Page 81 of Dirty Pucking Player

Unfortunately, we were the ones crushed.

I don’t even know how they pulled it off. Everything is just a haze. One giant, tangled mess of memories of plays and penalties and checks and fights and brilliant goals that gave them the wins and left us heading back to Vegas with our spirits and heads low.

Now, we have home ice where we hold a decent record this season. But the looks I got from Greer during the first two games and the blade of harshness in her voice when she spoke to me is preventing me from getting my head on straight to prepare for next two.

It all felt so wrong, like I was being punished for not knowing what I want.

Greer hasn’t said a word to me about what happened and what we said—or what I didn’t say. She tried to remain professional, and aside from the looks and tension in her voice that likely only I noticed, she succeeded.

But now we’re home. We’re going back on our own ice, and I don’t know what’s going to happen between us next. I can’t continue to pretend that everything is fine, that this tension doesn’t permeate the air between us and tighten my gut.

I won’t be able to play well until we come to some sort of understanding.

It’s fucking up my game. Getting in my head and under my skin. It’s precisely the reason I’ve avoided any form of relationship or deep connection to anyone. I can’t risk playing shitty like that again. Which is why I’m standing in front of Greer’s house, staring at the door like it’s going to bite me.

It won’t, but the woman inside might.

I force myself up onto the porch and press the doorbell. We have an early practice tomorrow, and I should be in bed, which is probably where Greer already is. But this just can’t wait.

The light above the porch flips on, and those beautiful green eyes peer out at me from one of the long panes of glass on the side of the door. Her lips twist into a frown, but she unlocks the deadbolt then swings the door open.

“Bash, what are you doing here?” She stands with her arms wrapped around herself protectively.

What does she need protection from? Me?

“I need to talk to you.” I step closer.

She shifts, blocking my entry. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Bash.”

I grab her arm. “Please.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do things like this.” She shakes my hand off her arm. “I’m not sure what you were expecting when you came over here, Bash, but I don’t really have anything to say that hasn’t already been said.”

“Well, I do.” I brush past her into the house.

She mumbles something under her breath. Probably unflattering, but I don’t even care if she thinks that I’m a dick for barging my way in here. She can’t expect me to just walk away and pretend everything isn’t crumbling around me.

I have a contract with the Scorpions, and given how well the team played this year, she’s going to be their coach for the foreseeable future. We need to be able to work together professionally even if whatever this is can never be more than whatever it is at this moment.

“Just let yourself in why don’t you?” The annoyance in her voice carries across the living room.

I turn toward her.

She closes the door then faces me. “What do you need to say, Bash? We have an early morning tomorrow.”

“I know. And I haven’t slept well in days.”

Her eyebrow wings up. “You didn’t play well, either.”

I sigh and run my hand over my stubbled jaw. “I know. I was so distracted by everything that went down between us that I barely remember those games. I can’t go into the rest of this series with all of these things unspoken between us.”

She squeezes her arms around herself again and glances at her feet. “Say what you came to say, Bash.”

I can’t believe she really doesn’t have anything to say.

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