Page 13 of Pucking Dirty

"So…just your teammates, then." I grimace. "And Chad."

"Who the fuck is Chad?"

"We went to college together. He's the reason I didn't know sex was magical until…" I pretend to look at my phone. "Twenty minutes ago."

"What the fuck did he do to you, Emilia? I'll end him," Nash says, his voice dropping so low it sounds like thunder rumbling across the cab of the truck.

"Whoa. Make that sound again. That was hot."

"Start talking, princess," he growls.

"He didn't do anything to me. Well," I amend. "That's not entirely true. Sexual harassment is sexual harassment. It shouldn't be trivialized."

"You are not making me want to rip his head off and shove it up his ass any less right now," Nash warns, his tone black.

"We were lab partners my freshman year. He decided to whip his dick out in the middle of a study session and try to shove it in my hand."

"Jesus fucking Christ."

"If it makes you feel better, I punched him in the throat."

His lips curve into a wicked smile. "That does help. I still want to shove his own head up his ass, but good girl. Never let some asshole put his fucking hands on you without permission."

My stomach flutters at his praise. I do not hate when he calls me that.

"Anyway, he spent the rest of the year telling everyone I assaulted him. He left out the part where he pulled his dick out and tried to force it into my hand," I mutter. "He was popular. I wasn't. It was a very isolating experience."

"What a little prick."

"It was actually. And weird looking."

Nash doesn't laugh.

"I think he's the reason I decided to declare as a psych major, honestly. My mental health needed serious work that year." I tuck strands of hair behind my ear. "I don't want to end up in that same headspace because everyone thinks I'm sleeping my way through the team. It may surprise you, but I'm actually pretty good at this mental health thing."

"Not a damn thing about that surprises me, Emilia." He pulls to a stop at a red light, glancing over at me. "Why would it?"

"I can be a lot for some people," I say, shrugging. I'm not ashamed of it, but it's the truth. I was raised by a single father who spent his whole life on the ice, surrounded by hockey players. I've never been appropriate or well-behaved. I'm not entirely sure what either of those things even look like.

I say what's on my mind. I give as good as I get. I rarely ever back down. And on most days that end in Y, I'm a whole damn mess. But that's the beauty of knowing who you are and what you believe in. It's the joy that comes with having a parent who embraces every loud, messy part of you and wants you to thrive exactly as you are. No one ever tried to pour me into a mold and chip away the edges that didn't fit.

I was always allowed to just…be.

I want the same exact things for the people who come to see me. Everyone deserves that freedom. I can't talk people through their issues and coach them into being their authentic selves if I'm not authentically myself.

I can't help but worry that the team and management may be expecting someone…a lot less like me, though. Most people do. I do not want to add to any preconceived notions by getting a reputation right out of the gate. People accuse women of sleeping their way to the top every day. I don't want to be one of them, especially when I'm already going to be judged because my father is the head coach.

I leave out the part about my dad threatening to send Nash down to the minor league team to make an example out of him. I don't want to hide it from him. I just…really don't want him to decide this isn't worth the risk.

Can't I have one night before being the Coach's daughter ruins it? That's been the story of my life. I don't want it to repeat itself this time. Not with Nash.

Maybe that's selfish and unfair of me. I don't know. But I want Nash badly enough to accept those labels.

"Yeah, well, they weren't the right people then," Nash mutters, reaching over to touch my cheek. "Professional doesn't mean you have a stick up your ass. I've known doctors who have wheelchair races in the halls and scientists who pilfer supplies to make dick molds."

"Of their own…?" I stare at him with wide eyes.

He shrugs. "People are who they are. Professional means you know your shit and know when to act like you have it together. It doesn't mean you've gotta walk around with a superiority complex seven days a week."

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