Sorry, dude. Time’s up!
I skate over to him and flash him a grin. “Hit the bench.”
He growls and puffs out his chest as he skates right up next to me. “Fuck you, Bash. You couldn’t even bother to come to practice on time, and now, I'm just supposed to hand over my position?”
“They’re paying me a fuckload more than they’re paying you to play this position. You really think they're going to put me on the second or third line? Let the big boys play.”
I wait for the swing, but it doesn't come. He's got more restraint than most of the assholes on the ice these days, or maybe he's just smart enough to know I'm right and there's no point in fighting it.
Save that anger for the ice.
He scowls at me then skates over toward the bench. Coach glares at me from across the ice. Her cool-green eyes match the temperature of the rink. She had to have seen the entire exchange.
Good.
She needs to know where I belong on this team. Bob promised me the first line position wouldn't go to anyone else, and I expect that to be true. No one is going to keep me from what I earned. And I earned this spot with hard fucking years of work.
I wait for her to approach me, to say or do something to acknowledge my presence and what just went down, but instead, she sucks in a deep breath and glances around the ice.
“What are you all just standing around for? Let's go.”
A tiny smile pulls at the corner of my lips. She's not fighting it, either. She knows exactly where I belong.
It’s going to make this a lot easier for both of us if she just accepts who is in control here. And it's the one scoring all the goals.
For now, it’s time to work with my new teammates. Things with Coach Waterson can be dealt with off the ice.
She hammers us with drills for almost two hours without letting up. Mac and I fall right back into the groove we had in Chicago, and Hayes and Kasinski both seem to be with the program. Lebedev is another matter entirely. The dude has an attitude problem, but just like with Coach, it will work itself out eventually…like when I take the ice tomorrow night first instead of him.
When Greer finally ends practice, I’m more than ready to head back to the hotel and crash. The late-night flight knocked more out of me than I thought, and relaxing and settling into my new digs sounds like absolute bliss.
I make my way off the ice and down the tunnel toward the locker room.
Mac steps up next to me and smacks my shoulder. “Hey, man, I'm happy you're here.”
I smirk at him. “I'm glad someone is.”
He chuckles, but all humor drains from his face. I follow his line of vision to find Coach standing halfway down the tunnel, her arms crossed over her ample chest, a scowl on her perfect bow lips, and angry heat radiating from her green eyes.
We approach her, and her hand shoots out. She presses it into the center of my chest.
“A word, Mr. Fury?”
I stare down at her, my skates giving me an even greater height advantage. “What do you need, Coach?”
She lets the rest of the guys walk past us before she steps in front of me and glowers up at me. “We need to have a little chat.”
“Oh, really? About what?” I do my best to appear clueless and innocent.
It doesn’t work, given the way her lips twist into a sneer. “About your attitude. You come late to my practice, you don't play. You pull any of the shit that you pulled back in Chicago, you don't play.” She closes the distance between us and pushes her finger into the center of my chest. “I don't let dirty players on my team. Don't for a second think I'm going to let you walk all over me and do whatever you want.”
Every word she says drips with disdain that should probably have my balls shriveling up to hide, but instead, my cock twitches and heat spreads through my chest.
Coach has some fucking balls. I'll give her that.
She has to be a total badass to have played the way she did. Her impressive stats when she was on the Olympic team and in college mean she probably could've played better in the NHL than half the guys here. If they were going to give any woman a chance to coach us, I’m glad it’s her. She’s earned it.
But what she hasn’t earned is the right to talk down to me like I’m a piece of shit stuck to her shoe. I’m an All-Star player with a multi-million-dollar contract, not some rookie she can intimidate.
I grin down at her. “Let's get one thing clear, Coach. The Scorpions are paying me $9 million to be here this year alone. They're paying you…what? Not even a million?”
She flinches slightly, so I push in even closer to her. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her and see her hands shaking with rage at her sides.
“I was brought here to do what I do, and I'm going to do what I do best. Win games. Just try to keep me off the ice and see what happens to your job. Whose side do you think they're going to choose if it comes down to the two of us, sweetheart?”
I shift to the right and move past her down the tunnel without a glance back. She doesn’t come after me. She doesn’t shout some retort.
Hopefully, she got the message.
Chapter Three
GREER
“That bastard did what?” Jill shakes her head, her black bob swinging at her chin. “You can't be serious.”
I take a big cooling gulp of my wine and set it back on the table. I need a second to compose myself before I talk about it anymore. Even thinking about my confrontation with Bash today and what he said to me before he walked off gets my blood boiling so hot, I feel like I might explode and send shrapnel across the restaurant.
Though, now that I’ve told Jill all the details, I don’t feel the rush of relief that I thought I would. Instead, more pent-up rage has worked its way into the knots in my shoulders.
How fucking dare he speak to me like that? I’m his coach, for fuck’s sake.
He needs to show me some damn respect, even if he does make almost ten times what I do a year. I’m still the one in charge—at least, as much as Bob lets me be.
I’m the coach. He’s just the dirty player. I’m the authority in this professional relationship. And he just walked all over me like he wasn’t wearing blades that sliced up my pride and left me standing there bleeding.
Jill watches me from across the table, anger and concern etched on her soft features.
“Yes.” I take a deep breath. “He actually said that to me and then he pushed past me like I wasn't even there on his way back to the locker room.”
“What a fucking dick.”
“No shit.”
“It's too bad he's hotter than hell.” She shakes her head and takes her wine glass in her hand. “Such a fucking waste.”
She sips at her pinot grigio, and I bark out a laugh that has the people at the tables around us glaring at me.
Oops.
I never was very good at biting my tongue or keeping my mouth under control. It's gotten me into a lot of trouble in the past. But it also means I stand up for myself like I tried to do this morning with Bash. So far, he’s the only one who has managed to render me speechless.
Bash fucking Fury.
The bane of my existence and he hasn’t even been here twenty-four hours.