“Fucking piece of shit,” I mutter.
“You’re supposed to aim for the inside of the net, Birch,” my coach, Gene Thompson, yells across the ice in disgust. He’s been busting my ass the entire two-hour practice.
“He’s in a hell of a mood,” my left winger, Tony, says under his breath.
Before I can even respond, Gene’s yelling at me again. “On the line, Birch!”
I freeze along with all my other teammates. He has to be fucking joking. Players are rarely asked to skate line drills in the NHL, and when we are, it’s as an entire team after a terrible game.
Singling out your star center for line drills is…nuts. Not to mention completely offensive.
“The line?” I yell back. Even the defensive coach’s mouth is gaping open with surprise.
“Did I fucking stutter?” Gene roars. “Get your ass on the line!”
I swallow the retort I want to fire at him. He’s my coach, after all, and respect for coaches has been drilled into me since I started youth hockey twenty-two years ago at age four.
I skate to the line and wait for the blow of his whistle. When it sounds, I start skating. It fucking sucks doing line drills when I’m already wrung out from an exhausting practice.
Everyone’s watching, probably getting a kick out of this. I have been a bit of an asshole lately and I’m sure Gene wants to put me in my place in front of the whole team. Remind them all who’s boss.
Asshole. I skate as hard as I can to spite him, sweat rolling down my spine beneath my practice jersey.
He draws it out as long as possible, letting everyone else go shower while I keep skating back and forth between the lines. My thigh muscles are burning with exertion by the time he blows the whistle. I drop to my knees and take in several deep breaths.
“Five minutes to shower then get your ass into my office, Birch,” Gene snaps.
I narrow my eyes at his back as he leaves the ice. Obviously he’s trying to punish me, but for what, I have no clue. I’m the team captain, first line center and the team’s leading scorer. The league’s leading scorer. I was just profiled in Sports Illustrated. Am I an arrogant bastard at times? Hell yeah, but it’s not like I’m all talk.
Hockey is my life. I eat, breathe and sleep this sport, allowing very little distraction. Gene could use a whole team like me, players who aren’t soft.
The locker room is empty when I walk into it. I’m glad, because I don’t feel like talking to anyone. I strip down and step into a steaming shower, letting the water soothe my sore muscles. Looks like I won’t be working my legs in the weight room this afternoon.
I dress in shorts and a T-shirt and knock lightly on Gene’s door before opening it and walking in.
“Sit,” he says, looking at me over the top of his dark-rimmed glasses.
I lower myself into the chair in front of his desk and look at him, brows arched.
“Been having some fun at the bars after games?” he asks.
“Yeah, I guess. No more so than usual.”
“You are so fucking lucky you’re great, Jake. I wouldn’t go to bat for one of my players who was just good. Wouldn’t do it for someone who was just a nice guy, either. Which you are not, just so we’re clear.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m nice.”
“Yeah, as long as everything’s going your way.”
“That’s not true,” I say, shaking my head.
“Did you not throw a plate into the locker room wall recently when someone brought you the wrong sandwich?”
I lean forward in my seat. “It was creamy peanut butter on some whole wheat shit. I eat a crunchy peanut butter sandwich on white, cut in half, thirty minutes before every game. Everyone knows that.”
“Well the new intern didn’t, and you scared him shitless when you threw that plate.”
“He needs to nut up,” I mutter. “My mojo was off that whole game over that sandwich.
You know how I am about my pregame rituals.”
With a heavy sigh, Gene reaches into a folder on his desk. He takes something out and slides it across the desk toward me.
I look down at the photo of a smiling brunette and furrow my brow. “What’s this?”
“Does she look familiar?”
I shake my head. “Maybe a little, but I can’t place her.”
“Picture her on her knees.”
I meet Gene’s gaze across the desk. He’s not a trash talker. I can’t come up with where he might be going with this conversation.
“You met her three weeks ago,” he says. “At Jimmy’s place.”
I reach a hand around the back of my neck and study the photo closer. “Maybe…yeah. Why?”
“She says the two of you kissed in a back room and things got pretty hot and heavy.”
I remember her now. We were making out when she dropped to her knees and started licking and biting my erection through my jeans. That shit with her teeth hurt, so I resisted her efforts to unbutton my jeans. She pouted, but got over it.
“Yeah, that happened,” I say with a shrug. “But why—”
Oh shit. It hits me all at once and I can hardly breathe. This girl knows who I am and she’s either trying to bring me down or get a big settlement check.
“What is she accusing me of?” I ask, my whole body tensing nervously. “Because, Gene, I swear to you, it was consensual. No clothes even came off. I know I can be a dick, but not like—”
He puts a hand up to stop me. “She says it was consensual and that there was no sex.”
I sigh deeply, weak with relief. “Well then, what’s the problem?”
“Apparently you asked for her number and never called her.”
I narrow my eyes, feeling myself on the edge of laughter. “Yeah…? So she called you? And you give a shit because…”
“I actually don’t give a shit. I have film to watch and it’s my wife’s birthday tomorrow so I’m supposed to be out shopping for her right now. But instead I’m here, dealing with this bullshit, because your dumb ass messed around with the wrong girl.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Did she tell you her name?”
I grin sheepishly. “Probably. But I’m bad with details like that.”
“It’s Hailey Hampton, Jake.”