“Remember the goalie who went onto Sports Nation after his team failed to make the playoffs?” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder.
“That was him?”
Unfortunately. “He badmouthed every single player on the Crusaders—blamed everyone but the announcers for the loss. And when he didn’t get enough views when his interview went viral—he double-downed on social media.”
“Sounds like a class act.”
“Have you seen the rest of the roster?”
Clover nibbled her lip, and I sighed. That should’ve been my treat.
“Is it bad?” she asked.
I wasn’t sure yet, but I didn’t like the feeling festering my gut. “It’s an interesting team this year.”
“It looks like you have some work to do, Captain.” She cleared her throat. “I should…probably clear out. Don’t want to get you in trouble for having a girl in the locker room.”
“Just an innocent tour,” I said.
“Innocent? You call that kiss innocent?” She pouted. “I must be losing my touch.”
And I was losing my mind.
“Clover…”
The girl had confidence, I’d give her that. And she might’ve convinced me she was nothing but a flirt had her steps not wobbled as she stalked to the door.
“Told you we’d be good together,” she teased.
Yeah.
Good.
Not exactly the word I’d use.
More like…explosive.
Uncontrolled.
Dangerous.
“You gonna watch the practice?” I asked.
“I’ll stick around. See if I can’t find something to entertain me.”
Where had I heard that before? “Behave yourself.”
“Only ended up in the Marauders’ showers once.”
I held up two fingers. “Twice. And I don’t know if I can trust you after that kiss.”
Her smile stiffened my cock so hard it hurt, but I preferred that pain over others.
“Keep kissing me like that, and I’ll never need to look anywhere else,” she said.
“That’s why I’m worried.”
“Just consider my proposition.” Her laugh echoed in the hall. “Like you could think about anything else right now…”
The woman was a devil.
And I was really starting to like the sin.
More reason for me the focus on what was important. The game. The team. The middling practice with a few straggling men who’d only arrived because they wouldn’t get their millions if they didn’t strap on some skates and pretend to care about their new home.
Not sure what the hell the Forge was thinking, but they’d hand-selected men with the worst reputations to fill out the roster. Guys with substance abuse issues. Ones more eager to fight than score—or ones who’d rather score with a puck bunny than to train with the team.
Shit was bad on this side of the bench, but it got worse when only a handful of guys showed an initiative.
I only wanted to see some commitment. A captain needed a chance to run a few drills and get a sense of his teammates, men I’d only ever faced as opponents.
Unfortunately, Oz wasn’t the only one dissatisfied with his current lot on the team. Half of the men on the Forge believed they’d been abandoned by their former franchises. The rest? They were lucky they had a place to call home. Between the off-the-ice drama, league disciplinary actions, and general self-destruction, I wasn’t sure I had much of a roster to lead.
Didn’t make for a happy team.
Or a successful one.
The team gave a cabinet prominently displayed in the center of the circular locker room, so new it smelled of fresh paint instead of sweat.
I didn’t recognize my name shining in the Forge’s frosty blue.
Not that the colors mattered. I had pads, a stick, and a job to do, regardless of the city I called home. Ice was ice, and I belonged in the rink, fighting and bleeding for a chance at the puck.
I changed out of my street clothes and suited up. Loose pair of cotton shorts. Under Armor long-sleeved shirt. And, most importantly…
The jock, which I’d come to greatly appreciate over the last year.
Unfortunately, it slipped out of my grasp. The hard-plastic shell slammed on the tile floor.
And shattered.
Holy shit.
A hand slapped my shoulder. Jasper Cash Harrington was the only guy on the team I’d permit to laugh at my misfortune, and only because he’d served at my side on the Marauders for three years before his scandal and subsequent trade.
He secured his pads over his chest and shoulders, hiding the numerous scars which had beaten his body to a pulp over the years.
“Be glad it didn’t happen during a game, eh?” he said.
“It did.” I kicked the jock’s broken shards away from my locker. “The surgeons picked slivers of plastic out of my groin during surgery.”
The defenseman visibly shuddered. “For Christ’s sake, man. Put a trigger warning on that bullshit. I’m gonna have nightmares for a week.”
“Better than your usual dreams about me.”
“Always the heartbreaker, Adrian.”
Cash adjusted his pads, though I never knew how the man made it through a doorway when completely suited up. Apparently, the Forge drafted their team to be big. Not only was I one of the largest centers in the league, Cash towered over most of the forwards he harassed. Had a good thirty pounds on most of them too. All muscle. Cash took pride in physique, but weight-training was one of the only reasons he survived all his hits—legal and otherwise.
Never saw a man turn pure violence into art before. His hits were brutal, his presence oppressive, and I was glad I no longer had to face the dirty son of a bitch when digging the puck out of the corner. Too bad the league didn’t approve of his talents. Cash had become a liability—a loose cannon loaded with pure shrapnel.
Some men had adapted to the newer, more safety-conscious rules. And some, like Cash, spent more time in the penalty box than minutes on the ice. Problem was, the league wasn’t talking fines with him anymore. They now solved his problems with suspensions.
Cash’s next questionable hit wouldn’t land him in the box—it’d send him to the unemployment line.
“You know…that sort of injury turns a man religious,” he said.
“Can’t blame God for this one.” I fished through my bag for a second jock. “He accidentally made the biggest, baddest set of balls in all of creation. Decided he wanted them back.”
“The Lord giveth, and the Lord pulverizeth into pudding.”
“Don’t worry. He rose again. Took a little longer than three days, but we’ve been resurrected.”
“Hallelujah.”
Damn. The only cup I found in my equipment was Doctor Stone’s little plastic nightmare. I tossed it into my locker.
Cash retrieved it with a frown. “What’s this? Drug test?”
Those weren’t as much fun. “Nah. Doesn’t matter.”
“What did you get yourself into?”
I’d been asking myself that same question since Clover trapped me on the plane. I glanced at my old friend.
“You remember Clover Crosby?”
Cash sucked in a sharp breath. “The one with the Honey Bs?”