Page 3 of Dirty Pucking Player

He nods and backs away slowly. The man knows better than to get in my way when I’m like this. It isn’t the first time he’s seen it, but there’s no doubt it will be the last.

This will be my last game as a Warhawk.

I flip one of the benches and then drop onto the one across from it and lower my face into my trembling, bloodied hands.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

This is it. The end of my career.

What team is going to take me now?

* * *

GREER

“No. Absolutely not.” I try to keep the anger and mild panic out of my words as much as possible, but I fail miserably. Each syllable vibrates with incredulous disdain and borders on wildly inappropriate, considering who I’m sitting across from.

I shouldn’t have snapped, but it’s just…I can’t wrap my head around what he told me.

This cannot be happening.

Fate wouldn’t drop such a massive turd on me like this, not when things have been going so well. As far as I can remember, I haven’t done anything that would draw the ire of karma to make her demand retribution like this. Although, speaking to the man who is, for all intents and purposes, my boss like that probably hasn’t put me on the top of anyone’s “nice” list.

It was kind of bitchy.

Borderline cunty, if I’m being honest.

But I couldn’t help it.

I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve, and even though I should act more deferential and professional right now, this is absolute insanity that calls for something less appropriate.

The man must have totally lost his marbles to be considering this. I would wonder if maybe dementia hit, but Bob seems very clear of mind. At least, he certainly reacts to my snarled response appropriately—with a giant frown and a deeply furrowed brow.

He sighs, a deep, labored sound, and leans forward in his chair to rest his forearms on his desk between us. “Look, Greer, I understand your position, but—”

“But nothing.” I cut him off without even caring how rude it is anymore. I don’t have the patience for placations from a man who made me certain promises to get me here. “When you hired me as head coach, you told me I would have control of my team. Full control. And I’m telling you right now, I don’t want a dirty player like Bash Fury wearing a Scorpions’ jersey or taking the ice under my watch.”

Bob offers me a look that could either be condescending or sympathetic—maybe both. Soft, droopy lids hang low over pale-blue eyes surrounded by wrinkles that show his age. He may not be quite up in the years where we need to worry about his mental faculties, but Bob Harmon has been around the block a few times.

More than a few.

He’s smart. He was a great coach, and now he’s an amazing GM. One of the best, even though this is only his first year. But he’s also under a lot of pressure to make the Scorpions successful in their inaugural season. The weight of those expectations practically crushes me, so I can only imagine what that feels like bearing down on his shoulders.

He holds up his hands. “I understand your position, but it’s a done deal. Sebastian Fury’s suspension is up today, and the trade is complete. He will be here by practice tomorrow. And he’ll be your new first line right winger.”

Son of a bitch.

That wasn’t a request.

That was a statement of fact.

A done deal.

He went ahead and took Bash without my knowledge. No amount of arguing about what I want can change Bob’s mind now. But maybe, just maybe, I can appeal to his desire for success for this team instead of my personal feelings. Maybe there’s a chance we can get rid of Bash before the trade deadline in a few days.

“What happened to me being able to control my own team?”

Complete control is the only way we’ll continue winning. I can’t have players who go off at the drop of a glove and spend more time in the penalty box or suspended than on the ice. We’ll spend half the game killing off his penalties, and Marty and I will constantly be rearranging the lines while he’s serving his time on suspension.

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