Page 24 of Dirty Pucking Player

She narrows her hard gaze on me and then glances back into her room. Her bare foot taps, drawing my attention to the bright-red polish on her toes.

Why is that so damn hot?

“My eyes are up here, Bash.”

I jerk my head up to find a flash of annoyance in her stare.

Shit. Called out with my own line.

We stare each other down a moment, neither of us willing to look away or back down, both of us intent on proving something in this moment. It would be easy to walk away, to tell her we can talk tomorrow, to let her cool off and allow myself to do the same, but I don’t move.

I’m held in place by the pain and disappointment in her gaze.

Eventually, she nudges open the door farther and lets me brush past her. The crisp scent of soap mingles with something flowery and sweet that’s all Greer. I inhale deeply and try to shake the image of what she looks like under those very flimsy, comfortable clothes.

Even though she likely thinks so, I’m not a complete dog. I know it’s all kinds of wrong to be attracted to the woman who is—for all intents and purposes—my boss, but I’m also a human male who has eyes and a body that reacts to things despite my best attempt not to.

And right now, with her pale-blond hair piled high on the top of her head in some sort of bun, face free of makeup, and her lip pulled between her teeth, she looks far too young to be coaching grown men.

God, even with no makeup on and in these clothes, she’s freaking beautiful.

She pauses at the door a minute, staring out at the hall where I just stood, as if she’s contemplating sending me right back out there instead of coming to join me in the room. I open my mouth to say something, but I bite it back as she lets the door close and follows me into the room.

I watch her steady, deliberate approach, that acid in my stomach churning and working its way up my throat.

She stops well back from me, and anger twists her lips into a frown. “What the hell do you want, Bash?”

* * *

GREER

It can’t get any more inappropriate than having a player in my hotel room in the middle of the night.

I should never have let this man in. I should’ve told him to go back to his room and to bed. He’s the last person I should be talking to right now considering how fucking pissed I am at him.

One thing Dad always told me was to never lash out when I’m angry. And I’ve already failed miserably at that since Sebastian Fury arrived. I had planned to talk to Bash later. To give myself a day or two to calm down so that I wouldn’t say or do anything I may regret. Like kick him off the damn team and have to deal with the fallout from Bob that could affect my own career.

But he looks so genuinely distressed—dark-blond hair disheveled, brow furrowed, and eyes darkened—by something I can’t quite place.

I hate to see somebody so upset even if that someone is on my shit list. If there’s something he needs to get off his chest about what happened in tonight’s game, I’ll let him. Then, I’ll kick him out so I can get to bed before we have to get up early tomorrow to fly home for our next game.

Arriving half a day late is going to mess with our entire schedule, but in addition to not being able to control Bash Fury, I also apparently can’t control the weather.

The man who’s the current focus of my ire and has occupied far too many of my thoughts since he arrived moves to the corner of the room by the small table near the window and runs his hand through his hair. Stress tenses his shoulders, and he fists his hands at his sides.

“What are you doing here, Bash? What’s so important that this can’t wait until we get back to Vegas to discuss?”

He shakes his head and rubs his jaw. “I need to explain what happened today.”

“No, you don’t. It’s pretty fucking clear what happened.” At least, it was to me. “You completely ignored everything we talked about because you’re Bash Fury, and Bash Fury doesn’t follow the rules. Bash Fury does whatever the hell he wants.”

He recoils slightly at the harsh words I hurl at him like daggers. “Is that really what you think? That I’m inherently a bad guy?”

If he had flat out asked me the same question a few days ago, I probably would have said no. I likely would have told him I believe no one is inherently bad and everyone has something good deep inside them. It’s the very thing Jill warned me I would look for, the thing I thought I saw during that brief moment in my office.

But what he did tonight has me questioning that belief. Maybe it’s naïve to think there’s good in people. Maybe some human beings are just born bad, through no fault of their own. With volatile tempers, lack of conscience, and general apathy toward other humans.

This isn’t the first time he’s beaten the shit out of someone for no apparent reason other than a foul that happens every night on dozens of rinks. The same thing he has done hundreds of times to someone else during his career. It didn’t warrant his response. Not in any way, shape, or form. And Bash knows it.

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