Page 33 of Dirty Pucking Player

I need to take care of this.

And only one woman will be on my mind as I stroke myself—Greer fucking Waterson.

10

GREER

Even being out alone on the ice this morning can’t cool the heat coming from my body, remembering last night with Bash. I send another puck sailing toward the goal. It ricochets off the pipe and to the right.

Shit.

Everything feels off today, like there’s a fog over the world. One I can’t manage to shake no matter how many shots I take or laps I skate.

Maybe it’s because I didn’t sleep more than ten minutes last night. It was impossible when all I could think about was Bash and the way his lips felt against mine. How the heat of his body radiated into me. The squeeze of his hands on my hips. The way my knees quivered and buckled when he kissed me. His masculine scent wrapping around me and enveloping me. I could still smell it with every breath I took and taste him on my tongue hours later.

As embarrassing as it is, Bash Fury has become the man of my literal dreams, who also haunts me during my waking hours. My clit throbs at the memory of touching myself last night, at coming undone while thinking of Bash doing the same to me.

Shit.

If he was that good at kissing, God only knows what he’d be like in bed. Those talented hands…

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I shake my head, grit my teeth, and fire off another slapshot. It whips across the ice and straight into the net. Clapping from behind me has me jerking up and whirling around on my skates.

All the air rushes from my lungs.

Bash.

He leans against the opening in the boards that leads to the tunnel to the locker room. His dark T-shirt stretches taut over his chest, and his biceps bulge against the sleeves. My eyes drift down to his muscular thighs and crotch encased in his jeans without even thinking about it.

God, his hard cock pressed against me last night felt so damn good.

I haven’t felt more like a horny teenager since I actually was one. It would be comical if it wasn’t so damn wrong and inconvenient when I’m struggling to remain professional.

“Nice shot, Coach, but my eyes are up here.”

Shit.

His lips tip up in a grin, and he nods toward the net then steps onto the ice. I whirl away from him and fire off another shot to avoid facing the embarrassment of being busted.

What the hell is he doing here?

Morning skate doesn’t start for another hour, and he won’t be able to participate anyway once the decision on his suspension comes through, which should be at any moment. The whole reason I came early was to avoid having to see anyone and to work out a little of my frustration. Having the damn cause of it show up looking all sexy and arrogant in no way helps my situation.

I really must’ve done something to piss off karma.

He moves across the ice carefully and stops a few feet from me. Crossing his arms over his chest, he watches me fire off another shot.

Maybe if I don’t look at him, if I don’t stare into those warm bourbon eyes, I can keep some semblance of control. I can pretend my little slip last night didn’t happen. I can go back to just being his coach.

“You have a master touch, Coach.”

I turn toward him and lean against my stick. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Was that some sort of innuendo about what happened last night?

Bash raises an eyebrow. “I mean, you always did have a good shot. And you haven’t lost your touch.”

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