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“Win streak,” I needlessly correct.
“Hennington!” Margot huffs upon her arrival at my side, face in full fledge panic. “I need to-”
“Yo, GM,” Leslie Ryann—or Ry Dog—one of the affiliate players from our AHL suddenly calls out, “isn’t that you?”
Looking over to see where he’s pointing leads to me redirecting my attention to the slightly off to the side flatscreen that been playing STN all afternoon, except now instead of viewing last season highlights and special charity events from around the country, it’s my archnemesis, Florence Ramirez who tends to do more gossiping than real shop talk.
And to make matters more unsettling…she’s fighting the urge to smirk at what I assume is my expense.
Fuck, I swear she’s gotta be the long, lost, gave up for adoption daughter of Ursula because this twat is a sea bitch running around on land for sure.
Margot rushes to say my name again as I untangle myself from Brendan, grab the nearby remote, and increase the volume, “Henning-”
“This is quite unprofessional,” Florence calmly states to her on air partner, Timothy Warren, “and I honestly don’t know how the league will be responding to these allegations.”
“What allegations?!” I thoughtlessly shriek at the screen.
“For those of you just joining us,” she smoothly shifts her gaze back to the camera like she heard me, “reports regarding inappropriate conduct between Harlow Hennington, the new GM and owner of the Dalvegan Dragons, and Brendan Brickley, one of the team’s assistant equipment managers, have recently surfaced. Statements have been made to STN exclusively from multiple sources near the woman in question regarding the nature of their relationship. These sources believe the relationship between this boss and employee to be one with not only fraudulent beginnings that include blackmail-”
“I didn’t blackmail anyone!”
“-but to be one that is continuing to add financial hardships that the new owner of the club cannot afford.”
“I’m not fucking broke!”
“One source in particular has expressed going to the league with additional concern that a pending child is a direct result of these misconduct allegations, which violates Dalvegan’s inhouse as much as the league’s increasing tight fraternization policies.”
“Child?” croaks one of the players, although I can’t say who without turning to look because the only distinct sound, I can hear is blood thrumming in my ears.
“Like a…like…a baby?” another member of the team questions in what appears to be confusion.
“You pregnant, GM?” someone else inquires.
“You got somethin’ cookin’ in your sin bin, bro?” one more player jokes.
Timothy sucks in an overdramatic sharp breath, “Yikes, Florence. That is not quite the ideal pre-season start, especially for a team that already has so much on the line.”
A block of dread plummets to the pit of my stomach.
“A team that is already so close to completely folding given the contract and other conduct issues they’ve been facing,” she states with a hint of victory in her tone. “I cannot imagine something like this will win them any points with their fans or the league.” Her smug face looks back into the camera. “We have contacted Miss Hennington’s camp for response yet have been unable to reach them for a comment.”
Losing my grip on the remote happens in tandem with me shouting at Margot, “What?!”
“That would be one of things I came running over here to talk to you about,” she heavily sighs in defeat.
There’s no stopping my eyes from bulging out of my skull.
“We have however been in contact with Miss Hennington’s mother-”
“What?!” I bark both Margot and the TV’s direction.
“-who will be giving us an exclusive opinion regarding the subject in question as well as her daughter’s turbulent transition into ownership.”
“And that would be the other,” my best friend defeatedly exhales once more.
Both hands cover my face in frustration.
Humiliation.
Embarrassment.
Of course, this is happening to me.
Because why wouldn’t it fucking happen to me?
Afterall, Brendan is right.
One of us is on a fucking win streak while the other?
The other cannot pick up a goddamn W like the team she is now in charge of thanks to her dad dying before properly training her on how to skate this rink away from the railing.
“Fuckkkkkkkk!” is the only exclamation I can fathom screaming repeatedly at foghorn level during my hasty storm away from the party to my upstairs ensuite bathroom where I plop down on the edge of my white, freestanding tub. “Fuck!”
Two familiar—and honestly expected faces—come barreling through the door immediately afterward.
Margot is first to speak, “Henning-”
“Fuck!”
She uses two fingers to flip strands away from her forehead. “Yes, I am aware of that.”
My hands grip the edge of the white furniture to assist in my leaning towards. “Fuccckkkk.”
“Yes, I am aware of that, too.”
“Are you aware that she’s not actually saying anything other than the word fuck?” Brendan cautiously asks on an arching of his pierced eyebrow.
“Tone, Tiny Tim. Different fucks, at different tones, mean different things.” She tosses him an unimpressed glance. “You’re still new here. You’ll learn it eventually.” The parting of my lips to belt out the word yet again is promptly stopped by a stern finger point. “Not that fuck, Hennington. Not until you’ve calmed down.”
