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Chapter one
Duckie
By the look onmy editor Yarro’s face, no matter what words come out of my mouth next, I’m totally fucked.
“Well? I’m waiting,” Yarro says, propping his elbows on his desk and leaning on his closed fists. “I’m assuming you have some way to explain how not one, butthreerival publications, feature one of my writers on the cover with Mango Garth’s wife?”
“They aren’t married yet.”
His eyes narrow, and I quickly move on. “I didn’t know who she was, and I definitely didn’t know she was engaged to a fucking hockey superstar. Do you think I’m that stupid?”
His brows rise. “I had hoped that my senior NHL writer would at least familiarize themselves with the people in the players’ lives enough to not make this kind of mistake. Twice. Was it Toby Arnolds’ wife last time or…”
“Girlfriend, and that was months ago, and it’s not like I’m the one who cheated. I’m an innocent victim in all this,” I say, and he reaches across from him, grabsTotal Sports, and opens to aphoto of a guy’s bare back, arms out at the sides as he’s holding a woman’s legs up in the air. You would think they’d censor that shit.
“You can’t prove that’s even me,” I scoff, and he slaps the magazine down in front of me. Right there, on the bottom edge of the photo, just above the right ass cheek, is a tiny yellow duck tattoo. Fuck.
“Okay, soyoucan tell, but again, not my fault. And what’s this shit?“ I ask, reading the headline.Who’s the man threatening the NHL?
“Mango Garth fractured his hand in three places. He’s off the ice.”
“What did he do, punch a wall? That’s hardly my fault.”
“I’m taking you off hockey.”
“What? No, you can’t.”
“See that sign on the door? It tells me I can do whatever the fuck I want. Besides, I have no choice. Boston, Tampa, and Toronto have all banned you from the locker rooms and pre- and post-game press meetings.”
“That still leaves a hell of a lot of games I can cover.”
“I can’t take the risk they shut you out and we miss a story. I’m giving you a new assignment until this shit dies down.”
“What else is there? You already have people covering all the major sports. You can’t send me to tennis!”
“What do you know about Banana Ball?”
I half expect him to burst out laughing like this is all some big joke. He can’t be serious! I’ve been a sportswriter for hockey for him for over three years now and he’s going to put me on Banana Ball? It’s not even the Majors. I know I messed up. Again. But I had no idea who either of those women were when I hooked up with them. I might have been a little buzzed—okay, a lot buzzed. There isn’t much to do when you’re on the road covering the games. A few drinks and dancing sounds like a good way topass the time when I’m not busy writing. True, I usually end up hooking up with some random person, but it’s better than going home alone. At least it used to be. I think it’s mostly a habit now. Like an itch that needs scratching that I can’t be bothered to scratch myself.
Yarro rubs his fingers across his forehead and sighs.
“Look, Brendan, you’re a talented writer. One of my best, but you fucked up royally this time. Get your shit together. Your flight leaves in two hours.” He used my real name. I’m really in the shit this time.
Wait. Flight? Fuck no. The last time I was on a plane, I spent most of the time with my face in a puke bag. Yarro knows I hate to fly, but as I open my mouth to protest, he tosses a plane ticket across the desk.
“Press conference is at five, copy is due by six. Oh, and try to keep your dick in your pants out there or you’ll be captioning graphics for a year.”
I shut my mouth, grabTotal Sportsand the ticket, and get the hell out of his office. Before I even get out of the building, I text Carter.
DUCKIE: I’m off hockey for who knows how long. I can’t believe this is happening.
My stomach churns as I flick through the pages to the article inside again. They don’t name me directly in the piece, but enough people within hockey know it’s me. That tattoo gave me away to more people than Yarro. I was out with a few of the boys from the Boston team when I first saw the article online. A few thought it was funny, but there was more than one beefed-up hockey player glaring my way. I got out of there before one of them decided they were drunk enough to start something. Fucking Ian Levram just had to jump on this story. Who even is he?
A text chimes on my phone. It’s from Carter and it’s a GIF of Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck ripping down posters from a pole one at a time as it flicks through duck season and rabbit season. His message comes through next.
CARTER: Everyone might be focused on our little Duckie right now, but it’ll be rabbit season again before you know it. We’re here for you, whatever you need.
I hate that stupid Looney Tunes joke. He’s been making it since I can remember. But he’s right. All I need is some other story to sweep through that gets them talking about something else. Anything else. A few weeks of Banana Ball and I’ll be back on hockey. I can do it for a few weeks. From what I’ve seen online, the Banana Ball players like to have fun, and fun is this little Duckie’s middle name.
