The coach’s jaw tightened. “Can’t pick your family, can’t pick your team. Your job is to play center, not make personnel decisions.”
“Someone should. We’ve got major problems here. Guys fighting. Rookies partying with any woman they can find. Men drinking themselves into a stupor.” My patience wore out. “And now the media’s running stories. Sports Nation had a fifteen-minute segment on Beau Beckett today—allegations of womanizing, drinking, drugs. It’s bad enough when we’ve got trouble in the locker room. It’s worse when the entire world knows about it.”
John chuckled, wagging a finger toward the coach. “He’s too noble for his own good. Gonna cause a lot of problems himself.”
“Me?” I frowned.
“All this goodie-two-shoes, white knight stuff. It’s great with the ladies, but the guys I picked for this team? The ones mouthing off to the league, hitting below the belt, having a bit too much fun? They’re gonna hate you, Captain.”
And this pleased him.
He stood, fixing his sport coat before gripping my shoulder. The man earned his money from trust funds and dividends, not faceoffs and bruising hits. He didn’t have the strength to intimidate me, but that didn’t stop him from trying.
“Let them hate you,” he said. “It’ll sell more tickets that way.”
“What?”
He buttoned his jacket. “I’ve got an interview with one of the networks—can never keep them straight. We’ll meet tomorrow, go over some more details.”
Like hell.
I stepped in front of him, staring down at bushy eyebrows twitching with impatience.
“You’re gonna tell me what’s happening with this team.” Wasn’t exactly a respectful tone, but at least I didn’t swear. “Why this roster? Why isn’t anyone doing something about the behavioral issues? Why does the media have so much dirt on us already?”
I knew the answer, and I would’ve traded the hundred million in my contract to get it wrong.
John checked his watch, as if the very conversation had cost him more money than he’d wasted by ruining the franchise. “The league is competitive at the moment. And, frankly, this market is not primed for a new team. Ironfield has their football and small-time baseball. Hockey was never going to make an impact unless we gave them something to watch.”
“A winning team would work.”
“Hardly. The chances of creating a winning team out of whole cloth from the discarded scraps of the rest of the league? Come on. You must’ve realized it was a fantasy.”
“So, all the talk about building the franchise and creating something lasting?” My bitterness tasted vile. “Just a lie?”
“The dynasties will come in time. But first…we must create something that generates enthusiasm. Fans have seen winning teams before—it’s not interesting. They’re looking to be entertained.”
The thought sickened me. “And that’s what this team is? Entertainment?”
“You must admit, it is an interesting collection of men with all their flaws and baggage—those thugs, addicts, and assholes?” John dared to wink at me. “All led by the one white knight of respectability that keeps the Forge…legitimate.”
“Are you even going to help us win?”
“Building a winning team is boring.” John offered no sympathy or apologies. To him, the destruction of my career was little more than a passing amusement. “Especially when the league, fans, and people of this city would rather watch the brand-new Ironfield Forge self-destruct.”
12
Clover
The Ironfield Forge had betrayed my best friend.
But Adrian wasn’t a man who surrendered to anyone or anything. He’d fight, even if he had to stand alone against an entire franchise while they exploited the players for media scandals and league ratings.
His plan? Unite the Forge despite their differences and petty arguments. Throw a party. Welcome the men to his home. Extend his hospitality and offer his support to make the transition onto the new team as easy as possible.
Unfortunately, he refused to tell them the truth.
Adrian only revealed what had happened with the head coach and team owner to me. And then he swore me to secrecy, citing his willingness to give me a child as collateral for my silence.
It was a dirty trick. And it bit him in the ass.
Adrian scheduled his party on my most fertile day. And the presence of twenty-three drunken men was not exactly an aphrodisiac for a girl like me…even if every last one of the Forge might’ve crawled out of the pages of a naughty shirtless calendar.
Our mountain of potato chips had dwindled from Everest to molehill, but it wasn’t like the team did much but drinking.
The salsa had been the first casualty, tossed into the pool. We’d be picking cilantro out of the filter for the rest of the summer.
Then they came for the popcorn. Most of the unpopped kernels were stuffed into the engine of Rhett Marlow’s Corvette in the hopes they’d pop on his ride home.
The pizza? Most of it was consumed. The rest? Turned into a messy game of Indoor Ultimate Frisbee. Mozzarella cheese clung to Adrian’s windows. Most of the marinara sauce ground into his carpets.
I didn’t understand it and took refuge in the kitchen. At least, until the guys decided to play Russian Roulette with shots of Kool-Aid. I sent them on their way with paper cups and a bottle of ghost-pepper infused hot sauce.
Someone wouldn’t make it home tonight.
Adrian returned to the kitchen following a spontaneous soccer game involving four of the guys, his only laundry hamper, and an entire handle of whiskey that was emptied in ten minutes. He was a sweating mess, his hair plastered to his head and his thick muscles glistening as he removed his shirt to wipe his brow.
He tossed the shirt into an unused kitchen cabinet.
Not sure why the man bothered to buy a mansion when a pigsty was cheaper and cleaner.
He chugged a gulp of water from the sprayer hose in his sink before spritzing the sweat from his head. He turned, muscles tensing and pecs flexing.
“So…this isn’t the exactly the party I had planned,” he said.
I handed him a clean towel. “You think?”
“And our romantic evening turned into a gong show.”
“What?”
“You know—the shitshow that happens when you lure any hockey players to a party with a bribe of alcohol and…more alcohol.”
“Not that.” I’d learned the term long ago, when Adrian had left for a celebratory party and returned a completely shaved head. I had to draw eyebrows on the man for three weeks before they finally grew back in. “The romantic evening part.”
“I didn’t realize today was the day when I scheduled the party.” He lowered his voice with an apologetic shrug. “I wanted tonight to be…better than before.”
Dangerous territory.
No matter what he said or promised, nothing could’ve been better than our night together.
Which was exactly why I planned tonight to be as simple as unzipping his pants and hopping on for the deposit.
The last thing our relationship needed was for me to feel anything more than confused.