Everyone knows.
Emilia filed a police report two weeks ago. After that, it all went to shit.
—
Stone got hit with a random drug test – standard procedure, but unlucky for him. Positive for PEDs. Steroids. NHLPA’s got protocols for that, sure, but that wasn’t even the headline.
Because then came the women.
First one. Then three. Then five. Allegations ranging from physical assault to sexual misconduct. A few of them have gone to the press. One filed a civil suit yesterday. There’s no hiding now. Not behind his reputation. Not behind his contract.
―
Speaking of which is in its final year. Front office went from talking extensions to complete radio silence. Not a whisper of trade talks. Nothing. And everyone knows what that means.
They’re cutting him loose.
And honestly? Good. I’m still mad about him bailing. Even off the ice, he’s rotting us from the inside out. Guys don’t know what to say. No one’s talking in the room. No one knows where the line is anymore on the ice, or off.
—
–
And just thinking about it about him makes me want to put my fist through a wall.
—
I don’t shower with the rest of the team. I strip off my gear, toss my jersey into the bin, and leave the locker room still dripping sweat. Can‘
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t listen to Coach try to spin this shit into something positive. Can’t stomach another “we’ll get ‘em next time” speech from McLaren.
Outside, it’s cold. My breath fogs up in the air. The adrenaline’s still wearing off when my phone buzzes.
Margot.
>Orphanage confirmed. I’ll drop her off at 9 AM. She won’t be our problem anymore.
It takes me a second. Then I remember.
Lolo.
Becca’s kid.
My kid.
Or, at least, that’s what she kept saying. It doesn’t matter if she looks just like me, there was never a paternity test. I never asked for one. Never wanted to know.
Becca died three weeks ago. Collapsed in the kitchen. Some all–natural smoothie bullshit she didn’t know had peanut oil in it. No EpiPen. No help in time. By the time I found her, it was already over.
And just like that, everything became mine. The kid. The funeral. The public grieving.
She didn’t have anyone. No family except a grandmother with
dementia. So the spotlight shifted to me
–
the grieving fiancé, the
“strong” hockey player still giving it his all on ice.
The media ate it up.
But Lolo? She didn’t fit into my life. She was never supposed to.
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Becca handled all of that so I wouldn’t have to. Bottles, wipes, doctor appointments. I never paid attention. Didn’t need to.
Until she went and got herself killed. Over fucking peanut oil, no less.
Now, the crib’s still up in my apartment. There’s baby formula in the cabinet that expired last week.
It’s simply ironic that she left behind her pride and joy right after threatening me to publicly claim her.
Margot suggested the orphanage offhandedly after Lolo’s crying had interrupted us a few nights ago. She’d moved in right after I sorted out the costs for all the cancellations and Becca’s funeral. We’ve been hooking up a few times a year and with Becca finally out of the picture, we only have the press to hide our relationship from. At least, until it all blows over. “She deserves a family who wants her,” she said, lying through her teeth. “Not two people barely playing house.”
She made it sound noble.
Truth is, it was the first good idea I’d heard since Becca died.
I’ve got a season to save. A team falling apart. I don’t have time for bottles, diapers, or teething screams at 3 AM.
So, yeah. The orphanage is the best idea I’ve heard all year.
And Margot?
She’s the icing on the cake.
The rest of the message is just the location. A private facility outside town. Clean, nice, quiet. Margot did the research. Of course she did.
Ten minutes later, I’m in her apartment. I don’t even remember the
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drive.
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Margot’s in her robe. She hasn’t taken off her makeup yet with a wine glass in hand, lips already parted like she knows why I came.
“Game didn’t go well?” she asks, eyes flicking down my chest. Like she cares about anything but what’s coming next.
I don’t answer. I slam the door behind me. She barely sets the glass down before my mouth’s on hers, rough, hungry, punishing. Her hands scramble at my shirt.
She moans, high and breathy. “Zane… shit. I guess someone’s wound tight tonight.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, hoisting her up onto the counter.
The wine glass shatters. I don’t care.
Her nails dig into my back, her legs around my waist. But all I can think about is the game. The loss.
RAA2
