Page 62 of Dirty Pucking Player

This one is pure. More genuine. One brought from seeing these innocent children experiencing the love of the game he loves so much through untainted, pure eyes only someone their age can.

It’s like I’m seeing the real him he hides underneath all the arrogance and attitude. Glimpses have broken through before…when we’re alone. When he’s sure no one else is going to see it. But this is the first time he seems to have completely dropped his guard, surrounded by dozens of kids and the various volunteers.

Warmth blooms in my chest watching him interact with them despite the chill in the air. He bends over behind a small boy and helps him adjust his grip on his stick. The boy looks up at Bash with such adoration, it makes my heart ache. This kid probably doesn’t know who Bash is. He hasn’t been to Scorpions games and watched him play. He hasn’t memorized his stats and followed his career since he was drafted into the league. He doesn’t know Bash is the son of NHL royalty. He doesn’t care about any of that.

And in this moment, Bash doesn’t either.

He’s capable of being so real. Of being so selfless.

It’s the kind of realization that’s so fucking dangerous. It means I can’t continue to ignore the fact that Bash has the ability to be the kind of man who is more than just a pleasurable way to unload my stress going into the playoffs.

Bash says something to the kid, and the little one draws back and shoots the puck at the net. It goes wide right, but Bash repositions him and helps him this time. The next puck flies straight into the center of the net, and the little boy erupts into a cheer.

A wide smile splits Bash’s face, matching his young charge’s, and they high-five before the little boy skates off to talk to one of his friends.

“He’s great with the kids, isn’t he?” Nancy practically swoons next to me.

I nod and watch him move on to another kid. “He really is.”

Nancy laughs and fans herself comically. “Who would have thought? Makes him even sexier, if you ask me.”

Did I ask you?

The question almost comes out, but I bite my tongue to keep it back.

Damn. When did I become such a jealous bitch?

Bash obviously doesn’t bring out the best in me. But it’s hard not to be jealous when I’m staring at a man like that and see the way women react to him. Especially when I have no idea where we stand and don’t have the heart or the balls to ask.

The confusing man who has managed to tie my heart up into knots makes his way over to me. His eyes dance with humor. “You having a good time?”

“Yeah, I actually am.” I glance around the rink at the smiling faces of all the kids. “They’re so…happy. They really love it.”

When was the last time I played hockey just for the joy of it?

For as long as I can remember, I had one goal in mind—being the best. I busted my ass and worked instead of playing with my friends so I could make the Olympic team at eighteen. Then, it was about staying at the top and playing as long as I could. Then it became about working my way into a coaching position that might open doors to something even bigger—like where I am now.

But this, these kids, they just love the sport. It’s completely pure.

How different would my life have been if the game had been just that—a game instead of a career?

I glance over at Bash, where he leans against the boards and watches the kids with a permanent smile. Growing up with Mike Fury as a father, there were probably a lot of mornings like these, where he was on the ice with his dad, learning from one of the stars of the sport. Bash is like me—driven to be the best, and no doubt his father helped push him there and teach him everything that made him an All-Star over and over again.

“Did your dad ever bring you to things like this or help out with your youth teams growing up?”

Bash stiffens next me, and the carefree look he’s been wearing all day slips from his face in an instant. Dark, hard eyes meet mine. “I don’t want to talk about him, Greer.”

Shit.

No witty banter. No calling me “Coach” in that sexy, playful way. A hard, don’t push it edge to his voice.

He’s pissed. Though, I have absolutely no idea why.

He got a little testy with me when I brought up his dad during our first argument, too, but he has yet to offer me any reason for his disdain for the man. He’s never talked about him at all, now that I think about it. He’s never opened up about anything, really. A fact I’ve ignored during our time together because he’s kept me in a haze of orgasms, food, wine, and strippers.

The least he can do is answer one simple, innocent question without the attitude. “Why are you so pissed when I bring up your father?”

His jaw clenches, and a vein in his neck throbs. He glances around to make sure no one is close to us, then steps closer to me and drops his head. “Leave it alone, Greer.”

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