is what pisses me off the most. I vowed to protect her, swore that video would stay private, and I failed her in the most spectacular way possible.

  “I want you laying low for the next couple of weeks. Don’t talk to the press. Stay off social media. No going out to bars, and no drunken mistakes. I want you living clean and focused on nothing but hockey. Is that clear?” Coach Bryant asks, his bushy gray eyebrows pulling together into a tight line.

  “Yes, sir. We are on the exact same page.”

  He nods once. “Good to hear.”

  I hesitate, gripping the armrests of the chair before standing.

  “Is there anything else?” he asks.

  I clear my throat. “Just, ah, wondering if I’ll be starting with my regular line?”

  He doesn’t give any indication of which way he’s leaning, just watches me with a neutral expression over the rim of his glasses, which are pushed down low on the bridge of his nose. “You feel up to that?”

  “Absolutely.” I have no idea if the crowd will be supportive or mocking given the news that’s just broken, but at least it’s a home game. Part of me wonders if fans will still be wearing their King jerseys. Hell, maybe they won’t let their kids wear them. I really have no idea if I’m a laughingstock or a pariah, or if I’ll still have fans in the stands.

  “Great. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I nod and release a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “See you tomorrow, Coach.”

  As I head out into the hall with a lump in my throat, I realize that our meeting went better than I could have ever expected. Sure, my offer from Denver is gone, which is no surprise, but Coach didn’t bench me, and so far I still have all my sponsorship deals.

  But what is making the heaviness in my chest feel a little lighter is that Sara wasn’t identified in the video, and we’re hopeful she won’t ever be. It’s a big maybe, but for now she’s safe.

  Since the news broke this morning, she’s worked her ass off to get the video taken down in less than six hours due to revenge-porn laws or something. I’m still not sure of all the details, but I know Sara has been working nonstop while I’ve been busy getting my ass handed to me. Of course, I had no choice but to take it all, apologizing profusely every chance I got, and praying to God this isn’t the end of my career.

  After leaving the office, I call Sara, and she picks up on the first ring.

  “Hey,” I say somberly as I head toward the exit.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  She sounds more chipper than I feel. Here’s hoping her cheerful mood rubs off on me.

  “How are you holding up?” I ask.

  “Me? I’m fine. So far, everything is under control. How did your meeting with Coach go?”

  Brutal. “It went okay,” I say on a shaky exhale.

  She pauses, weighing my words. “Well, that’s good. You’re not in too much trouble with the team?”

  “Coach says I’ll still be starting, so I guess not. You want some company?”

  “Sure,” she says without missing a beat. “Come over.”

  After we hang up, I head toward her place, stopping briefly to pick up coffee and bagels. I don’t dare go into the café; I don’t want to show my face. Instead, I cruise through the drive-through window like a coward.

  When I arrive with two large coffees and a paper bag, Sara lets me in with a smile. It’s not a smile I deserve. I just complicated the fuck out of her life, but a little voice inside me whispers, She knew what she was getting into when she agreed to this.

  Over coffee and bagels, I listen while she recounts her morning, telling me about the phone calls she fielded and demands she made to get the video removed. I feel weird and sort of detached listening to her describe her actions as my attorney—not as my lover or costar in the video.

  “I feel bad you had to work all morning,” I say, spotting her laptop on the couch with a pile of legal pads next to it. I think somewhere deep down I knew I would only complicate her life when I came skating back into it. I can’t bring myself to regret it, though. The past several hours aside, these past few weeks with her have been incredible.

  “It’s fine. Don’t feel bad. But please tell me the truth about your meeting,” she says, pausing with her coffee halfway to her lips as she watches me. “Was it awful?”

  I toss the rest of an uneaten bagel into the bag. My appetite has been nonexistent today. “Denver rescinded their interest,” I say sourly. I’m so disappointed in myself because I fucked up my chance to be close to my grandpa.

  Sara leans over and rests her hand on my thigh. “Oh, Teddy. I’m so sorry.”

  I shrug. “I haven’t called him yet. Part of me doesn’t even want to.”

  “Why don’t you just move him here? To Seattle.”

  My gaze lifts to hers, and I see a mix of sympathy and confusion staring back at me. “Yeah, I want to. I just need to convince him first. When I brought it up last year, he shut down the idea pretty fast.”

  “I’m here to help, however I can. We’re in this together.”

  I don’t deserve that, but I believe everything she says, and hold on to her words like they’re my lifeline.

  Although I end up staying the night, we don’t have sex. Instead, we watch a movie together, eat a bunch of takeout, and just chill. Once I fall asleep in her bed, I feel at peace for the first time since this mess started.

  And it’s all because of her.

  • • •

  Twelve minutes into the most frustrating hockey game I’ve ever played, and my mind is focused anywhere but on the ice. I fuck up in the face-off and Montreal takes control of the puck, which leaves me racing down the ice. I catch Owen’s gaze, and he’s giving me a quizzical look.

  Yeah, I know, man. I’m off my game tonight.

  I huff out a deep exhale and get back to work, desperate to make a play before my shift is over.

  I keep my head down and skate my ass off. Focusing on the game is the only thing that makes me feel semi-normal—with a crowd of thousands peering down at me from the stands. If I let myself think about the fact that these people have probably seen me naked, I’ll end up cowering in the locker room.

  The pace throughout the first period is fast and furious, and I’m happy to see my teammates are high-energy. Things were tense in the locker room before the game, like no one knew what to say to me. Well, there was one commen
t—and of course it came from Asher.

  “Hey, movie star,” he said in my direction when I strolled in.

  “Fuck off, Asher,” I grumbled.

  “Who’s your costar?” He grinned at me, like he was proud or something.

  “None of your fucking business,” I growled, meeting his eyes and daring him to push me further. “Got anything else to say to me?”

  Taken aback, Asher raised his hands in surrender. “Understood. Chill, man.”

  After that, our captain, Grant, pulled me aside, and with his hand on my shoulder, assured me this would blow over soon, and just to keep my head in the game.

  I nodded once, grunted again, and set about getting myself ready for the game, taping up my stick, putting on my pads, and doing all the shit I hoped would make me feel like a normal member of the team again. I didn’t want to be an internet sensation. That was never my goal. I wanted to be known because of my skills on the ice, not because of my skills in the bedroom.

  Hearing Asher ask about my costar pissed me off. No one needed to know, and so far, the public hasn’t figured it out. The truth is, in our film debut, my body was mostly covering Sara’s, and while I’m not an exhibitionist by any stretch of the imagination, if it means protecting her, I’m game. I don’t give a shit who focuses on my ass instead of seeing Sara’s face.

  Locker-room drama aside, once we were on the ice, skating became as natural as breathing.

  Now, in the face-off circle, I’m standing across from a guy named Sandersen. He’s smirking at me, and I wait for whatever fucked-up comment he’s going to lob my way.

  “It’s a wonder you can show your face here tonight. Half the world’s seen that pathetic excuse you call a cock.”

  I keep my eyes on the ice, waiting for the puck to drop. “That’s not what your mom said last night.”

  When the puck drops, I gain control and take it to the zone before it’s snatched away. I approach the net and shoot, cursing when it goes wide. Sandersen checks me hard into the glass, but there’s no call. After that play, things start to go south for us.

  When Sandersen takes a whack at Owen, I check him hard in the ribs, just to make sure he knows he sure as hell isn’t going to do that again. Even once the whistle blows, I keep on shoving, going back for a second helping. Eventually, the ref separates us, and I skate away with a scowl, my adrenaline still pumping hot.

  At the start of the third, the game is tied 1–1. The moment we take the ice after the second intermission, everyone knows the entire third period will be intense.

  Their team’s top scorer fires at Owen and it’s blocked, caught in his glove. At the next face-off, I seek redemption, ready to make something happen. Powering my way forward, I get a breakaway. I fling it over to Justin, who skates toward the net. Our line works incredibly well together, taking advantage of whatever opportunity is given.

  It’s shot and caught by their goalie, who rebounds it. Less than ten minutes remain in regulation time.

  I skate toward the bench, and our second line is ready to take a shift. I grab a water bottle and watch the opposing team take a long-range shot.

  Owen blocks the shot like his job depends on it. And it does. Then he loses his stick, but Landon fetches it, and there’s a traffic jam behind the net.

  I watch in frustration, my chest still heaving. The team is off tonight—passing when they should be shooting, and shooting when they should be passing.

  In the end, we lose 2–1, and I skate off the ice toward the locker room wearing a scowl and feeling majorly pissed off.

  After my shower, I pull my phone out of my bag to find a text from Sara, and immediately my scowl eases.

  Are you going out tonight?

  Instead of answering right away, I jam my phone into my pocket and head out of the venue. Once I’m in the solitude of my car, I pull out my phone and dial her number.

  “Hi,” she says, answering after one ring. “Tough loss tonight.”

  “Yeah. I’m tired and frankly a little pissed off.” I don’t hide how I’m feeling from her.

  “I get it. You played hard.”

  “But it wasn’t enough,” I mutter, unable to hide the anger and disappointment in my voice.

  “Are you heading out with the guys?” she asks, and I don’t miss the sense of hesitation in her voice.

  “Nope, not tonight. I want to stay away from cameras and people’s questions.”

  “Do you want some company? I could pick up your favorite ice cream.”

  “Yeah, come over?” I ask, my voice lifting hopefully as I pull out of the arena’s private parking lot.

  “I’ll meet you there. See you soon.”

  It’s a short ride to my place from the arena, and so I beat Sara by a couple of minutes. It’s just enough time to turn on some lights before the intercom system buzzes to announce her arrival. When I open the front door, just the sight of her standing there in her jeans and oversized sweatshirt calms me.

  A wry smile tugs at her lips as she takes me in. “You okay?”

  “Better now that you’re here.” It’s the truth. I step aside and let her in.

  She smiles, patting me on the chest over my T-shirt, and then heads straight for my kitchen, where she begins unloading a plastic shopping bag onto the counter.

  “For you.” She hands me a plastic container, and I open it. Inside is a salmon Caesar salad, and my stomach immediately gives off a monstrous groan. “We’ll save the ice cream for later.”

  “You’re the best,” I say with a grin, bending down to press a kiss to her cheek.

  As nice as this is, I know better than to get used to it. With everything that’s happened, there won’t be any need to keep up the guise of our fake-dating. Somberly, I grab a fork and dig into my salad while Sara unpacks the rest of the containers.

  When I finish, we sit side by side on the couch, and instead of waiting, we dig right into the ice cream. The creamy, sugary concoction lifts my mood the tiniest bit.

  “What did you think of the game?” I ask, taking another bite.

  She shrugs. “You guys looked good. You just got outplayed this time.”

  I nod. She’s right. We did skate our asses off. Our defense had some good plays, but we just couldn’t make it happen. Some nights are like that.

  Then she smiles like she’s remembering something amusing. “God, did you see Becca in the stands?”

  I shake my head. I never notice what’s happening in the arena. Not the crazy songs or the kiss cam, none of it. My focus is one-hundred percent on the ice . . . well, unless Sara’s in the crowd, and then it’s more fifty-fifty.

  “She used to be so calm and mild-mannered. Now anytime someone fires off a shot toward the net, she’s on her feet screaming at them to get the fuck away from Owen.”

  I grin, chuckling softly. “I can’t really picture Becca doing that.”

  “Yeah, if anyone approaches the crease, her voice goes up like eight octaves. It’s bananas.”

  I try to imagine the buttoned-up Becca, assistant to the team owner, cursing out anyone who approaches the net. It’s kind of an awesome mental image, honestly.

  But my smile slowly fades as I watch Sara, because I suddenly want to know if she was screaming for me tonight. Somehow, I don’t think so.

  “You were extra tonight, weren’t you?” She squints at me as if trying to read my emotional state.

  It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about the words I exchanged with Sandersen near the net. I’m sure it looked like little more than a childish shoving match.

  “Eh. You don’t fuck with our goalie. If you do, I’ll fuck with you.” She didn’t need to know he also poked fun at our sex tape.

  “Fair enough.” She nods curtly.

  I release a slow exhale and meet Sara’s eyes. I’d give my left nut to know what she’s really thinking. So far, all we’ve talked about is the hockey game.

  “We should talk,” she says, her tone measured.

  I nod
. It’s true; we do need to. We haven’t really spoken about everything that’s happened since the video got leaked.

  “I know, we should.” I’m just not ready to. “But maybe not tonight.”

  She watches me, weighing my words. “Are you okay?”

  “I will be. I’m just tired. Can we go to bed?” I want to hold her and snuggle her warm body close to mine, and pretend that everything is okay for a little while longer.

  And thankfully, Sara lets me.

  18

  * * *

  Old News and New Beginnings

  Sara

  The beautiful thing about the internet is that although news may get out fast, it also gets old fast. And when I say fast, I mean six days. Because that’s how long it took for all the sex tape madness to die down.

  Six stressful days, mind you, but not even a full week has passed, and the hockey blogs are already moving on to the next victim.

  This week’s gossip? The power forward for Saint Louis got kicked out of a bar for doing a bit too much celebrating at a victory party. There’s a video circulating and everything. But after a few days, he’ll be old news too. Then it’ll just be another fiasco with some other player. Hockey has no shortage of drama, that’s for sure.

  It’s a Saturday night and I’m sitting on my couch, scrolling through the gossip sites while I wait for Teddy to pick me up. I told myself I wouldn’t check these blogs anymore, but I have to know what’s left in the press about Teddy now that the video has been down for a while.

  Several minutes of scrolling, and the only evidence of our sex tape I can find is blurry screenshots of the video and a few blog posts with broken links to where the video used to be. I’ll call that a success. Maybe I couldn’t stop this thing from blowing up, but I kept it to a controlled burn instead of a blazing wildfire. Seems like a victory to me, even if it’s a bittersweet one.

  A good attorney knows how to take her victories where they come, and you really can’t win them all. I’m mature enough to know that. We could have both been found out, both been fired from the careers we love.