Page 64 of Dirty Pucking Player

We’re going to the Stanley Cup Playoffs.

Ten years ago, if someone had told me I’d be standing here celebrating with my team, I would’ve told them they were insane and it wasn’t even funny to joke about something like that. It was so far out of the realm of any possibility.

But here I am, dumbstruck at the bar with a glass of champagne in my hand while the guys celebrate around me.

Thankfully, we have the entire space to ourselves. It’s just one of the perks of your GM owning the restaurant. And considering how loud and obnoxious the guys are, I’m glad we’re the only ones here.

They deserve to celebrate, though. They’ve earned it. It’s been a long, hard season fighting not only the other teams but all the naysayers who didn’t believe we could do it.

Leaning back against the bar, I examine each one of them, considering their roles in getting us here. They played their fucking asses off. On the road, first line a man down half the time because Bash couldn’t stay out of the penalty box, yet they came through.

We pulled it off, and I still can’t believe it.

If only I could fully enjoy this, but I can’t. It’s impossible when things are so messy and unresolved with Bash.

I look down at my shaking hand, bring the cut glass to my lips, and sip at the cool, crisp bubbly liquid. Coupled with a deep breath, it helps calm my nerves slightly. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake this dark cloud of fear from over my head.

It shouldn’t be there. I should have faith. This team can play. Really play. Somehow, this mismatched band of misfits has pulled off the impossible. We have a real shot at winning. If we can just keep it together.

If Bash can keep it together.

While he’s been on his best behavior the last few games, I don’t know if it’s because he knows what it would mean for the team if he fucked up again or if it’s because he knows what it would mean with me.

Of course, I want to believe it’s both, but with him, I never really know.

Not when he’s constantly flipping between being sweet, sexy, thoughtful Bash and brute, barbaric, out-of-control Bash. It’s giving me a horrible case of whiplash.

The other day at the rink with the kids was a prime example. Bash’s flip-out when I mentioned his father came so far out of left field, it’s left a strange rift and tension between us.

Even Jill couldn’t help me figure out what went wrong. After she picked me up and I attempted to drown my sorrows in carbs at one of the local buffets, I gave her the entire rundown of the conversation, and her only insight was that Bash was “a man,” and I should expect this kind of shit.

Real fucking helpful.

And while I think I’ve managed to keep the awkwardness between us out of our professional interactions, it’s still left me with an ache deep in my soul I can’t seem to shake.

Why can’t he just fucking talk to me?

I rub at my neck with my free hand, and the man in question flicks his gaze over to me from across the room. The corner of his mouth turns up in that sexy lopsided smile, like all this bullshit between us can instantly be wiped away with it.

I wish it were that easy.

But Bash is two people.

The incredibly caring, generous lover who always ensures my pleasure before his own. And the volatile, angry man who goes off in an instant for some reason I can never figure out.

Yet even now, when things are so weird and unsettled between us, when we’ve been dancing around each other and avoiding discussing what happened the other day, he still manages to unravel me with one look.

My pussy clenches, remembering what he did to me that night at the club and after. The last time those large, talented hands touched me before our blow up.

Maybe it’s best if we leave it that way.

What we’re doing is so stupid. If we ever get caught, it means the end of my career. Letting that argument be the end of it is probably the smartest thing I can do, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the man who has me so tied up in knots.

“Greer? Did you hear me?”

“What?” I turn toward Steve next to me at the bar, surprised to find him looking at me expectantly.

Shit. Was he talking to me?

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