I have a few tendencies toward select kinks, but I’ve never considered myself a masochist until yesterday. Why the fuck else would I agree to a player profile and ask that Emilia be the one to do it?
I’m an idiot. There’s no arguing that. I just agreed to spend my free time with the one person I shouldn’t be spending any time with. But the way her bright green eyes lit up when she was talking about the promotion…I couldn’t tell her no. The word was right there on the tip of my tongue, but instead, it came out I’ll do it.
I’m playing with fire; I know that. I just can’t seem to stop.
“I heard you got roped into doing the player profile this year.” Rhodes laughs, shaking his head. “What a fool.”
“Dude, no shit?” Collin says, eyes wide with surprise. “I can’t believe they got you of all people to agree. You’re just as private if not worse than Lowell and Beast over here.” He motions toward Rhodes, who smacks his glove away.
“Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing. Not all of us enjoy getting arrested and having our faces splashed across the media.”
“I didn’t enjoy getting arrested.” Collin pauses. “Well, okay, I might have enjoyed the handcuffs a little, but that’s all. Besides, you’re one to talk about drawing media attention, Mr. Get Drunk-Married in Vegas.”
Rhodes scowls at his friend as he skates away to practice his shots, and I laugh because he’s not wrong.
While we normally do tend to keep a lower profile than some of the teams out there—they have guys with some very public and nasty relationships—something has definitely been up with the Comets the last few years between Collin’s arrest, Rhodes’ very public marriage, and Lowell getting his one-night stand pregnant.
Collin turns to me. “But seriously, man, how did they convince you to say yes? I saw all the silly shit they had Woody doing last season. I can’t believe you’d agree to that.”
I try not to groan because I am not looking forward to some of the stuff they did. Most of it’s harmless, like FAQs and fill-in-the-blank type of shit. What I’m not looking forward to is sitting down and spilling my guts to a camera for hours, mostly because I’m not sure I’m ready to face the reality that I have nothing outside of hockey.
“It was voted on by the fans,” I say in way of explanation.
“Shit.”
Shit is right. For the most part, the guys on the team are good about doing any sort of public event and interacting with the fans, even those of us who are known for being hard-asses on the ice. We know we owe it to them, so we suck it up. But to willingly put oneself front and center like this? It’s a fool’s gamble.
“How’d they even get your name in the nomination pool?”
It’s the same question I’ve been asking myself, because I sure as hell didn’t sign up for anything.
“Well, about that…” Miller says, coming to a stop behind me.
I glower at him. “Please tell me you’re kidding and this wasn’t your doing.”
“I’m kidding?” I take a step toward him, and he holds his hands up. “Hey, in my defense, I didn’t think anybody would actually vote for you.” He winces. “Okay, fine, so not a lot of people actually voted for you.”
“I don’t know if I should be offended by that or not.”
“Definitely offended,” Miller clarifies. “I just figured, you know, you’re old and single and have like zero friends. You need to get out there, live a little. Maybe one of our single lady fans will hear about your sad excuse for a love life and take pity and finally get you laid. So I made a bunch of fake accounts—which is like super easy to do when you have money and can pay someone to do it for you—and had ‘them’ vote for you.”
My glare intensifies, but he doesn’t care.
“You can’t be mad at me,” he continues. “I saw you and Emilia at Slapshots last night. It didn’t look like you were trying too hard to say no to her.”
I’m genuinely shocked I didn’t see him, because when Miller is somewhere, you typically know he’s there. “You were there?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, I was playing pool in the corner with Greer.” He dips his head toward the man in the net who blocks the shot from Rhodes effortlessly, which is damn impressive because Rhodes has a wicked wrist shot.
“If you wanted to score with the ladies, why didn’t you sign yourself up?” Collin asks Miller.
“I can’t be the main event all the time.” Miller grins, but it’s not the same confident expression he usually wears. It’s almost like something is hiding behind it.
Hmm…
“If I knew that hot redhead from the social media department was spearheading the whole thing, I definitely would have because”—he lets out a low whistle—“damn.”
My blood simmers hearing him talk about Emilia in any capacity, but it really starts to boil over when I see how serious he is. I might have no business fucking around with her, but I don’t want Miller going anywhere near Emilia either.
“Dude, shut the fuck up.” Collin shoves him. “You know that’s Coach Martin’s niece, right?”
It’s the reminder I need but don’t want. Knowing Emilia is our assistant coach’s niece has been the only thing keeping me away. It’s wrong on too many levels, and it’s a line I wouldn’t be able to uncross.
Collin shoots his eyes across the ice to make sure nobody heard, but we’re in the clear.
“Really? But she’s so hot, and he’s so…not.”
“Shut up, Miller.” Collin rolls his eyes. “And maybe don’t be saying that shit out loud. There’s a strict Don’t fuck the staff rule.”
“There is?”
Collin rears his head back, surprised by my question. Hell, I’m surprised by my question. I shouldn’t care because nothing is going to happen between us.
“Yeah…” He says it slowly, studying me too closely for my liking. “Did you not read the memo they sent out yesterday?”
“Huh,” I say, turning my attention back to practice. “Must have missed it since it doesn’t apply to me.”
“Right,” he mutters, but he doesn’t sound all that convinced.
The truth is, I’m not convinced either.
“Smith!”
My head snaps up upon hearing my name, especially since it’s Coach Martin calling for me. That same feeling of unease that always passes through me when I have to talk to him hits again. It’s been that way for two and a half years now, and I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it.
I skate over to him. “What’s up, Coach?”
His gaze is focused on the net where Greer is still working to block shots. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s good. Solid. Rebounds could use some cleanup, but good.”
Coach crosses his arms over his chest, eyes still on the ice, watching people fly around. “And how do you think the team is playing in front of him? Confident? Stilted? We don’t need another Daskin debacle.”
I know he’s asking me because I’ve been with the team the longest and played in front of the most goalies out of anyone here.
Right now, he’s referring to our goalie from about eight years ago, who was great. We went far because of him. But…the team was also too reliant on his skills. It might be a goalie’s job to stop pucks from going into the net, but if your team isn’t defending its zone, it’s not going to matter how damn good your goalie is.
That year with Daskin…it took us entirely too long to figure that out, and we bombed the next season after making it all the way to the Cup final the previous year. It was like we all just lost our ability to gel together.
“I think we could be a little faster on our skates, block a few more shots,” I tell him honestly. “But mostly solid. As long as we don’t get complacent, I think we’ll be good.”
Coach nods. “I think so too.” He taps his elbow against mine. “Heard you’re working with my niece for that big interview thing they do.”
My mouth goes dry at the mention of Emilia, and before I even try, I know I’m not going to be able to form any coherent words, so I nod.
“She’s a good kid. I never had any of my own, but she’s always felt like mine, you know?”
I don’t know, but I don’t tell him that.
“Proud of her. She’s accomplished a lot since she’s been here.”
His lips are pulled into a wide smile, his eyes taking on a shine, and I want to punch myself in the face because I’m standing here listening to him praise his niece and pretending I don’t know what she looks like with my hands in her hair and my cock down her throat.
I swallow back the unease trying to climb its way up my esophagus. “She seems…lovely.”
Lovely? Fucking hell, Owen.
His smile widens. “She is.” He gives his head a shake. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to practice. Just wanted to get your opinion. You’re our most veteran guy, and we trust your gut instinct. We know you’ll never do us wrong, Smith.”
I give him a tightlipped smile before skating away, feeling like a complete and total dirtbag and once again asking myself, What the hell did I get myself into?
I pull open the door to Cup of Joe’s and immediately spot Emilia at the back of the small coffee shop that’s a favorite local hangout spot. She must be listening for the chime of the door because she whips her head up at the sound and a bright smile curves her lips.
I’m taken aback by it. She’s never once looked at me like she is now.
She must be thinking the same thing because it quickly transforms into a frown. And then it goes somewhere in between the two as she lifts her hand in a tiny wave.
It’s cute. She’s cute.
I point toward the coffee bar in a silent question, and she nods. I step up to the counter and place my order for a small black coffee for myself and another medium coffee with cream and three sugars, just how she likes.
“Sure thing,” the barista says, running her tongue over her lips, eyes raking over me. “Anything else I can get you?”
“A muffin and a slice of banana bread too.”
“Sure.” She bites her lip. “Anything else?”
“Nope. Not a thing.”
Her shoulders deflate at the brushoff, and I can’t help but laugh. Puck bunnies, man.
When my order is up, I balance the drinks and plate together and make my way over to the small table Emilia’s secured.
“Thanks,” she mutters as I sit down.
“No problem.” I point to the plate. “Feel free to eat whichever. I like both.”
“Me too.”
“Split them?” I suggest, and she nods.
I rip each one in half, then slide her coffee her way and watch as she takes a tentative drink. Her eyes widen when she realizes it’s right, and she gives me that same impressed look I got last night when I remembered she likes her whiskey sour with a lime wedge instead of lemon.
“This is perfect. Thank you.”
“You already said that,” I say.
Her cheeks turn pink. “Well, apparently I meant it, then.” She flicks her eyes over to the coffee bar. “Make friends over there?”
I tip my head, studying her. “Jealous?”
She narrows her eyes, and I grin.
We sip our coffees and pick at our pastries in silence. That seems to happen with us a lot—silence. I’m not sure if it’s because we don’t have anything to say or if we have too much of it.
Her fingers go to the gold hoop dangling from her ear, and she tugs on it, looking anywhere but at me. It’s the same set of earrings she was wearing the night we first met.
“Did you wear those on purpose?”
My words catch her off guard, and her eyes flash to mine with confusion. I nod toward where her fingers still play with the jewelry.
“O-Oh,” she murmurs, dropping her hand into her lap. “I… No.” But she doesn’t sound sure about that at all.
She reaches into her bag where it sits next to her and pulls out a tablet. She clicks around a few times before leveling me with an annoyed stare. “Let’s start by going over some questions you don’t want to answer.”
“I don’t want to answer any of them.”
She ignores me. “Well, you don’t have a wife or children, so we can skip those.” She reads over her list. “We can skip that too…and that…and—”
“What’s the point of this player profile again?”
“It’s for the fans to get to know you and the game better.”
“Right, but it’s obvious we can’t even use half the questions, so what’s the point? Why me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because they admire you? You’re a veteran player and—”
I snort. “Veteran player. That’s the polite way to say I’m old as shit.”
She quirks a brow. “You might be older than other players, but it doesn’t make you any less than them.”
I gnash my teeth in an attempt to push away the argument that’s clawing its way up my throat. I am less than them, and that’s the problem. It’s what my agent called to talk about on the ride over here, putting me in a damn sour mood.
“You’re getting up there, Smith. I know you’re focused on making the playoffs right now, but you need to face the real possibility of not playing for the Comets next year.”
Like I don’t fucking know all of that already.
But he’s right about one thing—I am currently focused on making a run for the playoffs. I don’t care about my contract expiring. I can’t, not right now.
“You have an incredible stats sheet,” she continues. “Not to mention you’ve been with the Comets all your career, which is something most players never experience. I think it intrigues people. They want to know what keeps you here.”
Fear of change. Fear of screwing up my routine. Fear of being a failure somewhere else.
But I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I tell her, “I like it.”
Her green eyes bore into me like she’s trying to reach inside my mind and pull out all of my truths. But if she can see through my bullshit, she doesn’t call me on it.
“Right.” She clears her throat. “Are you comfortable talking about your childhood? Our audience tends to like to know how far back your interest in hockey goes, but if it’s an uncomfortable subject for you, we can skip that.”
“I’m fine to talk about my childhood, but it might be boring. There’s not much to tell.”
Her brows crinkle together. “Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s true.” I shrug. “I grew up pretty privileged with a nanny, Bessie. She was the one who took me to and from the rink every day and made sure I got to practice and games on time. She’s the reason I got into hockey like I did in the first place. Her brothers played and it was a game she loved, and she passed that on to me since I spent so much time with her. My parents would have preferred I go into a sport that’s ‘much more civilized,’ as they put it.”
A soft smile plays on Emilia’s lips. “Is Bessie somebody we can interview for the profile?”
“She passed away about five years ago.”
Her smile fades, and I hate the pity that replaces it. “I’m sorry.”
I shrug again. “It’s life.”
“Actually, that—” She cuts herself off with a shake of her head. “Never mind. Not appropriate.”
“No.” I sit forward. “What were you going to say?”
She sighs. “I was going to say it kind of explains a lot about you.”
I tip my head. “How so?”
“Well…” She lifts her shoulders, then gestures toward me. “The whole loner thing you have going on.”
I force myself not to grin. “My loner thing?”
“Yeah. It’s not exactly a secret that you’re a perpetual bachelor. If your parents weren’t around to show you real love and take care of you, it makes sense that you are not…romantically inclined.”
“Thanks for the psychology lesson, Professor Anderson,” I mutter.
I’ve already sat down and analyzed my childhood. My parents might not have been around often, but big whoop. It’s not like I went without love. I had Bessie. I had hockey. Both loved me, and I was good.
I am good.
“I found my great love, and I don’t need another. Hockey is it for me.”
She pouts. “That’s kind of…sad.”
“Sad?” I wave my hand around. “I get to play the greatest game on earth, and I get paid to do it. Do I look sad?”
“Yes.”
Her immediate answer makes me pause because it seems so genuine…and probably because she’s not entirely wrong.
She leans forward. “Aren’t you lonely, Smith? In the last few years alone, several of your teammates have met the love of their life and gotten married. Don’t you want that for yourself? Someone to spend your time with when you’re not on the ice? Someone to go home to after away games?”
Yes.
I do want that. I don’t know when it snuck up on me that I do. Maybe it was seeing Collin and Rhodes find love, and hell, now Lowell too. Maybe it’s just me getting older and wiser. I don’t fucking know.
I just know that yeah, I am lonely.
But I’m not going to admit that to her.
“Aren’t you lonely?” I toss back.
“Of course I’m lonely. But I…” She runs her tongue across her lips, her gaze landing just over my shoulder, lost in a trance…or a memory. Her gaze snaps back to mine, then she shakes her head. “But I can’t have the things I want, so I accept that.”
“Why are you letting yourself be lonely?”
“Why are you?” she throws right back at me.
I smirk. “I asked you first.”
She sighs, crossing her arms over her chest and sinking lower into her seat. “You know why,” she whispers.
“Do I?”
She glares at me. “Seriously, Smith?”
“Yeah, seriously.” I match her heated stare with one of my own.
“Are we ever going to talk about what happened between us, or are we just going to let it be this huge elephant in the room? Because I’m honestly not sure I can work like this all season long.”
“What’s there to talk about? It was just sex. You were on the rebound, and I was sad about a Cup loss. That’s all it was—sex.”
The moment the words leave my lips, I regret them.
It wasn’t just sex. I know that, and based on the sharp breath she takes in, she knows that too.
But maybe if I pretend it was, she will too, and we can get through this whole thing unscathed. At the end of the day, there’s nothing either of us can do about it, and the sooner we accept that, the better.
“Fine.” She shoves her tablet into her bag, then rises. “I’ll be in touch about when we can meet next. Thanks for the coffee.”
She turns on her heel, then walks away from me.
And I let her leave all over again.
