But he looks so genuinely distressed—hair disheveled, brow furrowed, and eyes darkened—by something I can’t quite place.
I hate to see somebody so upset even if it's somebody who's on my shit list. If there’s something he needs to get off his chest about what happened in tonight’s game, I’ll let him. Then, I’ll kick him out so I can get to bed before we have to get up early tomorrow to fly home for our next game.
Arriving half a day late is going to mess with our entire schedule, but in addition to not being able to control Bash Fury, I also apparently can’t control the weather.
The man who’s the current focus of my ire and has occupied far too many of my thoughts over the last two weeks moves to the corner of the room by the small table near the window and runs his hand through his hair. Stress tenses his shoulders, and he fists his hands at his sides.
“What are you doing here, Bash? What’s so important that this can’t wait until we get back to Vegas to discuss?”
He shakes his head and rubs his jaw. “I need to explain what happened today.”
“No, you don't. It's pretty fucking clear what happened.” At least, it was to me. “You completely ignored everything we talked about because you’re Bash Fury, and Bash Fury doesn't follow the rules. Bash Fury does whatever the hell he wants.”
He recoils slightly at the harsh words I hurl at him like daggers. “Is that really what you think? That I'm inherently a bad guy?”
If he had flat out asked me the same question a few days ago, I probably would have said no. I likely would have told him I believe no one is inherently bad and everyone has something good deep inside them. It’s the very thing Jill warned me I would look for, but what he did tonight has me questioning that belief. Maybe it’s naïve to believe there’s good in people. Maybe some people are just born bad, through no fault of their own. With volatile tempers, lack of conscience, and general apathy toward other humans.
This isn’t the first time he’s beaten the shit out of someone for no apparent reason other than a foul that happens every night on dozens of rinks. The same thing he has done hundreds of times to someone else during his career. It didn’t warrant his response. Not in any way, shape, or form. And Bash knows it.
That’s the most frustrating part of it all. He’s clearly intelligent and understands why I feel the way I do, yet he just can’t break the cycle—even in a new city with a new team.
My conversation with Dad has been running through my head since I watched Bash decimate Berglund on the ice in a blind rage only hours ago.
“Trust your gut.”
“What if I don't know what my gut is telling me?”
“Then, you wait ‘til you do know.”
I know now. After seeing that, it’s clear this man is completely out of control. It’s not safe for anyone for him to be out on the ice, and he will only drag the team down.
Despite the distress on his face, I have to answer him honestly. “You've done absolutely nothing to prove otherwise, Bash. In fact, what happened tonight just proves my point. You're out of control, and out of control is dangerous in this game.”
He clenches his teeth—probably to keep from retorting with something he shouldn’t say to his coach—and a muscle tics along his perfectly chiseled jaw. His chest heaves as he sucks in deep breaths.
My words seem to have genuinely upset him.
Why the hell does he care what I think?
He certainly doesn't act like he cares what anyone thinks when he’s out on the ice.
“Bash, you really hurt him tonight. He has a severe concussion. He lost four teeth, and you busted one of his orbital sockets.”
“Shit.” Bash scrubs his hands over his face.
“You did all that today for no reason. You don't have any control. You’re going to get suspended for what happened. When your suspension is up, there's no room on the Scorpions for a player like you.”
That muscle in his jaw jumps, and the air between us thickens. His fists open and close at his sides. He's fuming mad. But he bites back whatever it is he was going to say in favor of storming past me and out the door.
It slams shut behind him, sending a deep vibration through my chest.
I drop down onto the bed with my hands over my face and my entire body shaking. Every confrontation I have with Bash leaves me more and more dazed, and it's not just because of how angry I am at him.
It's the tension between us that’s far more than professional.
Every argument we have feels like foreplay. Like we’re building up to something that I know can never happen between us and never will.
Even if I weren’t his coach, even if he weren’t a player, I can't be with somebody who shows such utter disregard for other people.
It just can't happen. Even if he is hot as hell.
Chapter Eight
GREER
We finally pull into the gate, and the engines on the plane wind down. Everyone starts gathering their belongings and preparing to deplane now that we’re home.
Bash hasn't even looked my direction the entire flight home. I can't say I blame him. He knows how angry I am and that any conversation we would be having wouldn’t be one that should occur in front of the rest of the team, or in a confined space with no means of escape for either of us.
He’s kept to himself somewhere behind me, toward the middle of the plane, the entire flight. I reach down to grab my bag from under the seat in front of me and toss it onto the seat next to me.
My lower back protests the move.
God, I can’t wait for a long, hot bath.
Flights always mess with my body and leave my muscles achy and sore afterward. Even the short flight is enough to leave me begging for relief.
I glance over my shoulder toward the back of the plane. Bash shoulders his way past anyone in his path in the central aisle. He never so much as glances my way as he passes and then stalks off the plane.
Yep, he’s still pissed too.
Though I don’t understand why. He’s the one who fucked up last night. Not me. I’m not the bad guy here.
I hope he doesn't drive like an asshole and hurt himself or someone else just because he's mad at me.
The guys all file off the plane one by one, but I stay in my seat. Instead of sleeping, I took the time on the flight back to Vegas to figure out how to handle the Bash situation.
It’s time for me to man-up and draw a line in the sand, but I hate having to do this. I’ve been dreading this conversation with Bob. I hate being at such odds with the man who gave me every opportunity in this sport, the man who taught me how to coach, but he’s also the person who brought Bash into my life, knowing it was the last thing I wanted. It makes me love Bob and hate him at the same time.
That peculiar mix of feelings isn’t one I want to experience any longer, so as soon as I’m off this plane, I’ll call Bob about meeting later today since I was forced to cancel practice anyway due to our delayed flight.
I sigh and grab my bag from the empty seat next to me, prepared to be the last one off the plane.
Lebedev steps in front of me and holds up his hand. “Wait for a second, Coach.”
“Dimitri, what's going on?” It’s highly unusual for one of the players to want to discuss anything in this setting. Everyone’s exhausted and ready to head home for a while before tomorrow night’s game, me included.