Page 72 of Waiting Game

“No? You got the balls to fuck Gracie Bukowski, dude. I’m thinking you’re not cutting yourself enough slack.”

His smirk is smug. “She’s a ball buster, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, those are two words that fit her,” I say dryly, but his pride shines off him like sunlight on a diamond and Gracie deserves that.

Hell, she deserves more.

A better bro than me, for sure.

Behind me, a barrage of players come wading into the locker room, bags slung over their shoulders, some barking at one another, others on the phone, a few shooting the shit.

Liam and I stride forward and find that we’re cubby buddies.

“Awwww, do you think Gracie was worried I wouldn’t make any friends?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. She’s a real mother hen.”

I dump my bag on my seat and grab the jersey that’s waiting for me—42. Korhonen. It’s a great feeling to be on board a promising organization with family.

“You know she’s bringing all the billet boys here at one point or another.”

“Likely,” he agrees.

“Not her brothers though. You watch her make them work for it.”

“Oh, yeah. You know how she rolls. She’s forgiven them for giving her shit, but payback is a bitch with her.”

My lips twist. “We gotta win the Cup for her this season. Let ‘em regret fucking G over.”

“With Raimond gone, we’ll make that happen. Dude was bad for team cohesion. No wonder we didn’t take it all the way during the playoffs.”

“Thought you’d have worked some orgasm magic on Gracie to get her to dump Greco from the net too.”

Liam squints at me. “You talk about Gracie’s ass, tits, pussy, or orgasms, I’m going to fuck you up.”

“Better than fucking me,” I preach piously, hiding a smile when he rolls his eyes. I knock him with my elbow. “I’m glad you’re together, bro. Don’t mean I won’t give you shit for it.”

“Shit, I expect. But no references to anything that isn’t PG.”

“PG?” Kyle Lewis, a forward on the first string and my original inspiration for hiring Mia as a coach, pops up. “Lemme guess, he’s giving you the lowdown on Gracie?”

“That’s GM to you,” Liam complains, punching Lewis in the bicep.

Jude Gagné, a defenseman, heaves a sigh. “You put a ring on the most terrifying woman in the league, Liam. You don’t have to worry about anyone poaching her.”

Liam jerks his thumb at Lewis. “You say that and dipshit here was drooling all over her?—”

“Right, peewees, listen up!”

I roll my eyes at Coach Bradley’s idea of an insult but turn to face him, smiling when I see Gracie standing at his side.

The new players cast bewildered looks at one another now that we have a chick in the locker room, but I’m not shocked—this is Gracie to a tee. Some even cover up like damsels in distress; others blatantly shove their bare asses in her direction.

I can almost see Liam taking notes on who he’s going to punish once we’re on the ice.

When he has our full attention, Bradley sneers, “This is Gracie Bukowski, our new GM?—”

“I want to make it clear—” Gracie interrupts when Bradley’s tone says he’s not happy about her being his boss. Hell, the man looks like he’s been chewing on habanero peppers. “—above the XX chromosome, bozos, the only letters that matter to you are G and M.” Proving that she spied some of the peacock-preening going on, she continues, “Would I prefer not to see your asses? Sure. But I’m not afraid of your bubble butts and wieners so if you don’t want me to comment on either, McIsaac, don’t think about mooning me.”

---