Page 51 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
"What if they follow through on the threat? What if they publish photos or make up stories?"
"Then we deal with it. But we don't let fear make decisions for us."
She nods, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she's twisting that damn ring finger again.
"Come here," I say, pulling her against my chest. She melts into me immediately, and I can feel some of the fight go out of her.
"I'm scared," she whispers against my shirt.
"I know. Me too. But remember I am always with you and we're going to figure this out."
Practice the next morning is an absolute shitshow of epic proportions. I'm playing like I've been possessed by the vengeful ghost of every enforcer who ever lived, throwing hits that are perfectly legal but completely unnecessary for a Tuesday morning skate.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Jamie demands during a water break, after I've just flattened two of our own rookies during what was supposed to be a light passing drill.
"Nothing's wrong."
"Bullshit. You just body-checked Martinez's nephew like he owed you money. The kid's twenty-one and weighs about as much as your left skate."
"He needs to learn to keep his head up."
"It's a passing drill, not gladiator combat!"
I take a long drink of water, trying to calm the rage that's been simmering under my skin since I saw that text. "I'm fine, Torres."
"You're about as fine as a screen door on a submarine. And your whatever-this-is is affecting the whole team. Look around."
I glance up to see half the guys giving me a wide berth, while the other half are whispering among themselves and shooting me concerned looks.
"Coach Martinez is heading this way," Jamie continues, "and he's got that expression that means someone's about to get a very serious talking-to. So either you tell me what's going on, or you explain to him why you're playing like a psychopath with anger management issues."
Before I can respond, Martinez appears beside us with his arms crossed and his coach face on full display.
"Kingston. My office. Now."
Fuck.
I follow him to his office.
"Sit down," Martinez says, closing his office door behind us. "And tell me what's eating you alive out there."
"Nothing, Coach. Just need to dial it back a little."
"A little?" He settles behind his desk and gives me that look—the one that says he's seen through every bullshit excuse in the book. "Son, you just played twenty minutes of practice like you were auditioning for the role of team enforcer. We have actual enforcers for that job."
"I was being aggressive. Thought that's what you wanted."
"I want controlled aggression. Strategic intensity. What I saw out there was a man with personal problems taking it out on his teammates."
The accuracy of that statement hits me right in the gut. "It won't happen again."
"It better not. Because whatever's going on in your personal life, you need to handle it or compartmentalize it. This team depends on your leadership, and leaders don't bring their emotional baggage onto the ice."
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Now get out of here and go apologize to everyone you tried to murder during passing drills."
An hour later, I'm sitting in my truck in the parking lot, calling the one person I know who can help us figure out who's behind that text.
