Page 15 of Dirty Pucking Player

Jesus.

Bash Fury is bad for my libido.

I swallow through my dry throat. “Don’t you know how to knock?”

“Don’t you know my eyes are up here, Coach?”

Shit.

I jerk my focus away from where the towel crosses right in front of his crotch and meet his gaze. He raises a knowing eyebrow and smirks.

There’s no way I’m letting him get the last clever jab. I raise an eyebrow in return. “Don’t you know how to dry off after a shower?”

God. That was lame, Greer.

Bash shrugs and closes the door behind him. “Mac said you needed to see me, so, like a good little boy, I came running, Coach.”

The sarcasm in his voice hangs thick in the air. It seems like every time Bash and I are in the same vicinity, another showdown happens. It’s like we both come into this with our dukes up and no ability to maintain any semblance of professionalism when we’re around each other. It doesn’t bode well for the future of our communications.

I’ve dealt with difficult players before. Guys who thought I shouldn’t be coaching them and didn’t know shit about the game, but Bash is by far the worst. A fact he seems rather proud of.

“What the hell was that?” I point toward the ice with a huff.

He offers me another casual shrug and crosses his arms over his chest. His biceps bulge, and another rivulet trails down to the edge of the towel.

My eyes drift over the scrawled verses on his right collarbone and left rib cage, but he shifts and covers the words before I can read them.

“I don’t know what you mean, Coach. What was what?”

Grrr.

I force myself to take a deep breath that should be cleansing, but all it does is suck the crisp, clean, manly scent of Bash and his soap into my lungs.

Crap.

I shake my head to try to clear out that smell. “That bullshit you pulled out there tonight. We lost the goddamn game because of all your penalties.”

He scoffs and moves a few steps closer to the desk. His eyes narrow, and his jaw tightens. “We lost the game because they played better.”

I plant my hands on the desktop and lean toward him. “And we would’ve played better if you hadn’t spent so much fucking time in the penalty box. We were short-handed five times because of you, alone. Not to mention the other penalties that fucked us.”

A muscle in his clenched jaw flexes as he stares me down. His hard amber eyes never waver from mine for even a millisecond.

Don’t look away, Greer.

I fight the urge to avert my eyes from his penetrating gaze. The way he looks at me is unnerving, like he can see every tiny weakness I have and is willing to exploit them to get what he wants.

“If you really think we would have won if I hadn’t had those penalties, then you’ve just admitted I’m invaluable to this team and proved my point that you need to let me play and do my thing.”

I slam my palm against the desk. “You play dirty.”

He sneers. “I play to win.”

“Winning doesn’t mean anything if you have to hurt people to get there, Bash.”

I played hard in my days on the ice, but one thing I never did was set out to hurt someone else. There’s a difference between playing hard and playing dirty. One he apparently doesn’t or can’t comprehend.

He considers me for a moment and takes a few more steps forward until the only thing separating us is the three feet span of wood on the top of the desk. My eyes automatically track down to where his arms are crossed over his chest again.

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