I twirl my glass between my fingers, that damn cocky grin of his playing in my head. “I don't think he's that hot.”
Jill chuckles and shakes her head. She tilts her glass toward me. “You’re a fucking liar. He's exactly your type. Tall. Broad shoulders. Tattoos everywhere. Flowing locks. Lips that are sinful and begging to be kissed. And that grin…giiiiirrlllllll, even on television, it’s panty-melting. If he weren't Bash Fury, you would be all over that.”
Shit.
She's not wrong. Not wrong at all.
Sometimes, I hate that the bitch knows me so damn well, but because of being almost inseparable in middle school and high school, we know each other nearly as well as we know ourselves. The fact that she moved to Vegas a few years ago and would be here was the ultimate icing on the cake of being offered this job.
But it’s times like these when she’s joking around and taunting me with her knowledge of my deepest desires, that I want to kick her under the table.
Admitting out loud that Bash is exactly the type of guy I've gravitated toward during my adult lifetime would sting almost as much as his words did today. But he is sooooo my type. It’s irrelevant, though. When I took my first job as an assistant coach under Bob, I swore off ever dating a hockey player again.
And, he’s not just any player. He plays for my team. That makes him doubly off-limits…
And that makes him even more appealing.
I stare through the almost-clear wine in my glass and lament my choice in men. “Why am I always attracted to assholes?”
Jill snorts and sips her wine. “Because you want to fix them. You see a tiny bit of good in someone and latch onto that and use it as a reason to ignore all the bad.”
Shit. I absolutely do that.
She nods as if she knows I’m mentally admitting she’s right. “Bash Fury is no different. You hate him now, but you’ll get to know him and figure out he’s not such a bad guy. You can’t help but see the good in people. That’s not a bad thing, Greer. You just have to make sure you don’t open yourself up to those people who only have a tiny bit of good. The rest is the part that ends up hurting you in the end.”
I sigh and lean back in my chair, the active chatter of the restaurant around us helping to drown out the voice in my head that keeps insisting there must be something redeeming in that man. “I don’t need to worry about that with Bash Fury, Jill. He’s an arrogant prick. He doesn’t have a redeeming bone in his body.”
Jill waggles her eyebrows. “It isn’t his redeeming bone I’m worried about. I’ve seen that look in your eyes before, girl. You want to jump that man.”
I jerk upright. “I do not. I wouldn’t go near that thing with a ten-foot pole.”
She grins. “Methinks you doth protest too much.”
“Oh, shut up.” I wave a hand at her. “Knock it off with the smarty-pants literary bullshit. I’m not getting involved with Bash Fury. I can guaranfuckingtee that. All I’m doing is making sure he stays in line.”
“And just how do you plan on doing that?”
However I have to…
I chew my lip and consider my options.
Bash is right about one thing…if I try to bench him without reason, Bob will come down on me. But if he keeps up his usual shit on the ice, that will give me a legitimate excuse I can argue to the boss about why he’s not out on the first line. The first penalty he gets, I can make sure he spends the rest of the night riding the wood instead of on his skates.
He won’t like it, but it will be a necessary return fire. He started this with his shot across the bow this morning. All I’m doing is staking my claim and ensuring he understands the way the Scorpions run. He may have been able to get away with his bullshit on the Warhawks, but that shit won’t fly here.
That sexy, infuriating man needs to learn his place, and it’s not at the head of this team.
“I’m going to do what I’ve always done, Jill. I’m going to stand my ground and show my authority the moment he steps out of line.”
It’s what I did when I assisted Bob in coaching the men’s Olympic team and during my one year as an assistant coach in the NHL…and it’s what I will do here. Just because I have tits instead of balls doesn’t mean I’ll tuck my tail and run at the first threat.
Bash Fury doesn’t scare me. Not one fucking bit.
He’s just a man. One controlled by testosterone and ego.
Both need to be put in check.
BASH
The fluffy, white towel brushes softly against my skin.
Like fucking Heaven.
I didn't need a second shower after practice, but from the moment I dropped off my bags here last night, or I guess, technically, early this morning, and saw the bathroom in this place, I knew I was going to be spending a lot of time in there.
Wall-to-wall jets and a waterfall showerhead were just too much to pass up. I also needed to relieve a little of the tension that had built up during my confrontation with Greer today.
I could have taken care of business in the locker room showers, but I don’t need my new teammates thinking I’m some sort of sick perv who whacks off all the time on the first day.
The shower here did just fine. I scrub the towel over my head and chest to get the majority of the water off then wander out into the bedroom and living room area of my hotel suite.
This place really is fucking incredible.
When I heard they were trading me to the Scorpions, I definitely wasn't thrilled to have to fly across the country to join an expansion team—even one with a great record—but the team putting me up at a place like this helps ease a little bit of the adjustment pain. And my five-game suspension after what I did to Miller gave me time to get some of my shit together, more time than most players get when they’re traded.
I'll eventually have to find a permanent place here, a condo or something, but for now, my home away from home is pretty fucking sweet.
If I had to be traded, at least it was to one of the poshest places I could've ended up. Fucking five stars on the strip. Only the best of the best for Bash Fury…
As it should be.
I let the towel drop to the floor and sprawl out on the king-size bed. The soft mattress might as well be a cloud underneath my naked skin. I’ll sleep like a baby tonight. I grab the remote and flip through channels until I land on Lethal Weapon. I chuckle to myself and relax against the headboard.
A fucking classic if there ever was one. And exactly what I need to top off my night.
The massive flat-screen’s crystal-clear picture flickers in front of me, and surround sound speakers immerse me in the explosions and gunfire in the movie.
I could get used to this life.
Maid service. Room service. Perfect location. Even the flashing lights of the Strip coming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up one wall of the room can’t distract from my relaxation.
As far as first days go, I've had worse. Coach was certainly pretty pissed off after our little chat in the tunnel, but she'll get over it if she knows what's good for the team.
And I have no doubt she does.
She has an impressive résumé. Three-time All-American in college. Three Olympic medals—one bronze and two silver. Assistant coach for the men’s team that won gold in Pyeongchang…