Page 23 of Dirty Pucking Player

She’s so angry, she couldn’t even talk to me about it.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Normally, I wouldn’t give a flying fuck what one of my coaches thought about something like what went down tonight, but ever since I saw the hurt and anger in her eyes seeing what I’d done, I haven’t been able to shake the queasiness in my stomach.

I need to explain myself. She needs to know I wasn’t just being a dick.

This time, anyway.

It’s insane. And it’s definitely never happened before. But for some inexplicable reason, I actually give a fuck what Coach thinks about me as a person, not just as a player.

I shove off the bed and rub at the back of my neck as I try to move around him.

Mac takes a step back. “Where the hell are you going with that determined look on your face?”

“None of your fucking business.”

He grabs my arm. “It is my business if you’re gonna go do something stupid, Bash.”

I growl at him, and he releases my arm.

Probably a wise move on his part. We played together long enough in Chicago for him to understand that this isn’t the time to push me.

I stride to the door and yank it open. “Don’t worry. I promise it’s not anything stupid.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s really reassuring coming from you.”

I roll my eyes and let the door slam shut behind me. The sound echoes down the ghostly silent hallway.

Going to my coach’s room in the middle of the night is probably not a great idea, but there’s no way I’m getting any sleep tonight knowing how pissed off she is when she doesn’t know the whole story.

Everything is deserted as I make my way toward her room at the opposite end of the building. I blow past all the rooms on either side of the hall, where my teammates are probably sleeping soundly. The only reason Mac was even still awake was because he was waiting for me to show up after I went for a walk to cool down and think.

I stop outside her door and glance at my watch. It’s almost one. She might already be asleep. This should probably wait until tomorrow. I can tell her when we’re on the plane rather than disrupt her when she might already be asleep.

That’s the rational decision.

The one I should make.

I turn to walk away, but the anger tightening my chest forces me to spin back.

No. I can’t let Greer go to bed, thinking I’m some fucking asshole who just beats people up for the hell of it.

And I refuse to consider why it matters so much what she thinks of me, but it does. Something about that look in her eyes…the disappointment there…it’s just eating away at me from the inside. The same way it always did when Mom looked at me that way. With Dad, it wasn’t about disappointment. It was always anger. Even his fists never hurt as much as Mom giving me that same look Greer did.

I rap my knuckles against the door and wait. She would be wise not to answer—for both of us. But the chain slides, a deadbolt turns, and she pulls open the door.

The same hard eyes that glared at me from the bench meet mine. She crosses her arms over her chest. The thin white T-shirt and yoga pants she’s wearing leave very little to the imagination.

Christ, she’s stunning.

Toned and firm in all the right places. Hips big enough to grab onto. And her breasts…

She’s probably crossing her arms over her chest because she’s not wearing a bra. The shirt is practically see-through, and I can’t find any telltale signs of straps.

And I absolutely should not be ogling my coach—now or ever.

I swallow through my suddenly dry throat. “Can I come in?”

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