Chapter Five
BASH
I step back and hold up my hands in mock surrender. “I just play the game, Coach. A game you are really fucking good at.” Her already wide green eyes open more and draw my smirk even wider. “What, Coach, you think I don't know who you are? You think I don't know your history? You think I don't know all that you've accomplished?” I wave at her medals. “It's fucking impressive for a man, let alone for a woman. And I'm not some sexist pig. I have a sister. I had a mother.”
Those last words are hard to get out. The fact that she's gone still hasn’t completely registered in my heart. Maybe it never will.
“This disagreement we’re having has nothing to do with the fact that you’re a woman. It has to do with the fact that you don't have any experience head coaching at this level.”
Greer undoubtedly thinks I'm some sort of misogynist because I’ve been pushing her, but what she has to realize is, I'd be pushing anyone—regardless of what they have between their legs.
It's just who I am. It's who I was raised to be.
She huffs at me. “And let me guess…you know more about the NHL than anyone, right? Because you were basically raised in it?”
Her earlier comment about being from “NHL royalty” rolls around in my head with her new comment. I should've known it would get brought into this somehow. The man hasn't played in twenty years, but it's still the first thing people bring up when they meet me.
I always swore to myself I wouldn't become him. People just don’t understand who he really is, who he really was.
And maybe this isn’t the time or place to air my personal family shit, but I don’t want her to get it in her pretty head that I think I deserve something because of who my sperm donor happens to be. “I barely knew my father, Greer.”
Her features soften slightly, but she maintains her defensive stance.
I wave a hand at her. “You know what this life is like. He was always on the road. Always traveling. And when he was traded, there were large portions of time we didn't even live in the same city.” I fist my hands at my sides as tension seeps into my body at the memories. “My brother and sister and I went to three different grade schools. We lived in four different houses and had different sets of friends in each city until my mother finally put her foot down and told him we were moving back to Michigan, with or without him. That isn't any way to live. That certainly isn’t any way to parent. So, please don't compare me to my father.”
He may have been a great player, but he wasn't a great person. He was an angry drunk who beat Jameson and me more times than I could count and never offered me a kind word.
Even excelling in this game he loved so much wasn’t enough to warrant his praise.
I want to snap at her. I want to explain what a douchebag the man really was, but I can't. I can't tarnish the memory of the real Fury, the one everyone worships as a hockey god. The man whose last name I’m forced to share.
So, instead of burdening her with the truth, I sigh and run a hand through my wet hair. “Mike Fury may have been a shit father, but he was a fantastic hockey player, and even though there are those who would accuse me of coasting by on his name, we both know it's not true. I made my own career.”
She sighs and crosses her arms over her chest. I can't help but refocus my attention on her breasts and how they heave with her anger.
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Is this the way it's going to be? Am I going to spend the rest of my contract here arguing with you before and after every game?”
A tiny frown line forms in the middle of her brow, and she chews on the corner of her lip. “Until you prove to me that you can play the game without excessive penalties and with some respect for the other players…yes.”
“I'm not a bad guy, Coach.”
She holds up a hand to stop me. “I don't care if you're a bad guy or not. All I care about is what you bring to the team.”
Ouch. That stings a little bit.
It's not that I believe anything would ever go anywhere with her—regardless of how attractive I think she is and how entertaining it is to have these arguments with her—but hearing her say she doesn't give a shit about me except for what I can do for the team is kind of a bruise to my not so fragile ego.
“Is that in debate?” I raise an eyebrow. “What I can do for the team?”
She sighs and runs her hands through her silky hair. It falls softly onto her shoulders, and something stirs below the belt that's pretty dangerous. Especially with just a towel covering me.
“I don't want us to be enemies, Coach, but I can't change who or what I am.”
She straightens her shoulders and sets her jaw. “Neither can I.”
“Fair enough.” I step back from the desk and turn toward the door. The question sits on the tip of my tongue, but it isn’t until I pull open the door and glance back at her that it finally slips from my lips. “And just what are you, Greer?”
Her eyes soften as she considers my question for a moment. She wasn't anticipating it. She didn't think I would care. “I'm a woman in a man's sport trying to prove that I belong here. I'm someone who other little girls who love hockey can look up to and see that they can achieve something in this sport. I’m the gateway to getting women accepted into the NHL.”
She’s right about all of that.
“That seems like a lot of weight to carry on your shoulders alone, don't you think?”
She shrugs. “It is what it is. And it would be a lot easier if you weren't intentionally making it difficult for me.”
A grin tugs at the corner of my lips. “Who says I'm doing it intentionally?”
She stands bewildered, and just as I’m about to pull the door closed behind me, I fight the part of my brain telling me to keep going, and instead, I turn back toward where she still stands behind her desk.
I have no idea what just happened between us, but I like it far more than I should.
GREER
His broad shoulders bunch and flex as he turns back to me again.
Christ, he really is hot.
The team should put on a marketing poster like that one hot Australian soccer guy who became famous for his ass. We would make a killing.
Bash scans me from head to toe. “Seems like you might need to relax a little bit, Coach. You’re coiled tighter than a cobra ready to strike.” His lips spread into a classic Bash smirk. “If you ever need to relieve a little tension, let me know. I have a few ideas on how we can take care of that.”
He pulls the door shut behind him before I have time to even process his words.
What the hell just happened?
My legs shake, and I drop down onto my chair.
Was that a real glimmer of humanity I saw in Bash? Or was it all just an act? A way to try to smooth over things between us so that his career won't be at risk?
His parting comment couldn’t have been said seriously. He couldn’t have been insinuating we should hook up. That would be wildly inappropriate, even if I didn’t despise the man.
And I do…despise him.