Page 1 of Playoff
Ishe Tayco
Chapter 1
Extreme makeover
Alek
* * *
I climbed out of my Lamborghini in the players’ parking lot of the LA NHL facility. The California breeze lifting my cap was cool in January. At least to me. After spending my entire hockey career in Florida, Texas, Nevada and SoCal, my blood was thin. Still, beat the hell out of places like Edmonton and Winnipeg.
The hat twisted around, loose on my head. I'd need to adjust it now that I'd shaved off my hair. I ran a hand over my newly smooth jaw. I was regretting the extreme makeover, but the anger that inspired it was still burning in my core.
I checked the cars in the lot, a growl threatening when I saw Weasel's Ferrari. Fucking double-crosser. I shut the car door, careful not to slam it, and stalked to the players’ entrance, ready for my close-up. The haircut made a statement, and everyone on the team would find out what had really happened in our game last night.
I pushed open the door to the locker room, where at least half the roster players were already assembled, changing for practice, shooting the shit, making plans. My stall mates weren't there yet, so I had space on each side. I pulled off my hat, threw it on the top shelf. Hung up my jacket and stashed my shoes. Slowly, the noise level dropped. I reached for the hem of my T-shirt and pulled it over my head. My full sleeves were on display, but that wasn’t what attracted attention.
"What the fuck? Is that you, Denny?" team captain Marty asked.
I turned around, every guy’s stare on my smooth head and jaw. I crossed my arms. "What's the problem?"
"Your hair. What happened to your hair?"
Last night, when we’d left after the game, my hair fell to my shoulders. I often had to tie it back to keep it from falling in my face. Not now. The full beard was also gone.
I shrugged. "I lost a bet."
Marty’s eyes bugged. "Who…what the hell?"
I turned my head until my glare was pinned on Weasel. "Someone bet that I couldn't get away with an illegal stick last night."
The guys were quiet again for a moment, since the resulting penalty had led to our loss.
"That's why you had that stick?" Marty sounded pissed.
I nodded, gaze still focused on Weasel. "It was supposed to be just the first couple of shifts. Everyone knows that none of the coaches risk stopping the game to ask for measurements." If a coach was wrong, they'd be assessed a delay of game penalty.
"But you got caught, dumbass."
I looked at Beano, Weasel’s best friend. "Because the guy who bet me told San Jose what was going on."
I heard the sucked-in breaths. For a teammate to deliberately give up a power play? That shocked them. Some of these guys believed their teammates were all loyal. News flash—they weren’t. Everyone was out for themselves.
Marty frowned. "Why did you bother shaving, then? It wasn't a fair bet."
"Because I don't cheat. Or weasel out of consequences. I follow through. Some of the guys in this room are not to be trusted." I was pissed that I’d forgotten that, thanks to tequila and a misguided belief that I had friends.
Everyone’s eyes were focused on Weasel. "Fuck you, Denny," he spat.
"What the fuck, Weasel? Why would you do that?" Marty was almost as pissed as I was.
Weasel turned to the others, all watching him in shock or anger or disappointment. "He slept with my sister!"
This? Again?
"I told you, I didn't know who she was," I growled. “You didn’t mention that she was visiting and joining us at the bar. You buggered off with some jersey chaser so how the hell was I supposed to know she was related to you?”
Two months ago, I’d been out at a club with Weasel and Beano. With the two of them nowhere to be found, I’d been approached by a woman wearing a short, sexy dress and enough makeup that no one could see a resemblance to my teammate. She’d been all over me, wanting sex, and I'd obliged. If I’d known who she was, I wouldn’t have touched her, but I didn’t ask for ID.
