I grab the bottle of water from my desk and guzzle down half of it. The cool liquid does nothing to calm the heat flooding my body after what just went down between us. Bash’s proximity and near nakedness were wreaking havoc on me.
Jill was right. Bash is exactly the type of guy I would usually go for. Under different circumstances. And with a different personality.
I want to believe when he says he’s not a bad guy. I want to believe he truly has good intentions and is only here to help the team, but men like Bash Fury only do things that benefit themselves.
That's something I learned a long time ago. It's something that has helped me keep this wall of ice around my heart over the years despite the men who have tried to chip away at it. The one time I let that wall down, I got burned. And it won’t happen again, especially not at the hands of a man like Bash, who doesn’t even try to hide who or what he really is.
Finding a selfless man is rare in this world. And Bash is about as far from selfless as anyone I've ever met.
So, why does my hand shake thinking about him being here and staring me down with those whiskey eyes?
Maybe because I'm a fucking fool to think I'm going to be able to control him. I dig my phone out of my purse, scroll through my contacts, and hit send.
It rings three times before the man I need to talk to answers. “Greer? I wasn't expecting to hear from you tonight. I saw the game.”
Dad's voice washes over me like a soothing balm. I close my eyes and drop my head back against the chair’s headrest. “Yeah. It wasn't good.”
He chuckles and turns down the television in the background. “No, it wasn't, sweetheart, but you win some, you lose some.”
“That's easy for you to say. Your career doesn't depend on you winning.”
“I don't have a career, sweetheart. I'm retired.”
“My point exactly.” And when he was working as a custodian, it was to pay for my hockey camps and ice time and everything else that comes with having a daughter obsessed so completely with a sport. “So, what's going on, sweetheart? You just called to say hi to your old man?”
I roll the half-full bottle of water between my hands. “I don't know, Dad. I guess I just need a male perspective.”
“Then, you’ve come to the right place. Perspective on what?”
Having to even ask him this is another blow to my ego, but I need help and don’t have anywhere else to go. “On what to do with a player who doesn't seem to respect my authority or think I can do the job.”
“Who's the asshole who thinks that? That Bash Fury?”
Leave it to Dad to see exactly what's happening right from the beginning, even from five states away and through the television. He always was insightful. It was one of the things Mom loved and hated about him. He always knew when something was bugging her, even when she claimed things were fine, and was able to pick up on the subtle clues in her body language.
“How did you know?”
He snorts. “You should've seen the way the cameras kept zooming in on your face every time he got a penalty. You looked like your head was about ready to pop off.”
Shit.
“Here I thought I was doing a pretty good job of controlling my emotions.”
“Sweetheart, you have a lot of gifts. Controlling your emotions is not one of them. It's not an insult. It's just a statement of fact. Your mother was the same way. Wore her heart on her sleeve.”
He's right. I never have been good at concealing my emotions. But I've never had to. I've never been on a stage with the focus on me like this before. Even during the Olympics, on a world stage, there were other major players, other teams. This, this is completely different.
I’m the one they’re watching. I’m the one they’re hoping will fail. “Was it that bad?”
“No, sweetheart. I mean, maybe…”
“Great.”
He sighs. “I think any coach would have been pissed, honey. Bash was definitely out of line on at least a couple of those penalties.”
“You think I should bench him?”
Dad barks out a laugh that rumbles through the phone. “Oh, hell, sweetheart, I can't tell you that. You're the coach, not me.”
“Yeah, but you've watched hockey longer than I've been alive and sat through all my practices and games. I trust your opinion.”
“The Scorpions didn't hire you for your dad's opinions, Greer. They hired you for your personal experience and for what you think. You need to trust your gut.”
He makes it sound so easy.
Trust your gut.
It’s such a dad thing to say. He’s been giving me the same advice my entire life, but this feels so different.
“What if I don't know what my gut is telling me?”
“Then, you wait ‘til you do know.”
As if it's that simple.
Chapter Six
GREER
Thank God.
It seems our little talk after the last game, while uncomfortable and unsettling in so many ways, may have actually gotten through to Bash. Maybe our travel day getting to Seattle gave him time to consider what I said and the ramifications of not cleaning up his game.
I certainly had what he said to me racing through my mind over the last couple of days. The truth is, he rattled me, more than I even want to admit to myself, let alone to Jill or Dad.
I’m still not sure if anything I said got through to him or not, but something happened.
I glance up at the scoreboard. Three minutes left, and we’re up by one.
Come on, guys. Keep it tight.
Clean passes. Clean shots.
All we need to do is hold it together for three fucking minutes, and we've got this game.
Whenever we play the Whales on their home ice, it's a madhouse in here. These are the kind of conference rivalries that make the fans insane. The crowd cheers and screams so loudly, we can barely hear ourselves think. Some would see it as a problem, but the energy is infectious. It always makes us play harder and faster.
Tonight is no exception. The guys look good. Really good. And Bash has managed to stay out of the penalty box the entire game. That's practically unheard of for him. The commentators are probably scrambling to find that statistic to give to the viewers at home.
Having him on the ice for most of the game has been a huge asset. He’s scored two of our four goals and has been lightning-fast and precise with his passes tonight. It’s incredible to watch a player of Bash’s caliber have a good night.
I’d like to see more like this, and I hope I'm now a little voice inside his head reminding him that he doesn't have to hurt people to play well.
But who the hell knows with Bash? This could be a fluke. Or, maybe Dad was right, and this is just what I needed to know what my gut was telling me about Bash.
He jumps back out onto the ice after a short break and gets right into the play, knocking the Whales’ Orlov to the boards. Orlov struggles to get back to his feet, but it was a good hit. The type of hit hockey is supposed to have.
I have no problem with the violence in the sport, but it doesn't mean it needs to go beyond that. A few lost teeth and some blood are expected. It’s unchecked tempers that cause problems, and the tensions are always high when we play the Whales, especially on their home ice. It usually leads to more than one scuffle, yet tonight has been surprisingly calm.