Page 7 of Power Play with My Brother's Irish Friends

3

DUNCAN

“Duncan, are you listening?” Coach droned on and on for so long, I started drifting.

The question snapped me back. “Aye, sir. I’m listening.” I laced my fingers together and stretched out my legs. My left knee ached after the vicious practice, and I held in a wince as I worked it side to side, bending it beneath the thick pads. Whatever reason Coach had called me into the office, I wished he’d hurry and get to the effing point.

Coach dropped his fisted hands onto the desk. “That last stunt you pulled.” He shook his head. “I thought we were past the PR nightmare bullshit.”

Heat crept up the back of my neck. “Eh. Was just a barfight. Nothing to get twisted up about.”

“A bar fight that ended up with two guys in jail. You’re lucky you had Austin there to talk sense into you before you were the third.” Coach pointed at me.

Fuck it to Amsterdam but I hated when people pointed at me like I was nothing more than a mangy cur to be corrected.

“I want you on this team.” The exasperation bled through, mingling with another head shake. “You have to put that kind of behavior behind you. You read your contract. You signed on the line. That means you understand part of your contract was to mend your image. You’re a fine Irishman, but you can’t go around brawling and cracking beer bottles on people’s heads.”

“What about on the ice?” I leaned forward just enough to stretch my spine and jammed my index finger into his desk. “I’m allowed to fight out there, yeah?”

“Within reason.” Coach conceded the point with a flash of a smile. “If you spend the whole game in the penalty box or thrown off the ice, we’ll be in here for another of these chats.”

Great. Just what I hoped to hear. I fought to control the white-hot rage simmering beneath the surface. It never went away, simply retreated far enough that I managed to hide it. Until it overwhelmed me and all hell broke loose. “I’ll do whatever it takes.” I meant it as best I could. I wanted to be on this team.

Coach leaned back, his chair protesting. He had the smallest office I’d ever seen. After being on the ice all morning, it stifled me with its close walls covered in the history of the game.

“First off, lose the attitude.” Coach didn’t point this time, but he might as well have from the way his gaze homed in. “You sound like a five year old getting put in time out.”

I arched both brows and pressed my lips so tight together they went numb. What the fuck did that mean?

“Look. I’ve hired the best publicist in the business. Follow her directions to a T. I don’t care if she tells you to do a backbend in the middle of the park or walk on all fours and bark like a dog. She says jump, your only response is ‘How high?’ Get it?” Standing, Coach rounded the desk. “She’ll get you back on track, but the grumpy, stoic shit has to go.”

“No grumpy, stoic shit. Got it.” I licked my finger and mimed marking a tally strike on a sheet. “There’s no need for the publicist.” I cracked my neck, one way, then the other. I’d dealt with their kind before. Bunch of tight-fisted stuff shirts with no charm or ability. “I’ll knock off the drinking and keep my head down. Once this blows over, and it will, I’ll stay on my best behavior.”

“Too late.” A light knock sounded on the thin door behind me. Coach motioned with one hand. “Come on in, Miranda.”

I turned to face the newest bane of my existence, expecting a wrinkled old woman wearing an expression like a soured lemon.

My jaw unhinged at the dark beauty who swooped into the office and shook Coach’s hand. Tall. Willowy. Dark hair and piercing gray eyes that cut with direct precision. “Good to see you again. Sorry it’s under these circumstances.” She disarmed the man with a smile. “This him?”

“He has a name.” Attractive or not, I’d not be talked around. Every other publicist I’d dealt with was either a strict old woman or an egotistical old man. They expected this girl to change my image and put me on the right track in the public eye? She couldn’t be old enough to know a bad rap if it bit her in the ass.

She turned that disarming smile my way. “My apologies, Duncan. I see what Coach meant when he said you were rough around the edges.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” I stood to face them both. My height intimidated most men and especially women. Once they took in the full scope of my hardened body, they backed down.

Miranda’s smile widened, her gray eyes sweeping over me with a challenge in the depths. “It means you love the game, and you struggle to reel in that passion when you’re not on the ice.” She circled me, her hands deep in her black slacks and her chin up. “It’s not a bad quality. And you’ve never had to be anything other than passionate. I’m here to teach you control.”

A snort tore loose. I shook my head. “You’re barking mad if you think you can tame me, lady.”

“Damned fucking straight. I didn’t say a thing about taming you.” She slid into the space between me and the desk, bringing a sweet, rosy scent cutting through the post-practice stench that permeated Coach’s office. “I’m talking about redirecting your activities off the ice.”

“I’ll leave you to discuss things. Make yourself at home, Miranda. We’re setting you up a place of your own. Until then, my office is yours.” Coach stopped at the door. I caught his hard glare in my peripheral vision when I tilted my head around. “Listen to her. Remember what I said.”

I tapped my forehead in a mockery of a salute.

Miranda stifled a laugh behind her hand. “Oh, you are going to be so much fun.” She sobered quickly. “You’ve never had to be anything other than a brawling hockey player. I’m here to make sure you keep that drive while teaching you how to maintain an image that keeps you on the public’s good side.”

“Why?” I saw no point in catering to the public. “They love me on the ice. Violence is acceptable.”

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