Page 30 of Dirty Pucking Player

I grin at her and shrug. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

9

GREER

He has no idea. It’s not in my nature to admit I’m wrong. Saying you’re wrong shows weakness, and you can’t be weak when you’re in this world. It’s something I learned at a very young age while I was the only girl playing with the boys.

None of them wanted me there. All of them thought they were better than me, and I had to prove my worth over and over again, every time I moved up in an age bracket.

Dad always told me never to let them see me break. Never let them see that they could get to me. And I’ve done a really good job of doing just that for the vast majority of my life.

But here I am at thirty-two…head coach of an NHL team. Something a woman couldn’t even consider achieving until I did it. And yet, I’m standing in front of Bash Fury, with his hard, naked chest and those goddamn gray sweatpants hanging perfectly off his trim hips, and I might as well be a horny teenage girl standing in front of her crush.

My heart races as he closes the distance between us.

“It’s okay to admit that you’re wrong, Coach. It’s okay to say I might actually be a decent guy. It’s all right to confess you misjudged me. No one will think any less of you.”

No, but they would think less of me if they knew how damn attracted to you I am.

Bash isn’t just hot. He’s the kind of stupid hot that has women stripping off their clothes at games and throwing themselves at him. Even if he weren’t a star player making millions of dollars a year, he would still have women climbing all over him.

But I can’t be one of those women.

It’s completely inappropriate given our positions.

He inches closer to me.

“What are you doing, Bash?”

“What does it look like I’m doing, Coach?” He pauses a few feet from me, close enough that he could reach out and touch me without any effort at all.

I inch backward slowly. “It looks like you’re getting way too close to me and into my personal space.”

He moves with me, until he’s barely a foot away, so close I can smell the soap he used in the shower mingled with that scent that’s all Bash.

His head dips down until he’s eye-level with me. He holds my gaze without blinking. “You want me to back away, Coach?”

Christ.

Even the way he calls me “Coach” has me clenching my legs together. All the players call me that, but coming from his lips, the way he says it, it’s like he’s making love to the word, making love to me.

So, do I? Do I really want Bash to back away from me right now?

The way my heart thunders against my rib cage and my body tenses in anticipation, I don’t think I do. Not really. Even though the man is making it impossible for me to just apologize. Even though he’s ripping me wide open and making me show weakness. Even though he’s forcing me to admit the feelings I’ve been shoving deep down inside and hoping to keep buried…I still want him to touch me.

I want him to touch me in a way that is oh so wrong. “We can’t do this, Bash.”

His dark eyebrows rise playfully. “Why not, Coach?”

“Because of that.” I hold my hand up and press it against his hard, bare chest, forcing him to stay back.

The warmth of his skin radiates into my palm. He flexes under my hand, and I choke back a moan. It would be totally unprofessional for anything to happen.

He’s your player.

And even if he didn’t play, Bash is exactly the type of guy I know I should stay far away from. One who will break my heart.

It would be fun for a few weeks or even a few months, but eventually, he’ll be gone, and I’ll be left picking up the pieces again, only I’ll have to do it while seeing him every day during the season and maintaining the illusion nothing ever happened between us.

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