I glance over at Bash, where he leans against the boards and watches the kids with a permanent smile. Growing up with Mike Fury as a father, there were probably a lot of mornings like these, but Bash is like me—driven to be the best.
“Did your dad ever bring you to things like this or help out with your teams growing up?”
He stiffens next me, and the carefree look he’s been wearing all day slips from his face. Dark, hard eyes meet mine. “I don’t want to talk about him, Greer.”
Shit.
No witty banter. No calling me “Coach” in that sexy, playful way. He’s pissed. Though, I have absolutely no idea why.
He got a little pissy with me when I brought up his dad during our first argument, too, but he has yet to offer me any reason for his disdain for the man. He’s never talked about him, now that I think about it. He’s never opened up about anything, really. A fact I’ve ignored during our time together because he’s kept me in a haze of orgasms, food, wine, and strippers.
The least he can do is answer one simple, innocent question with the attitude. “Why are you so pissed when I bring up your father?”
His jaw clenches, and a vein in his neck throbs. He glances around to make sure no one is close to us, then steps closer to me and drops his head. “Leave it alone, Greer.”
The warning is growled low, so no one else could possibly hear it, but with enough force that it makes me recoil from him. Anger and confusion mix into a volatile concoction in my blood.
“Fuck you, Bash.” I shake my head and check for young ears that might be listening. “You can drag me to a strip club and then do unspeakably nasty things to me, but I can’t ask you a personal question?”
He shoves his hands through his hair and stares at the ceiling for a minute. “You can ask, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to answer. Some things are better left in the past, and my relationship with my father is one of those things.”
The true anguish in his reply hits me harder than any defender ever did. This isn’t about him being angry at me; whatever this is goes a lot deeper and stems from something that happened a long time ago. “Was it really that bad?”
His eyes answer my question even though he doesn’t offer a verbal response.
Yes.
Jesus. What could his father have possibly done that was so awful?
“Please, Greer, just leave it alone. You don’t want to know the truth. No one wants to hear what growing up with Mike Fury was really like.”
I shift closer to him, probably closer than we should be to continue to maintain the illusion that we’re nothing more than player and coach. “I do, Bash. I do want to know. Because it means something to you. I can see how upset you are, and I want to understand.”
He closes his eyes and inhales a deep breath. When he opens them again, determination lies in their depths. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“I am, too.”
But he doesn’t hear it.
He skates away from me without a look back and stalks off the ice, leaving me with two questions.
What the hell just happened? And how the fuck am I supposed to get home?
Chapter Seventeen
GREER
Excited chatter and the clinking of glasses and bottles surround me. The din of noise might as well not even exist, though.
Somebody pinch me. Is this for real?
We're going to the Stanley Cup Playoffs. Ten years ago, if someone had told me I'd be standing here celebrating with my team, I would've told them they were insane and it wasn't even funny to joke about something like that. But here I stand, dumbstruck at the bar with a glass of champagne in my hand while the team celebrates around me.
We have the entire space to ourselves. It’s just one of the perks of your GM owning the restaurant. And considering how loud and obnoxious the guys are, I’m glad we’re the only ones here. They deserve to celebrate, though. They’ve earned it. It’s been a long, hard season.
I lean back against the bar to look at my guys. They played their fucking asses off. On the road, first-line a man down half the time, yet they came through. We pulled it off, and I still can't believe it.
If only I could fully enjoy this, but I can’t.
I look down at my shaking hand and bring the cut glass to my lips and sip at the cool, crisp bubbly liquid. Coupled with a deep breath, it helps calm my nerves slightly.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t shake this dark cloud of fear from over my head.
It shouldn’t be there. I should have faith.
This team can play. Really play. Somehow, this mismatched band of misfits has pulled off the impossible. We have a real shot at winning. If we can just keep it together.
If Bash can keep it together.
He's been on his best behavior the last few games, but I don't know if it's because he knows what it would mean for the team if he fucked up again or if it's because he knows what it would mean with me.
Of course, I want to believe it’s both, but with him, I never really know.
Not when he’s constantly flipping between being sweet, sexy, thoughtful Bash and brute, barbaric, out-of-control Bash. It’s giving me a horrible case of whiplash.
The other day at the rink with the kids was a prime example. Bash’s flip-out when I mentioned his father came so far out of left field, it’s left a strange rift and tension between us. Even Jill couldn’t help me figure out what went wrong. After she picked me up and I attempted to drown my sorrows in carbs at one of the local buffets, I gave her the entire rundown of the conversation, and her only insight was that Bash was “a man,” and I should expect this kind of shit.
Real fucking helpful.
And while I think I’ve managed to keep the awkwardness between us out of our professional interactions, it’s still left me with an ache I can’t seem to shake.
I rub at my neck with my free hand, and the man in question flicks his gaze over to me from across the room. The corner of his mouth turns up in that sexy lopsided smile.
Christ, he’s hot.
It would be so much easier to resist him if he were actually an ugly asshole. But he's not. He's handsome as hell and actually a really nice guy. A caring, generous lover. Always seeking my pleasure before his own. Bash talks a big game on and off the ice, but he comes through in both places.
And even now, when things are weird between us, he still manages to unravel me with one look. My pussy clenches, remembering what he did to me that night at the club and after.
What we're doing is so stupid. If we ever get caught, it means the end of my career. But it's so hard to say no to that man.
He says something to Mac, smacks him on the shoulder, and makes his way across the bar toward me. Every step he takes ratchets my heart rate up until it's thundering against my rib cage and throbbing in my ears.
My entire body heats at his assessing gaze raking over me. He's undressing me with his eyes; there's no question about it. And he’s seen me enough naked now that I know he's visualizing every single inch of me—every single inch that he knows so goddamn well.
Bash handles me and plays my body the way a musician would a guitar, the way a hockey player handles the stick. He's so damn good at it, and he knows it. The smug smirk that accompanies every time our eyes meet assures me he doesn’t need to be told.