“Sure do,” he replies curtly.
I think in ordinary circumstances, Dax would actually like me. And he seems like a genuinely decent guy. Oh, I’ve heard all about his story… marrying his best friend’s little sister after he tragically died.
Very romantic.
But I think it’s just too much that I’m interested in his sister, especially since that first night we were together, I didn’t bring her home until close to three AM and he was well aware it was me dropping her off. I saw him peek out the window as my limo pulled in, and I remember how mussed up Willow had been when she walked into that house several minutes later after we’d continued to make out on the front porch.
“Got a hot date tonight,” I say casually. Dax’s spine stiffens, but he doesn’t spare me a glance. Merely adds another plate of weight onto the bar.
“Any idea with who?” I prompt.
His eyes finally come to mine. Although he tries for a pleasant tone, he fails miserably. “I’m going to guess it’s with my sister.”
“Good guess,” I reply smoothly, maybe relishing this a little too much. So I sober just a bit, because my intent was only to tease a little, but mostly to reassure. “I just want you to know… I don’t have any nefarious intentions with regard to Willow.”
Dax snorts and turns away, grabbing a twenty-five-pound plate to add on.
“I like your sister—”
He wheels around, leans in, and whispers harshly. “Don’t pretend otherwise. You want in her pants.”
Okay, I can’t argue because I most definitely want there. But I want something more than that.
“I like your sister,” I repeat, this time slowly and with articulation. “I will treat her with care and respect. What she and I do in our time together is nobody’s business but our own, but I promise you… she’ll have my utmost respect the entire time and that is in a large part because I respect you. I just need you to know that.”
Dax is totally taken aback, as evidenced by the round eyes that are repetitively blinking at me right now with a low burn of suspicion within them.
But I’ve said what I came to say. I only needed to make him that one promise, hoping it will suffice to cool him down. I’ve been a pain in his ass lately, hitting him up for information about his sister, and he has no reason to believe I’ll be good to her. He doesn’t know me.
I turn to walk away, but not before I hear him make a promise of his own. “You hurt her, and I’ll hurt you. Don’t care if you’re my boss or not.”
“Fair enough,” I reply without looking back. I would expect no less. It actually makes me respect him more.
I head to the treadmill, intent on getting back at it. I see Tacker and Wylde are assisting each other on bench presses and just to the left of them, Bishop and Legend are on rowers, appearing to be in a competition to see who can go the farthest the fastest.
Nice to see the entire first line in here and working so closely together, but these guys have had something almost magical bonding them together from the very first game last year. It’s just one of those perfect storms of talent and personalities that came together to make a championship team.
I couldn’t be prouder, and we’ve only just started the playoff season.
“Mr. Carlson,” I hear from behind me just as I reach my treadmill.
I turn around to see Rafe Simmons, the center for our second line, heading toward me. He’s dressed in workout gear and is covered in sweat, so I’m thinking he’s on his way out of the facility.
“I hate to bother you,” he says as he approaches. “But do you have a moment to talk privately?”
I glance between my treadmill and him. My time is dwindling since I wasted it goading Dax. “Think you can make an appointment?”
“It’s actually pretty urgent,” he replies, his eyes cutting down to the floor before popping up to regard me apologetically.
“Yeah, sure,” I say without hesitation. I can see on his face something is wrong, so I scan around the facility before I spy a private corner. “Let’s go over there.”
We weave among the equipment. I notice Bishop’s eyes on us—narrowed slightly in a concerned way. Not surprising given he’s the team’s captain, and he makes it his business to know everything that’s going on with his teammates.
Much the way I do.
When we reach the corner, far from anyone who might inadvertently hear us, I stop and face Rafe. “What’s up?”
Rafe looks incredibly tense, his face etched with some heavy thoughts. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, a nervous movement. He glances around the facility, his gaze lingering a moment on Bishop, and I realize that whatever Rafe is getting ready to tell me, Bishop already knows.
His attention returning, Rafe takes in a deep breath and lets it out in a rush. “There’s no easy way to say this, but I want to talk to you about trading me.”
There’s nothing that could have surprised me more and I’m not even sure I heard him right. But I immediately try to dispel that stupid-as-fuck request. “Listen, I know you’ve been moved back down to the second line with Tacker coming back, but—”
Rafe shakes his head in frustration, almost barking out his reply. “No. It’s not about that.”
I study him, spotting the grief deep within his expression. Taking a step closer, I lower my voice. “What’s wrong?”
“My father just got diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer. He doesn’t have much time left.”
All the air comes rushing out of me as my gut churns with sorrow on his behalf. “Christ… I’m sorry, Rafe.”
He nods. “Look, I know it’s asking a lot—and I’m not even sure it’s possible—but I was hoping you could arrange a trade to the Cold Fury. I’m from Raleigh, and I’d like to get back to that area to spend…”
His words choke off with fear and grief. “You realize if you’re were traded, you’re not eligible to participate in the playoffs? You really want to give that up?”
Of course he does. Anyone in this league knows if a player is traded after the deadline, they lose eligibility.
“No offense, Mr. Carlson,” Rafe says.
I cut him off. “Dominik.”
I get a curt nod. “No offense, Dominik. But there are some things that are more important than a Cup championship. I know that might be a letdown to you, but I’d take spending time with my dad for just a day versus a hundred Cups if I could.”
Fuck… but I have to blink back a sheen of wetness in my eyes.
Still, I have to remember I’m a businessman first with a board to answer to. “The logistics would be a nightmare, even if I were inclined to release you. Just who do you think the Cold Fury would trade—”
“Rand Berkley,” he cuts in. “He’s got an injured ACL. He’s out for the rest of the season, but he’s a comparable player to me. He’ll be a good addition to the roster for next year.”
I cock an eyebrow. “So, you want me to give up a star player for an injured player who will do me no good? I see why that will work for the Cold Fury as it’s pretty even, but as a businessman trying to have the best possible team to win the Cup, you want me to let you go for that?”