Page 14 of Dirty Pucking Player

The roar of the waiting crowd drowns out everything, but I still sense her approaching me from behind. Hairs on the back of my neck stand up in anticipation—and so does something else—but not for the game.

Well, isn’t that interesting?

Bickering with Greer may have just turned into my guilty pleasure.

She brushes past me without a glance in my direction and moves down the line of players before she disappears out into the arena.

I take a deep breath and shake out my legs.

First game as a Scorpion.

This is my chance to show them why taking me wasn’t a mistake but rather the best decision they ever made for this team. They need to see that paying me the big bucks is worth it and why Coach’s concerns shouldn’t matter.

I slam my stick against the ground.

Time to fucking do this.

* * *

GREER

“Number 71—two minutes for slashing.” The ref’s announcement burns my ears, and Bash heads to the penalty box for the third time tonight.

I tighten my hands into fists at my side. “Goddammit.”

We’ve barely started the third period and it already feels like we’ve been killing penalties for the entire game. If Bash had as many goals as trips to the sin bin, we wouldn’t be in this position.

I glance up at the scoreboard, even though I know what it says. Down by two. Nineteen minutes to get our shit together and pull out a win. We haven’t been playing all that badly. The Rockets have just been playing better…and Bash’s penalties certainly don’t help.

He huffs and drops onto the seat in the penalty box and watches the game without even glancing in my direction. The man can’t even look me in the eye.

Every second we’re short-handed, my anxiety ramps up. Nineteen minutes simultaneously creeps like a snail and whizzes by faster than the blink of an eye with two more penalties for Bash after a cross-check and another slashing call.

When the final buzzer finally sounds, I give my usual required interview then storm back to my office.

Dammit, Bash. I knew he was going to pull this bullshit.

I slam my door shut behind me. Anger rises, curling my hands into fists and causing blood to rush in my ears.

It was deliberate.

He was trying to show me that he can get away with doing whatever he wants here, and Bob won’t let me pull him. And he was right. Bob pulled me aside between the first and second periods and made it clear he wanted him in, no matter what. But apparently having Bash on the ice for his first game as a Scorpion put butts in the seats and created a media frenzy Bob didn’t want to lose out on.

So much for this being my team.

I asked Mac to tell Bash to come to talk to me, but I don’t even know what I’m going to say at this point. I just want to throw something—more like everything—at him.

My stapler.

That stack of papers.

My Olympic medals hanging on the wall.

What’s left of my fucking sanity.

Anything not bolted down is now a weapon, and Bash Fury’s head is the smug target.

The door opens without a knock, and the object of my frustration saunters in wearing nothing but a cocky grin and a white towel wrapped around his trim waist. Water droplets glisten across his chiseled, tattooed chest, and rivulets run down the hills and valleys of his perfect abs, over the elegant script etched into his skin there.

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