It was deliberate.
He was trying to show me that he can get away with doing whatever he wants here, and Bob won't let me pull him. And he was right. Bob pulled me aside between the first and second periods and made it clear he wanted him in, no matter what.
So much for this being my team.
I asked Mac to tell Bash to come to talk to me, but I don't even know what I'm going to say at this point. I just want to throw something—more like everything—at him.
My stapler.
That stack of papers.
My Olympic medals hanging on the wall.
My fucking sanity.
Anything not bolted down is now a weapon, and Bash Fury’s head is the smug target.
The door opens without a knock, and the object of my frustration saunters in wearing nothing but a cocky grin and a white towel wrapped around his trim waist. Water droplets glisten across his chiseled, tattooed chest, and rivulets run down the hills and valleys of his perfect abs, over the elegant script etched into his skin there.
Jesus.
Bash Fury is bad for my libido.
I swallow through my dry throat. “Don't you know how to knock?”
“Don’t you know my eyes are up here, Coach?”
Shit.
I jerk my focus away from where the towel crosses right in front of his crotch and meet his gaze. He raises a knowing eyebrow and smirks.
There’s no way I’m letting him get the last clever jab. I raise an eyebrow in return. “Don’t you know how to dry off after a shower?”
God. That was lame, Greer.
Bash shrugs and closes the door behind him. “Mac said you needed to see me, so, like a good little boy, I came running, Coach.”
The sarcasm in his voice hangs thick in the air. It seems like every time Bash and I are in the same vicinity, another showdown happens. It's like we both come into this with our dukes up and no ability to maintain any semblance of professionalism when we’re around each other.
I’ve dealt with difficult players before. Guys who thought I shouldn’t be coaching them and didn’t know shit about the game, but Bash is by far the worst.
“What the hell was that?” I point toward the ice with a huff.
He offers me another casual shrug and crosses his arms over his chest. His biceps bulge, and another rivulet trails down to the edge of the towel.
My eyes drift over the scrawled verses on his right collarbone and left rib cage, but he shifts and covers the words before I can read them.
“I don't know what you mean, Coach. What was what?”
Grrr.
I force myself to take a deep breath that should be cleansing, but all it does is suck the crisp, clean, manly scent of Bash and his soap into my lungs.
Crap.
I shake my head to try to clear out that smell. “That bullshit you pulled out there tonight. We lost the goddamn game because of all your penalties.”
He scoffs and moves a few steps closer to the desk. His eyes narrow, and his jaw tightens. “We lost the game because they played better.”
I plant my hands on the desktop and lean toward him. “And we would've played better if you hadn’t spent so much fucking time in the penalty box. We were short-handed four times because of you, alone.”
A muscle in his clenched jaw flexes as he stares me down. His hard amber eyes never waver from mine for even a millisecond.
Don't look away, Greer.
I fight the urge to avert my eyes from his penetrating gaze. The way he looks at me is unnerving, like he can see every tiny weakness I have and is willing to exploit them to get what he wants.
“If you really think we would have won if I hadn't had those penalties, then you've just admitted I’m invaluable to this team and proved my point that you need to let me play and do my thing.”
I slam my palm against the desk. “You play dirty.”
He sneers. “I play to win.”
“Winning doesn't mean anything if you have to hurt people to get there, Bash.”
I played hard in my days on the ice, but one thing I never did was set out to hurt someone else. There’s a difference between playing hard and playing dirty. One he apparently doesn’t or can’t comprehend.
He considers me for a moment and takes a few more steps forward until the only thing separating us is the three feet of wood on the top of the desk. My eyes automatically track down to where his arms are crossed over his chest.
Shit.
I jerk them back up before he can comment again, but I’ve been caught.
He flashes me a smile that probably has had hundreds of women falling into his bed all over the country. “Look, Coach,” he runs a hand back through his wet hair, “You and I have different philosophies on the game. That much is clear. It doesn't mean we have to be enemies.”
“It doesn't mean you have to be a jerk.”
That cocky, panty-melting half-grin returns, and he moves forward and spreads his palms flat against the desk, leaning in until our noses almost touch over it. The clean, cool scent that wrapped around me earlier almost knocks me over now.
“No,” one corner of his lips curls up, “my personality means I have to be. But you don't think I'm a jerk. Not really. You just don't want to admit it to yourself.”
I pull back and shake my head.
Unfuckingbelievable.
This guy has an ego bigger than the Grand Canyon.
He doesn’t move from his position poised over the desk. “You know how it is, Coach…to be the best player on the team. To be the best of the best.”
Wait a second…was that a compliment?
His biceps flex, and he glances at the wall where my Olympic medals hang. “I watched you play. I know how talented you were as a player and how good of a coach you must be to have brought the team to where it is today in such a short period of time.”
“But…”
Here it comes.
Bash Fury is incapable of giving me a real compliment. I should have known.
“…you're inexperienced. I've played for coaches who have done this for twenty or thirty years. I see a novice like you, and I feel obligated to help you figure it out.”
“Figure it out?” I scoff. “Is that what you think you're helping me do? The only thing you've figured out is how to get me to develop high blood pressure.”
He jerks back with a grin. “It's nice to know I have that effect on you.”
“You don't have any effect on me.” My response is a little too quick and a little too sharp. There’s no way he didn’t notice.
He points at the small V in my blouse just above my breasts. “That flush rising up your neck says otherwise, Coach.”
And there he goes again.
Paying me a compliment in one second and flipping right back into flirtatious Bash the next. Typical behavior given what I’ve heard about his reputation and already experienced myself in the two days he’s been here.
This kind of attitude cannot continue. I won’t fight with one of my players for control for the rest of the damn season. “You may come from NHL royalty, Bash, but that doesn't mean you know everything. You are not the god of hockey.”
Sex god…maybe…if the swagger he puts out is more than just an act, but I won’t ever be finding out if he can live up to the game he plays.
I point back at him. “You are not the know-all and end-all of the sport. No matter what you think, this is my team. You need to remember that. I won't hesitate to bench you if you do this again.”