Page 7 of Lawson

Brian is gone, hopefully for good after he saw me kissing Blakely.

Fuck, I forgot it was all for show for a minute. And I think she did too, if the way she's looking at my mouth is any indication.

“Blakely, I’m?—"

“It's okay, hero,” she cuts me off, gently nudging me toward my captain. “Go. You don't want to upset him.”

I furrow my brow, but I'm already taking a few steps backward, unable to take my eyes off her.

“We need to revisit this,” I say giving her my best smile and showing her the full intention of what I mean as I wag my finger between us.

She smiles and shakes her head. “Bangor isn't that big,” she says. “I'm sure I'll see you around.”

Something like sadness sweeps over her face as she turns, heading to say something to the bartender as I finally reach Kiplin who all but drags me out of the bar.

“I was coming,” I say as we move through the doors and head toward our cars parked in the lot.

“I was making sure you weren't,” he snaps, jerking his car door open so hard I'm afraid it might tear off.

“The fuck is your problem?”

“You'll find out soon enough,” he says. “Don't be fucking late tomorrow.” He slams his door and drives off without another word.

“Don't be fucking late tomorrow,” I say in a mocking tone as I get behind the wheel of my car and head toward my apartment that is in no way fully set up yet.

Luckily, I have a mattress on the floor. I crash against it, desperate for sleep, but it stays just out of reach.

I can't get Blakely out of my head, her scent out of my nose, or the feel of her mouth off of mine.

Fuck, I haven't been this juiced up over a kiss in years. And I know I've got a new camp practice thing to go to tomorrow and I need to focus, but it’s hard to get her out of my head. Logically, I know it’s for the best we didn’t swap numbers. The last thing I need is a distraction when I have a losing team to bring back to life, but she’d certainly be afundistraction. And who knows, if I’m meant to see her again, maybe we’ll run into each other again atThe Queen’s Rum. If not? Then it’s for the best anyway.

I focus on that certainty and force myself to get to sleep so my captain doesn't murder me tomorrow.

The Bangor Badgers practice facility is located just a few miles away from our home arena. The building is equipped with a rink, the best workout facilities a guy could ask for, and the standard locker rooms and showers. There are only a few bleachers that surround the rink, allowing for small audiences when it comes to practice. We're all suited up and lingering on the ice as the new owner—dressed in a suit more expensive than my car—introduces himself from where he stands next to our other coaches on the opposite side of the rink.

“I'm Crossland McClaren,” he says. “I’m sure you're all wondering why I've asked you to come out two weeks earlier than we would for normal practice?—”

“We're not wondering,” I cut the owner off. What? I've always struggled with my filter. “We need it. Whatever it is you're about to throw at us has to be because you want tonotlose this year, am I wrong?”

McClaren smirks narrows his gaze and shifts his immaculate suit jacket.

Coach Hardin whispers something to McClaren, answering some question, no doubt about the asshole who cut him off.

McClaren smiles, understanding flashing in his eyes as he returns his focus to me. “So you're our number one draft pick,” he says to me.

I nod and puff my chest out proudly.

“I'm the one who's going to turn this team around,” I answer, and a few grumbles from the team sound next to me. It doesn't bother me; I may talk a lot of shit, but I can back it up on the ice.

“Interesting,” McClaren says. “I'll let your performance tell me that, but first let’s get back to basics. This preemptive practice camp isn’t just because I want to win this season, which I do. Badly. It's because I’ve run a successful team out of Calgary for almost a decade. I know how to earn wins. I know what they taste like. I know they take more thanoneplayer that was drafted first, no matter how talented their stats out of Denver are.” He cocks a brow at me, and I purse my lips.

That's fair.

“Now,” he continues as if that settled the matter. “This practice is about sharpening skills that you no doubt let get rusty because you're comfortable with them. We have a ton of new faces on the team this year—mine included—and there will be new things we're doing this year—adding flexibility, mindfulness practices, and team exercises into our regular regime. I expect you to meet every requirement with enthusiasm. Whatever your coaches ask of you while you're here in this facility you better meet and exceed, or you'll be traded faster than we can get to our first game. I know the previous owner was a prick, but that's not me. I'm about teamwork because I know that leads us to wins. If you have an issue that's going to get in the way of your performance, come talk to me. I won't be a dick to you like the last owner was. I actually give a shit.”

Coach Hardin nods, something like hope shaping his features as he looks out to the team around me as McClaren gives him the floor.

“I'm going to divide you into groups,” Coach says. “There will be four sections with four focuses, and each one comes with its own expert. One will be strength training, one will be recovery, one will be game strategy, and one will be skate skills.”

---