Chapter 1
I didn’t fuck the owner’s daughter. It was a blow job.
“Swain,getinmyoffice.”
That phrase ranks near the bottom of things any man wants to hear, barely squeaking in above “We got your STD test results back. Please put on this gown and try not to touch anything.”
But this directive came from my hockey coach rather than my doctor, so my summoning today seems to be of the career variety rather than a medical one.
Ah, you’ll live to ride another day,I silently tell my cock as I run the soapy washcloth over him.
“Now, Swain!” Coach Belford bellows from the other side of the door, so I drop the cloth onto the black-and-white tiled floor with a wet plop. And like the smartass I am, I stroll from the shower room as naked as the day I was born, dripping water in my six foot, four inch wake.
“Fuck’s sake, Swain,” Coach groans, averting his gaze when I walk into the locker room. “Put some goddamn clothes on.Thencome to my office.”
“Just doing as I was told, Coach,” I say amicably, earning me some much deserved grumbles as he stalks out the door and into the green-and-white bedecked hallway. Pretty sure I hear the word cocky being bandied about, but I wisely refrain from making a cock joke. I’ve done enough to amuse myself for today.
After returning to the shower and rinsing the soap from my body, I dry off and dress in a long-sleeved Raptors shirt and sweats, since this May is unseasonably cool, even for Denver.
“I’m here, Coach,” I say, settling onto one of the tiny wooden chairs across from his desk. I’m pretty sure he bought the damn things at an elementary school fire sale. It’s probably a power move on his part since he’s sitting in his very roomy leather chair with an indiscernible look on his face.
“Reno,” he sighs, and I’m instantly on high-alert at the use of my first name. He always calls meSwain. Or sometimesasshole, depending on the situation.
“What’s going on?” I ask, and he leans forward with his forearms on his beat up wooden desk, his eyes downcast for a long moment before lifting to mine. I see something there. Regret, maybe?
“Son, you’re being traded.”
A bomb explodes inside my head. At least, that’s what it feels like. I hear the boom and feel the painful shatter. My lips move, but I don’t speak.
“I’m sorry, Reno.”
At least I can still hear.
Noise finally makes its way up my throat and out of my mouth, a strained sound that I quickly wrangle into a question. A word, really.
“Why?”
“The official party line is that the new owner wants fresh blood.”
“B-but I’ve been the best goddamn defenseman in the league for six years running.”
“Actually, last season, you were second.”And that still chaps my ass.
“Barely, and only because I missed two weeks after having my knee scoped. But I rehabbed my ass off in physical therapy and returned four weeks ahead of schedule.”And played through the pain with a fucking smile on my face.
“I know that, Reno.”
Something he said clicks in my head like a light bulb. “Wait, you said theofficialparty line is that the new owners want new blood. Is there anunofficialparty line?”
Belford’s lips close into a tight slash before he emits a long sigh. “Word got back to Mr. Priestner that you fucked his daughter in a broom closet at the welcome party last week.”
Oh. That.
“I didn’t fuck the owner’s daughter,” I insist. “It was a blow job.”
Coach closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Swain…”
“And I didn’t know that was his daughter. She just told me her name was Tiffy and she wanted to have a little fun. I assumed she was a puck bunny. You know, one of the many that are always invited to our parties?” I say with more than a little indignation.
