“I know, but I’d like to have the option.”
Reid looked like he wanted to say something else and had to be dragged out by Kennedy, leaving Bast to breathe a sigh of relief.
He’d prefer to ignore social media right now, given how he didn’t want to read shit posts about himself, but after Kennedy said Pepper was being dragged by the press, he needed to know the details.
Nothing good, most of it in the vein of, How many stupid bitches does it take to ruin two athlete careers?
Bast scanned the rest, the bad jokes and tasteless jibes, all at Pepper’s expense. He was getting out of it largely Scot-free. No one was talking about his inability to stay upright—one of the requirements of his job. Instead it was all about the “lump” who had collided with him. There were even insults about her weight.
He checked back on his messages, noting he had one from Connor. Of all the people, it seemed Calhoun might be the one who could answer some of Bast’s niggling questions. He dialed the guy’s number.
“Durand, I can’t believe my sister took you out!”
“It was an accident.”
“Yeah, sure, but it looked rough, man. I had no idea Pepperoni had such wicked checking skills.”
Bast’s stomach curdled. “Give her a break, okay?”
“Why? Should have known this would end in tears. She’s kind of a jinx. Ask Gallagher.”
“Or I could ask you.”
Connor snorted. “Look, I love my sister, but she has the worst luck. When we were kids, she was always breaking shit—bones, glasses, you name it. Usually other people’s stuff.” He chuckled in memory, then got serious. “And she broke poor Gally’s heart. The guy was a mess after she was done with him.”
“So she made him get into fights with teammates and lose his mojo so badly he was sent down to the AHL?” Kennedy was onto something there. “Assigning an awful lot of credit to your sister, Calhoun.”
“Listen, I would never introduce anyone to my sister if I didn’t think he was a good guy. Hell, I’ve warned off enough jerks to last a lifetime. But Gally was crazy about her, and when she broke it off, he went a bit nuts.” He scoffed. “I’d never let a chick get to me like that, but some guys are obsessed, y’know.”
Bast had seen that, mostly with his brother. But for a woman to have that kind of impact on a guy’s play outside of physically knocking him over … “You really think your sister is to blame for Gallagher’s downward spiral?”
“Hey, I know it takes two and all that, but the guy was doing great one day, not so great the next, and my sister is in the middle of it. I’m just sorry you had to get caught up in her orbit.”
Sure, some chicks were magnets for drama, but Bast didn’t think one person could have that much influence. She wasn’t Lady Macbeth, for Christ’s sake.
“Maybe it’s your fault.”
Connor sniffed. “What?”
“Maybe you’re the common denominator. You’re friends with Gallagher and me, so maybe you’re the reason for all this fuckery.”
“That makes no sense, man.”
Exactly. “Just like one person isn’t to blame for the demise of several careers.”
And Bast’s career was doing just fine! This was a temporary setback.
“Still sticking with the ‘this is an accident’ line?” Connor asked, sounding amused. Fucker. Why they were friends was beyond him.
“Yep.”
“You know there’s one good thing about all this,” Connor went on.
“Enlighten me.”
“With your wrist injured this past year, you’ve already gotten plenty of jerk-off practice with your other hand.”
“Bye, dickhead.” He hung up on Calhoun’s laughter and headed to his room to finish packing.
11
Several esteemed members of the press were hovering near the entrance to the player lot, eager to get a jump on whatever sound bites Bast would be spoon-feeding them during the presser.
“Bast, how’s the wrist?”
“Any word on your expected return?”
“Do you think you’re a victim of the Pepper curse?”
The Pepper curse? He turned to the speaker of that one, some idiot he didn’t recognize. Even his fellow journos were giving the questioner the side eye because that was absurd. So her own brother had mentioned her being a jinx, but really? A curse?
Fucking sports people.
He dialed up his good humor, though it was in short supply lately. “I’m going to keep the good stuff for in there.”
When Sophie had called to tell him about the presser, his hungover ass had responded with a surly, “Why the hell do I need to talk to the press?”
Sophie had sighed, well-used to the whining of diva hockey players. “Because you’re still a member of the team and have required press duties. And people are going to want to hear about your injury straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. This way we can assure everyone that you’re on the mend and there’s nothing to see here.”
Whatever. He usually enjoyed press stuff. He had a good relationship with the reporters, and he recognized the give and take necessary so people liked you and said nice things about you.
You’re such a people pleaser, Reid would say.
As his brother spoke mostly in scowl to his wife and teammates, Bast would not be taking criticism from him, even if today he was feeling more like the Reid of old: grumpy, taciturn, unwilling to bend.
“Surely Coach can give the usual spiel,” he’d said to Sophie, a last-ditch effort to escape.
“Nope! I’ll send a car in an hour.”
He just wanted to stay home and wallow, or better yet head to an isolated cottage by the lake to lick his wounds. Again, not his wheelhouse at all. Was he becoming more like his brother? Was there only so much happiness allotted to the Durand brothers and now Reid was using it all up?
“I can drive myself.”
“The team’s medics won’t sign off on that.”
“I’ll see you at eleven. Don’t bother with the car.” He’d hung up then hit the shower, a thirty-minute effort to wash away his hangover and show the world he was absolutely fine. He had plenty of experience over the last year putting on a smiling front. He’d also dumped his overnight bag into the trunk so he could head straight to Reid’s lake house afterward.
Walking into Rebels HQ, the first person he met was Fitz, the Rebels’ general manager, who must have been hovering near the entrance.
The guy did his best, but there was no missing his surprise at seeing Bast looking so rough, his bloodshot eyes telling a sorry tale. While Bast was sure the alcohol was no longer leaking from his pores, he knew he looked as bad as he felt.
“How’s it going?” Spoken at a protect-Bast’s-poor-head volume.
“It’s going.” He liked Fitz, who was a tough but fair negotiator, and had taken a chance on him when no one else would. “I’m sorry about this.”
“Hey, now, not your fault.”
Meaning it was Pepper’s? Sounded like that was the party line. “Yeah, I just want to get this over with.”