Page 1 of The Rebound
1
SAINT
When Coach Wilder asks you to stick around after practice with his permanent stink-eye cranked up to full power, you stick around.
Even if there’s a hot girl waiting for you at a high-end bar just a short drive away. Even if her open-minded best friend is there too, and you’ve all made arrangements to party back at your place after a couple of drinks.Ménage à troispending.
No, you forget all that, shower fast, change, and get your ass to your coach’s office in all of ten minutes.
With a couple of minutes to spare, I’m towel-drying my hair when my phone buzzes. My cracked screen shows I have three messages.
thanks for calling ahead and opening your tab babe.
u really are a saint :)
cece and i just ordered shots. hurryyyy
Grinning, I take a low-angle photo of my glistening abs and attach it to my response.
just showering for you babes ;) be there soon
“Are you seriously sexting right now?”
I look up to find our starting center, Alex Braun, doing what he does best. Judging me.
Stashing my phone in my pocket, I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “When demand is high, I gotta supply. Oh shit, that rhymes. Think I should get it tattooed on my ass? You’re the expert of ass tattoos, aren’t you?”
Alex scowls at me, but a grin widens across his face before he can help it.
The poor bastard lost a bet with me last year and now has a heart-eyed emoji on his left ass cheek. I’d say he definitely got the better end of the deal, seeing how he’ll be marrying the woman that I bet he’d fall for. He gets the gorgeous Aspen on his arm for the rest of his life, and I get to make fun of him for the rest of mine. It’s a win-win situation.
“Such a player,” is all he can manage to say back, shoving my shoulder not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make me lose my balance.
Why do people call me a player? So what if I want to enjoy my life and have fun ... how is that playing games? Sex positivity is a thing, and I enjoy the hell of it.
I pull a Boston Titans T-shirt on over my head before heading out of the locker room and down the hall toward Coach Wilder’s office. My back’s been bugging me lately, and I’m sure he’s noticed it affecting my posture on the ice. I’m not sure how I pulled it, but it could have something to do with my most recent blackout adventure at the club ... which, I’ll admit, wasn’t my finest moment.
It’s not like I make it a habit of letting my social life interfere with my work. I’d even argue that my work-life balance is pretty damn healthy. After all, hockey isn’t a sport for athletes who can’t commit to excellence. The game is brutal and the rules are strict—so strict, in fact, that I can’t be bothered to follow any other rules in life. I give my one hundred percent to the team, and the rest of it? You guessed it. Fast cars, eager women, and enough cash in my pocket to bribe the bouncer. Gotta let loose somehow, right?
I knock on Coach’s cracked-open door, interrupting a hushed conversation inside. “Whoa, the party is in here,” I say jokingly, misreading the room.
No one laughs. Tough crowd doesn’t even begin to cover it. Coach is flanked on both sides by our team captain, Walker Reeves, and the Boston Titans’ owner, Eden Wynn.
Coach and Reeves look up with blank expressions, but Eden narrows her eyes at me. She’s never really liked me, seeing as I’m tight with her ex, Ass-Tattoo Alex. The two of them are all good now, but she’s still not my biggest fan. Probably blames me for the team’s poor public image, now that Alex has renounced his bad-boy ways in favor of being a total bore.
“I’ll leave you three to it,” she says, giving Coach Wilder a pointed look before breezing by me without so much as a greeting.
I must be in some pretty deep shit.
A smirk twitches at the corner of my mouth. Who am I kidding? I love a little trouble.
“Take a seat, Saint.” Coach’s voice is stern, but no more than it usually is. The man needs a vacation, and I’m not the first to say it.
On my way to the chair, I spot a small stack of paper sitting in the printer tray. From the obnoxious header logo of the one on top, I can already tell what this conversation is gonna be about—I’ve hit my bad-behavior quota this month, and it’s time to lay low. At least until next month.
“You can probably guess what this is about,” Coach says with a weary sigh. The man’s not much older than any of us, but the stress of the job is already painting strands of silver in his hair. Poor guy. He’s the youngest coach in the league, so he’s got a lot to prove.
“I haven’t been keeping up with the tabloids,” I say with a sly grin, scratching my chin. “What’d I do this time?”
