The Whales medical staff huddles around Berglund down on the ice. Blood stains the area around him—a lot of blood. A vision of what I did to Miller in the game that got me traded here flashes at the forefront of my brain. My teammates struggle to push back the other Whales, to keep them from getting to me where I’m still being restrained by Mac.
I finally notice the sharp sting in my hands, and I stare down at the broken skin and blood over my knuckles. Bile fills my throat, and I swallow it down while examining the aftermath of my rampage.
Oh shit. What the fuck did I just do?
My gaze slowly drifts over to our bench. Hard green eyes glare back at me. I thought I was angry to have been able to do this, but what lives in Coach’s stare right now is ten times worse.
Fuck. I just royally fucked this up.
Chapter Seven
BASH
The heavy door slams shut behind me, and I shove past Mac into our hotel room. He watches me warily from where he stands near the bathroom but wisely doesn’t say anything.
Any conversation he might try to engage me in would only go nowhere. The last thing I want to do is talk after a game like that. And the fact that we’re stuck in this hotel another night instead of flying back to Vegas like we planned because of a freak ice storm shutting down the airport is just adding salt to the open wound.
I drop onto my back on the bed and rest my forearm over my eyes. A huge sigh slips from between my lips. Even with my eyes squeezed shut, I can feel Mac looming over me, staring down, but he doesn't say a word.
What is his fucking problem?
I lift my arm and peer up at him with one eye. “What?”
He crosses his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow. “You know what. What the fuck happened back there? I've never seen you like that, and that's saying a lot considering you’re Bash fucking Fury.”
I drop my arm back down. Mac isn’t owed an explanation for my behavior, and regardless, I don't want to repeat what was said about Greer. She doesn't deserve that. Those words should never be spoken by anyone, let alone by a colleague who knows what it means for her to be in this position and that she’s more than qualified. “He was being an asshole. He deserved it.”
“That's all you’re gonna say? He deserved it?”
“Yeah,” I shift up onto my elbows, “that's all I’m gonna say.”
Mac scoffs and shakes his head. “You think that will be a good enough explanation for Coach? She was pretty damn pissed.”
Don't I know it…
The fact that she wasn't waiting for me outside the locker room after the game to tear me a new asshole says a hell of a lot more than if she had reamed me out.
She's so angry, she couldn't even talk to me about it.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Normally, I wouldn’t give a flying fuck what one of my coaches thought about something like what went down tonight, but ever since I saw the hurt and anger in her eyes seeing what I’d done, I haven’t been able to shake the queasiness in my stomach.
I need to explain myself. She needs to know I wasn't just being a dick.
This time, anyway.
It’s insane. And it’s definitely never happened before. But for some inexplicable reason, I actually give a fuck what Coach thinks.
I shove off the bed and rub at the back of my neck.
Mac takes a step back. “Where the hell are you going with that determined look on your face?”
“None of your fucking business.”
He grabs my arm. “It is my business if you’re gonna go do something stupid, Bash.”
I growl at him, and he releases my arm. Probably a wise move on his part. We played together long enough in Chicago for him to understand that this isn’t the time to push me. I stride to the door and yank it open. “Don't worry. I promise it's not anything stupid.”
“Oh, yeah, that's really reassuring coming from you.”
I roll my eyes and let the door slam shut behind me. The sound echoes down the ghostly silent hallway.
Going to my coach’s room in the middle of the night is probably not a great idea, but there's no way I'm getting any sleep tonight knowing how pissed off she is when she doesn’t know the whole story.
Everything is deserted as I make my way to her room at the opposite end of the building. I blow past all the rooms on either side of the hall, where my teammates are probably sleeping soundly. The only reason Mac was even still awake was because he was waiting for me to show up after I went for a walk to cool down and think.
I stop outside her door and glance at my watch. It's almost one. She might already be asleep. This can probably wait ‘til tomorrow. I can tell her when we’re on the plane. I turn to walk away, but the anger tightening my chest forces me to spin back.
No. I can't let Greer go to bed, thinking I'm some fucking asshole who just beats people up for the hell of it.
And I refuse to consider why it matters so much what she thinks of me, but it does. Something about that look in her eyes…the disappointment there…it’s just eating away at me from the inside.
I rap my knuckles against the door and wait. The chain slides, a deadbolt turns, and she pulls open the door.
The same hard eyes that glared at me from the bench meet mine. She crosses her arms over her chest. The thin white T-shirt and yoga pants she's wearing leave very little to the imagination.
Christ, she does have a banging body.
Toned and firm in all the right places. Hips big enough to grab onto. And her breasts…
She's probably crossing her arms over her chest because she's not wearing a bra. The thing is practically see-through, and I can’t find any telltale signs of straps.
I swallow through my suddenly dry throat. “Can I come in?”
She narrows her hard gaze on me and then glances back into her room. Her bare foot taps, drawing my attention to the bright-red polish on her toes.
Why is that so damn hot?
“My eyes are up here, Bash.”
I jerk my head up to find a flash of annoyance in her stare.
Shit. Called out with my own line.
She holds the door open and lets me brush past her. The crisp scent of soap mingles with something flowery and sweet that’s all Greer. I inhale deeply and try to shake the image of what she looks like under those very flimsy clothes.
With her pale-blond hair piled high on the top of her head in some sort of bun, she looks far too young to be coaching grown men.
God, even with no makeup on and in these clothes, she's freaking beautiful.
The door slams shut, and she follows me into the room. I watch her steady, deliberate approach.
She stops well back from me, and anger twists her lips into a frown. “What the hell do you want, Bash?”
GREER
It can't get any more inappropriate than having a player in my hotel room in the middle of the night. I should never have let this man in. I should've told him to go back to his room and to go back to bed. He's the last person I should be talking to right now considering how fucking pissed I am at him.
One thing Dad always told me was to never lash out when I’m angry. I had planned to talk to Bash tomorrow. To give myself a day or two to calm down so that I wouldn't say or do anything I may regret later. Like kick him off the damn team and have to deal with the fallout from Bob that could affect my own career.