Page 67 of Dirty Pucking Player

Not yet.

Her voice comes from behind me rather than at my side, and I turn and glance at the television above the bar and see her face there. The post-game interview from our final game plays on the screen, and I twist back and motion to the bartender. “Turn that up.”

Greer looks over her shoulder and rolls her eyes. “You don’t need to watch my post-game interview.”

“I think I do.” I grin at her. It’s so cute when she’s embarrassed.

“And Coach, what can you tell me about Bash Fury? It seems you’ve managed to rein him in a little. Do you think he’ll continue this trend of staying out of the penalty box during the playoffs or are you going to end up on the permanent penalty kill?”

The Greer on the screen laughs at the commentator and shakes her head. “Nobody can rein in Bash Fury.”

I nudge her with my shoulder as we lean our elbows on the bar and watch. “Is that what you want, Coach?” I raise an eyebrow at her. “You want to rein me in? Do you want control?”

Fuck.

The thought of her taking control and dominating me in the bedroom has never crossed my mind before, but it sure as hell has my cock rising with interest now. She shudders next to me, and I brush my hand across her lower back as I lean into her and press my lips against her ear.

“Maybe I’ll let you have it once.”

She jerks away, her eyes wide and heated with desire. Her wet pink lips part. “Bash—”

“Well, don’t you two look cozy.”

Shit.

The hand around my beer tightens, while I jerk my other away from Greer to adjust my semi-hard cock so it won’t be so damn obvious how much this woman turns me on.

I turn back toward Lebedev standing behind us. “Coach and I were just discussing her post-game interview from the last game.” I tilt my head toward the television and flash a grin. “Care to join us?”

Lebedev scowls at us and crosses his arms over his chest, not even glancing up at the television where Greer still talks with the commentator. “Sure, you are. And no.”

“What do you want, Dimitri?”

Besides being a fucking asshat and cock-block me.

He holds up his hands. “Just came over to check on Coach and my favorite teammate.”

My free hand curls into a fist. This jerkoff has been up my ass and on my case since the day I got here. I get that he thinks I took his position, because I did. But it’s not like he doesn’t play. He gets almost as much ice time as me, and things have been going well with rotating him into the line.

There isn’t any reason for the continued animosity. It will only hurt us going into the playoffs if we can’t all get along off the ice. He needs to pull on his big boy pants and grow the fuck up.

I force a fake smile, one so saccharine sweet, he’s sure to see right through it. “Why don’t you go check in on someone else?”

Someone who isn’t likely to strike out and belt him in the fucking jaw.

He glares at me as if he’s considering pushing me, then seems to think better of it and turns and disappears with a dirty look over his shoulder at us.

Greer releases a deep sigh. “Shit. You don’t think he saw us?” Her entire body tenses with her question. “You don’t think he knows?”

Fuck.

I chug my beer and scan the crowd again for watchful eyes. Lebedev isn’t the only one we need to be worried about.

“I think he’s just fucking around, Coach. Trying to start shit when there’s nothing to start.”

She raises an eyebrow at me. “Is there nothing to start?”

Shit.

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