Spiral (Off the Ice Book 2)
Spiral: Chapter 9

REGRET IS A heavy feeling. It snatched away the sleep I would’ve gotten on our flight back home and left me exhausted by the time Aiden and I got to our apartment last night. We ordered takeout because even cooking can’t help me out of this funk. I spent the night tossing and turning, staring at the red glare for the time on my alarm clock. Each minute dragged by, and I found myself dwelling on the reason for my haunting regret.

It’s the look on Sage’s face after she assumed I thought she wasn’t good enough for me. If my mouth had been on my side, I would have been able to tell her that our relationship wouldn’t be believable because I’ve never been in one. I’ve only ever had casual hookups, and the last one was over four years ago.

The icing on the cake is that even a week after our date, the rumors are still alive. They’ve only gotten worse, and I’ve had to stop myself from checking how many people are leaving comments on Sage’s posts, ripping into her life and asking about my addition to it, because I know I’ll do something stupid like reply with frustration. But Mason would kill me if I interacted with the noise; it’s like fighting fire with fire.

When my alarm clock blares, I’m up and ready to go in minutes. The morning is quiet as Aiden and I move on autopilot through the kitchen. My best friend is well rested, and he must see my dark under-eye circles, because he offers to drive. But I don’t let him. So Aiden takes our gear bags and loads them in the trunk of my Bronco. I can’t bring myself to make any conversation on our way to the arena. It’s evident he’s noticed the tension thrumming off me earlier in the kitchen, but he doesn’t ask. The thing about our friendship is that we don’t push each other to talk. We open up when we’re ready. That’s how it’s always been.

I’ve tried calling Sage to apologize, but the calls go straight to voicemail. I’ve made it clear that I regret saying anything that hurt her. But the message is received loud and clear, and the silence makes me feel even shittier. The last thing I want to be is the type of guy who fills up voicemails and harasses a woman for ignoring him. If she wanted to talk to me, she would.

“I think I fucked up,” I blurt.

Aiden turns to look at me, but I stay focused on the road. “Fucked up how?”

“I hurt someone.”

He exhales a long breath, still watching me. Probably suspicious about this topic of conversation.

“Did you apologize?”

“She didn’t want to hear it.” The she slips out before I can stop it, but I know he already knows this is about a girl. Sometimes, he’s a mind reader.

“Have you tried sending her flowers? I know the perfect ones.”

I glance over at him. “Flowers won’t fix this, and I don’t even know if fixing it is worth anything. I probably won’t see her again.”

“She’s the GM’s niece. You will see her again,” he says knowingly.

A mix of a scoff and laugh escapes me. Fucking mind reader, all right. Before I can decide if flowers or an apology blimp will do, the car’s console rings with a phone call.

“Why aren’t you here yet?” Mason’s high-pitched voice tells me he’s freaking out. “Marcus wants to talk to you, and the press conference is in thirty minutes. You better pray there’s no traffic on a Monday morning.”

The mention of our general manager has me on edge, and Aiden glances at me.

“He wants to talk to me?” I ask.

“Urgently.”

I swallow. “What’s the press conference for?”

Mason sighs loudly. “Refusing three postgame interviews means you’re making it up today. It’s mandatory.”

I hang up, cursing as I pull onto the busy highway. Mason is lucky we’re friends and he’s a killer agent, or I’d have fired him a long time ago for being a pain in my ass.

At the arena, we head up to where the press conferences are held and where Marcus Smith-Beaumont’s office is located.

Aiden heads to where his agent stands by the conference room door, next to a very on-edge Mason, who motions for me to head into our GM’s office and taps on his watch face.

I knock and the door creaks open. “You wanted to see me?”

The GM motions to the seat in front of him. There’s a stack of papers he’s flipping through on the wooden desk. His suit jacket hangs on a coatrack, and his sleeves are rolled up. Marcus clasps his hands in front of him.

“I’ve seen it before, you know. Plenty of times.” He’s simmering under his calm exterior. “Rich Ivy League kid who gets into the pros without lifting a finger.”

Despite having heard the description countless times, it bothers me when he says it with a tone bordering on disgust.

“I’m sure you’ve seen my stats. I’m not here on a favor, sir.”

He lets my words rest between us before leaning back in his chair.

“Your stats have nothing to do with whether you deserve to be here or not. I look at every player’s development throughout the season, and in just the short time you’ve been here, you haven’t shown any.”

When I open my mouth to say something, to either defend myself or promise that I’ve been trying my best to improve and get back to the Eli who could outscore every other NCAA player, he holds up a finger to stop me.

“I didn’t call you in here to have a debate on your ability to perform. The proof is clear, and there hasn’t been any improvement since you’ve been here.” His gaze doesn’t cut away as he speaks his next words. “I’ve talked to the board, and they’ve agreed to give you the rest of the regular season to show there’s hope for improvement.”

He looks less than pleased with their ultimatum. I have a feeling he’s eager to sign the papers for a trade, but the organization must still see something in me. The ultimatum is no surprise. I hoped I could postpone this talk, but with how poorly I’ve been playing, this was inevitable. With my head hanging, and my gaze on the floor, I nod. I’m unable to come up with any words without my voice cracking.

When he stands and heads to the door, I follow.

“Eli,” he says, stopping me. Instead of the look of sympathy that I mistakenly hoped for, Marcus gives me a once-over. “I’ve heard the weather in Russia can be brutal. I’d suggest asking your parents to buy you a coat.”

He shuts the door behind me. The insult alluding to a European league move annoys me more than anything.

“Eli!” Mason hisses.

He’s down the hall, still waiting by the conference doors when he sees me. He stops his pacing and waves me over. Aiden shakes his head beside him. I’m sure he’s caught on that whatever Marcus said wasn’t good.

“Crawford, you wanna join?” asks Mason. He starts rolling nonexistent lint from my suit jacket. This isn’t a formal event, but we’re expected to show up in suits before a game.

“Hell no.”

I mouth Asshole, and Aiden flips me off and heads around the corner to the locker room.

Mason stops lint rolling. “Heads up, they are loaded with questions, so use ‘no comment’ sparingly.”

“Sparingly?”

“Don’t use it.”

Head high, I prepare to be watched by every camera and eye in the room, and I step toward the mic. Marcus’s words weigh heavily, and even as I try to shake them out of my head, it’s impossible to focus on anything else.

Cameras click and reporters shuffle through their notes, and the chatter begins.

“Eli, what adjustments are you making to improve your goal-scoring opportunities in future games?”

“You have always been a high scorer through college, and at world juniors. How do you stay motivated when you haven’t scored once in your career in the NHL?”

“Are your off-ice activities distracting you from achieving success as we head into the postseason?”

I tug at the collar of my shirt as I repeat the same answer for each question. “I’m keeping my head down and trying not to let the noise distract me. I’m improving my game every day to put an end to this scoring drought.”

That may not be working for me yet, but with the ultimatum dangling over my head, I have no choice. I’ve caught my dream in my hands, and in only a few weeks, I could lose it forever. A high-pitched sound, like a pressure cooker on the brink of whistling, fills my head.

My heartbeat quickens when a woman in a blue dress pipes up with the question I’ve been dreading, and one they’ve all been waiting for. “Do you have anything to say about the recent reports made about you in the popular media? Would you like to clear up any speculation about your off-ice activities with the girl of the week?”

Girl of the week.

A stupid, naive part of me thought I wouldn’t be asked about that, but the media always wins. The words of that freshman at U of T ring in my brain, and I clench my jaw. Their invasion of privacy has been taking over my life. This is the last time I want to hear about any of this shit or to be referred to as a playboy who’s sitting on a big pile of money and women, not providing anything to my team.

I grit my teeth. “The media’s job is to spin stories, and I don’t have the leisure to pay attention to every headline.”

“But your fans are paying attention,” she counters, unrelenting. “You know how to choose the girls, clearly.” That gets a chuckle from the room. I haven’t been reading about it, so their laughter puts me on edge. “Is it true Ms. Beaumont’s parents were charged for drug possession, and are currently trying to avoid imprisonment?”

My head snaps up so quickly that I feel a pull in my neck.

Mason says something, but I can’t hear him. Anger grips my throat, and my chest constricts at her words.

How the fuck do they know that?

Everything in me turns protective. My hands tighten into fists, and I have half a mind to flip over this mic and storm out of here.

I’m not sure if I’m exhausted by the contact intrusion, Marcus’s ultimatum from earlier, or the image of Sage’s hurt face that flashes in my mind, but the words spill out of me.

“She’s my girlfriend,” I blurt. “And I won’t entertain any disrespect toward her. So, that’s all the questions I’ll answer about my personal life.”

Camera shutters pause before they go off with a cacophony of more questions.

Fuck.