Page 9 of Full Tilt
Me
True. I’ll think about the game. Right now, I need to get out of here, undetected. The shower just stopped.
Snatching my bag up from the chair, I creep across the bedroom, a small sense of guilt settling inside me as I pull the door open and close it quietly behind me. Jason doesn’t deserve to be abandoned, but I’m calling time on tonight.
I take the stairs quickly and breathe a sigh of relief when the front door opens. Bringing my finger to my lips, I quickly shush his cute Westie dog and silently step out into the Brooklyn night air.
Heading up the sidewalk to flag down a taxi, I type out a final message to the group.
Me
Mission accomplished. I’m out and free. A quick roundup of the night: two drinks, a cute Westie dog that I’d honestly rather have snuggled than his owner. Zero orgasms were achieved, and I’m ten out of ten grabbing Chick-fil-A on my way home. Screw the nutritional plan. I need junk food.
CHAPTER THREE
TOMMY
After a zero to two loss in the opening game of the regular season, I’m minding my own business and listening to Black Sabbath during cooldown when a hand reaches across the treadmill and hits the red Emergency Stop button.
Fucking rude.
Slowly, I pull off my headset and lock eyes with Archer Moore. With his arms planted across his chest, he stands at the end of my treadmill.
“I don’t know how many times Coach needs to say it, but he doesn’t like us listening to personal music during gym time.”
We both know that isn’t what’s really eating at him. Still, I’m not about to broach the subject. He can man up and tell me tonight’s loss was my fault. And then I’ll explain why it wasn’t.
“Why do you care?” I say, scrubbing a hand across my jaw. “You hardly ever talk to me anyway.” I pause and consider leaving my retort there, but holding back isn’t my style. “Unlessyou want me to save your ass in practice or games, that is. Then it’s more of an incessant plea.”
Archer Moore has been the Blades goalie since before I left college, and he’s widely considered to be one of the best of a generation. He annihilated his own shutout record last season, and truthfully, he’s the best I’ve ever worked with. Not that he needs to know that. I’m not lying when I say I’ve saved his ass a time or two. In part, his excellent performance last season—where we narrowly missed out on the Cup—was down to my speed on the ice, especially traveling backward.
He just smirks, and there’s nothing remotely friendly about it. “That major penalty you picked up tonight, it cost us the game.”
Ah, so now we’re getting down to the crux of the matter.
“We were already a goal down when I got handed time in the penalty box. We had one shot all game, and that came from a turnover I’d created in the second period. Coach has come into this season fresh out of ideas, and the entire team looks lethargic and unmotivated.” I motion around the empty gym, noting that we’re the only players in here. “Aside from me, that is.”
When Archer opens his mouth to reply, it’s not his voice that materializes.
“How about you repeat that in my office?” Coach Morgan’s harsh tone rips through the music I can still hear through the headphones that rest around my neck.
All my goalie does is grin.
I turn around to face a fuming Coach as he stands at the other end of my treadmill. “I mean, I can repeat what I said,” I reply to him. “But I’m pretty sure you heard me the first time.”
I’m a certified idiot to wind this guy up. Other than the GM—who, for some reason, seems to like me—Coach holds the strings to my career, and let’s just say, I haven’t exactly gotten on his good side since I walked onto the team last season.
“My office in five minutes,” he grits out before heading straight for the exit, the gym door crashing against the jamb when he leaves.
“Don’t worry about being late to Lloyd’s tonight.” I don’t bother to look at Archer as he speaks, and I snatch up my towel and water bottle from the treadmill. “It wasn’t like the team would’ve saved you a seat anyway.”
“Sit,”is all I get when I push into Coach’s office fifteen minutes later.
I took my sweet time in the shower and then getting dressed. Like hell was I going to sit in my postgame sweat while he reamed me out for speaking nothing but the truth.
Flopping down and adjusting my tie, I unbutton the top button on my dress shirt. “Jesus, Coach, why do you always have to run it so hot in here?”
His jaw tightens, and he pushes away a few papers on the desk in front of him, clearing the space between us. “More to the point,whyare you always in here?”
