He glances around to make sure no one else can hear us, but the cabin is empty, and the flight attendants and crew are busy with their post-flight checklists.
A tiny chill rolls through my spine.
What the hell could he have to say that no one else can hear?
He gives one final look around us before focusing his attention on me. “We need to talk about Bash.”
I sigh and set my bag back down on the seat next to me. “Bash isn’t going to be a problem anymore. I'm going to talk to Bob.”
There’s no way I’m going into any details with Lebedev, but I don’t think anyone on the team doesn’t know Bash is going to get raked over the coals.
“Fuck.” He runs a hand over his stubbled jaw. “I can't believe I'm gonna say this. Because you know how I feel about that asshole. He walked on this team like he owned it and took my spot. So, you know he's not my favorite person in the world. That's why saying this hurts even more.”
“Saying what?”
What the hell is he getting at?
He sighs and leans forward to rest his arm on the back of the seat in front of me. “We all saw what went down last night during the game. But you don’t know the whole story.”
“What do you mean the whole story?”
“What I mean is, you don't know why Bash went after Berglund.”
I snort and roll my eyes. “Bash goes after whoever he wants, whenever he wants.”
Lebedev chuckles and nods. “That's true. Most of the time. But, there was actually a reason this time. One I think might change how you feel about the situation.”
I scoff. “I highly doubt that.”
If there were, Bash would have told me himself last night in my room, but I certainly can’t tell Lebedev that.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “You need to give Bash a little more credit.”
Strong words coming from the man who’s essentially his biggest enemy on the team.
“Why? He sure as hell hasn't earned it.”
“You want to know why Bash went after Berglund?”
I push up to my feet. “Of course, I do, if there is one.” Not that it’s going to change how I feel about the entire situation, but it might shed a little light on what was happening in Bash’s head.
“Because that fucker said something to Bash about how hard he banged you the night before the game.”
I jerk back and search his face for any signs of humor. “You’re shitting me.”
He shakes his head, and his lips twist into a scowl. “I wish I could say I was. I’m sorry I even have to repeat it to you, but I thought you needed to know. He said it to Bash, but I was only a few feet away and heard it, too. Bash didn’t go after Berglund for no reason or because he was pissed about that hit. He went after the douchebag because he was defending you.”
Well, shit.
That definitely does put what happened in a different light and makes me look like a real asshole.
BASH
All I want to do is lie on this bed, eating room service, and drinking the bottle of scotch Carter sent over. Nothing else exists as far as I'm concerned. The ten voicemail messages I received since the game last night can go not listened to forever, for all I care.
I don't need to hear everyone in my life tearing into me about what happened. I don't need everyone trying to make me feel like shit when they have no idea what really went down.
Rachel…Carter…hell, even Jameson has tried to get in contact with me, no doubt to weigh in on a situation they have no clue about.
I'm determined to just lie here and drink and wait for word on my suspension. The Department of Player Safety should hand down a decision today. The telephone hearing was agonizing this morning. Bob stood behind me with the panel, even without knowing the real reason behind what happened. I never plan to repeat what was said to anyone, but given my history, it’s likely going to be at least six games, maybe more.
Two more fucking weeks lost…
I pour a glass of Lagavulin and down it in two swallows. The smoky burn down my throat is a welcome break from the burn of anger over what Greer said.
She really does think I’m a piece of shit on her otherwise pristine shoes. That woman doesn’t believe it’s possible for me to have acted for a reason she would deem justifiable.
Well, she’s not worth my fucking time.
As soon as this season is over, I’ll ask Bob to trade me somewhere far the fuck away from the Scorpions. I may end up somewhere shitty, but it will be worth it to go somewhere I can play on a team with a coach who trusts me and wants me on the ice.
A knock at the door sends my empty glass tumbling to the bed.
Shit. I’m jumpy.
It’s probably my food. I’m fucking starving. I crashed hard when I got back from the airport and slept straight through lunch and dinner. Maybe I’ll feel better once I get something else in my stomach besides expensive booze.
I push to my feet and make my way to the door. I pull it open, and my breath catches.
This is definitely not room service.
A familiar set of haunting green eyes look back at me.
“Coach. What are you doing here?”
She looks almost scared as she stares up at me from under long, heavy black lashes. “Hey, Bash. Can we talk?”
Holy déjà vu of my visit to her room.
Only now, she's the one who looks contrite.
But why?
I was expecting never to see her again after all that talk about being banished this season. All signs pointed toward her bending over backward to see that I was canned, but instead, Coach is standing here, looking at me in a whole new way.
Like I’m a human being.
I’m not entirely sure what to do with it, but I sweep my arm back, inviting her into my room. I may be pissed, but I’m not going to slam the door in her face. Mother taught me better manners than that.
She steps to the door hesitantly, her eyes scanning the suite. “Well, they sure put you up in a nice place.”
I shrug and let the door close. “Better than most of the places I've stayed. I should be looking for a permanent place to live, but honestly, I may just stay here. Room service and maids. It’s better than doing it all on my own in a house or apartment.”
Coach twists her hands in front of her and avoids making eye-contact.
She’s nervous? That’s a first.
“What can I do for you, Coach? You come tell me about my suspension?”
It would be unusual not to hear from the GM or someone from the department, but maybe this is an unusual circumstance. Maybe she asked to be the one to deliver the shitty news.
She sighs and walks over to the row of windows that overlook the Strip. “No.” Her shoulders rise and fall as she sucks in a deep breath. “I came to apologize.”
I freeze and shake my head. The scotch must be fogging my brain. She didn’t just say that.
Did she?
Her soft green eyes glance over at me like she’s waiting for a response.
Hell. Maybe she did say that.
I lean against the wall and try to figure out what her angle is here. “Apologize for what?”
A long silence draws out after my question, and she stares off out the windows. “For what I said last night. I didn't know…”