Skimpy. White. Panties.
So now he was reduced to extra drills and long runs and cold showers for the duration of Kennedy’s stay with him. He had given her leave to treat his home as hers, and it would likely come back to bite him—or his dick—later.
He headed toward Coach’s office and knocked on the door. “Coach?”
“Come in.”
Coach Calhoun was a bear of a man, the kind of guy who didn’t suffer fools but had figured out how to be gruff without the asshole quotient. He was quick-tempered and hard to please, but as long as you put in the work, he left you alone.
“Good work out there today, Durand.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
“So did you ever play center coming up?”
“For a short while. I prefer the wing because I get more chances to score.”
Coach nodded thoughtfully. “A lot of guys do, but you’ve got a bit more going on. You’re a workhorse out there. Moving around a lot, never idle, figuring out the plays so you’re in the right place at the right time. That’s center instinct.”
Reid had enjoyed his brief time as center at college level, but Henri had encouraged—more like demanded—that he push for the switch because wingers usually scored more goals and generally didn’t need to be as strong on defense. Reid had downplayed his proficiency in the center of the rink and focused on his winger attributes. His favorite players had always been the centers, though. Gretzky, St. James, DuPre.
“Thing is, I have a problem here,” Coach went on when Reid didn’t say anything. “We’re kind of short on center talent. Jones’s arm is still not in the place it needs to be and Hunt might have to take time out for ankle surgery. Bond’s reliable but I need another player. I think you would work well on the front line with Foreman and Petrov.”
The dynamic duo, best friends forever, pinkie swears and all that. Reid wasn’t sure he wanted to be the meat in their winger sandwich.
Or maybe he wasn’t sure he was good enough.
“They have a bond already and I might interfere with their dynamic. Plus I like having the opportunity to score.” On the wing, that was all he needed to think about. One-track mind that ended in the net.
“Or you might make them stronger. Some of the legendary goal scorers have played center. Think Gretzy, Crosby, St. James. A guy with your work ethic is capable of filling a lot of holes for us. At practice tomorrow, I’d like to put you at center and see if it works. If it doesn’t, so what. We tried.”
Reid couldn’t say no to that. He had no control here, and sometimes … that was good. Sometimes it was better to have someone take charge and just put him where he needed to be. It was a small thing, but perhaps it would lead to a big thing. A bubble of excitement tickled his chest at the idea he might contribute in a way that no one had understood before. That someone might need him.
“You’re the coach, Coach.”
“That I am.” He turned to his computer, which meant Reid was dismissed.
Heading back to the locker room, he became alert to the sound of laughter and commotion and … barking?
Bucky!
Inside he found his dog holding court, surrounded by players who were acting as if royalty had come to visit. Kennedy sat on the bench in front of his cubby, the spot Reid had just vacated, alongside Mia with her Pom.
“Oh, there’s Daddy!” Kennedy smiled and Reid’s chest tightened. Bucky spotted him and bounded the short distance over to greet his master.
“Daddy?” Tate Kaminski shot him a look. “This dog and …” He flicked a glance at Kennedy. “Is yours, Durand?”
“Oui.”
Mia chimed in. “I was coming over for lunch and ran into Kennedy and Bucky …”
No one heard the rest because the entire locker room went gaga about Bucky’s name and how cute was that, etcetera. The little huckster loved the attention.
“Bucky …” Kershaw said in a musing tone that Reid knew he was going to hate, “Which makes you Captain … Canada?”
“Captain Canuck,” Cade Burnett said. “That might work.”
“Rebels. Assemble!” Kershaw called out, which jumpstarted a spirited conversation about which Avengers hero might work for each team member.
As he pulled his shirt on, Erik Jorgenson was refusing the Thor label on the grounds he was Swedish not fucking Norwegian—and now Reid realized that most of the guys were shirtless, and at least one of them was still in his towel from the shower.
Jorgenson crept closer to Reid’s roommate. “So, Kennedy, you work at the coffee shop, right?”
Kennedy pointed at their tender. “Chocolate mint frappe!”
“That’s me.” Jorgenson winked, a total hambone. “Haven’t seen you there lately.”
“I’m full-time with this little guy.” Reid could tell she was doing her best not to look at him and oddly, he was trying to do the same.
Because if he did, he might not be able to stop.
Damn this woman and her skimpy white panties.
Petrov latched that aristocratic Russian gaze onto Reid. “You have a full-time nanny for your dog, Durand?”
“Live-in, too,” Foreman said, and that was all it took. Every single player gawped like goldfish learning that water was wet.
Kennedy was watching him, not jumping in to explain, recognizing that this was his territory. He shouldn’t have to explain a thing to these fuckers but for some reason known only to the hockey gods, he found himself justifying why he had moved a strange (to him) and gorgeous (to everyone) woman into his apartment. Put like that, maybe it needed no explanation.
“The dog needs a lot of care.” As do I.
Where had that come from? That wasn’t Kennedy’s job, yet this morning when she touched his arm and gave him a peck on the cheek, he had felt … appreciated.
Perhaps he was a touch sensitive because of his conversation with Coach. Coach, who had said Reid had skills the team needed right now. Reid, who had never felt needed for anything.
Cade was staring at him, the gears of that sharp brain turning, rubbing the rough bristle on his chin. “But you got someone to move in. For the dog.”
“I like my dog.” Bucky needed him. Of that Reid was 100% certain.
“He’s doing me a huge favor, too,” Kennedy said. “I needed a place to stay so it all worked out.”
“Sounds like it did,” Kaminski muttered.
“Oh, not so sure about that,” Foreman said so low only Reid could hear. He turned, ready to be annoyed as always with this guy.
The smart mouth Bostonian was considering him with something like pity. Shoe’s on the other foot, that look said. Kaminski and the rest of them might think he’d lucked out having a hot, free-spirited roommate like Kennedy under his feet—and maybe under him—but Foreman knew better.
Reid was in trouble, and Foreman was enjoying the hell out it.
15
It usually started this way. A slight ache at the back of his skull. If he left it any longer and it moved to the front, he knew.
He was getting a migraine.
Since he was fifteen, he had suffered them, usually triggered by stress, sometimes by alcohol. It was another reason to be careful about his diet and his preparation. Anything out of the ordinary might set him on a road to debilitation. Only once had he felt so sick that he couldn’t play: during the semis of the Frozen Four in college. His parents had come down from Canada, and Bastian had been there, ready to cheer him on.