Page 6 of Huge Pucking Play (Chicago Blades)

Chapter 6

Cyn

T he ice pack crackles as I press it against Barnesy's swollen thigh. He winces, then flashes me his usual cocky grin.

"Careful there, sweetheart. That's my money-maker you're handling."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "I assure you I'm being as careful as possible. And my name is Cyn. Not sweetheart, or baby, or honey, or cupcake." Over the last six months, Barnesy has called me every one of these names and I’ve had enough.

Barnesy leans in, his breath hot on my ear. "Maybe you could be a little rougher with me after hours?"

My jaw clenches. Stay professional, Cyn. I take a step back, clipboard in hand. "How's the pain level now? Scale of one to ten."

"With you here? Definitely a ten, babe."

"C’mon, Barnesy. What’s the pain level?" I repeat.

He shrugs. "Eh, maybe a six or seven. Nothing I can't play through. I’m not a pussy like some of the other guys on this team."

"That's not advisable. You likely have a grade two tear. You need rest and?—"

"What I need is your number," Barnesy interrupts, winking. "How about dinner tonight? I know a great little Italian place. The chef is a friend, and he loves making food off the menu for me."

I feel a headache forming behind my eyes. "You know I’m not going to give you my number. Now, as I was saying about your recovery plan?—"

"C'mon, one date. I promise I'll be a perfect gentleman."

Somehow, I doubt that. I take a deep breath, searching for patience. "Barnesy, I'm your physical therapist. Dating would be completely inappropriate. Now please, can we focus on your injury?"

He pouts like a child denied candy. "You're breaking my heart, babe."

And you're breaking my last nerve, asshole. But I paste on a fake smile, determined to redirect this disaster of a session. "Let's talk about icing schedules and gentle stretches you can do at home..."

A sharp clack of heels on tile makes me freeze. Marjorie appears in the doorway, her severe bob and blood-red lips set in a frown.

Marjorie is my boss and the head of PT. She rarely works on players these days as her job is mostly administrative, but she stops in occasionally down here to see how everything is going.

I haven’t had many interactions with her since I started working here but the few that have occurred have been unpleasant to say the least. She’s a perpetually unhappy individual, her face often a mask of discontent, and she seems hell-bent on spreading her misery to the rest of us. Her presence feels like a dark cloud hanging over a sunny day, casting its shadow and dampening any glimmer of joy.

I don’t know why they keep her on staff. Apparently, many of the players complained about her and that’s why her job isn’t hands-on anymore. I’ve wondered before if she has some dirt on the Blades’ owner or maybe even on Coach Martinez and that’s why she hasn’t been fired.

"Mr. Barnes, you're free to go," Marjorie says crisply. "Ms. Lockhart, a word."

My stomach drops. How dare she tell Barnesy to leave while he’s on my table? I can only imagine what her reaction would be if someone did that to her.

Barnesy smirks, hobbling out with exaggerated difficulty. I turn to face Marjorie, squaring my shoulders.

"Is there a problem?" I ask, keeping my tone as neutral as possible while my blood boils.

Marjorie's beady eyes narrow. "What do you think, Cynthia? What I just witnessed was entirely unprofessional."

Her tone carries the sharp, condescending edge one might use with a misbehaving child. She stands there looking at me, her eyes narrowing into slits of disdain, lips curling into a sneer that seems to drip with contempt.

"I assure you, I was?—"

"Flirting shamelessly with a player," she cuts in. "Do I need to remind you of our fraternization policy?"

My cheeks burn as I attempt to explain. "I wasn't flirting. I was trying to redirect?—"

"Save it," Marjorie snaps. "You're on thin ice, Lockhart. One more slip-up and you're out. Do I make myself clear?"

I clench my fists, biting back a retort. "Crystal."

"Good," she sneers. "Now get back to work. And keep your hands to yourself."

Well, that’s going to be difficult, seeing I’m a physical therapist, for fuck’s sake. Marjorie is beyond nasty and I’m dying to tell her what I think of her but I know how unwise that would be.

She turns on her heel and stalks off, leaving me seething. God, I can’t stand her.

Hours later, I slump into the break room, desperate for caffeine. But there’s a handwritten sign on the coffee machine that says ‘out of coffee.’ You’ve got to be kidding me…

Adam's sitting at one of the tables, stirring sugar into his mug.

"Hey, girl," he says. "You look like you need this more than me." He slides the coffee over.

I grab it gratefully without hesitating. "You're a lifesaver. But, how did you get coffee? It says it’s all out." I glance back over at the machine.

“I brought it from home. This isn’t the first time someone forgot to order coffee. I don’t take any chances anymore,” he says while holding up a 32-ounce canister that I’m guessing now is completely empty.

"Rough day?" He leans back in his chair. "I, uh, may have overheard Marjorie earlier..."

I groan. "Don't remind me. That woman has it out for me, I swear."

"She's the worst," Adam agrees.

Adam continues. "You know, I had my own run-in with Marjorie when I first started here. It was a nightmare."

I lean forward, intrigued. "That sounds familiar but tell me about it again."

He sighs, running a hand through his meticulously styled hair. "It was about three years ago. I'd just started and was eager to prove myself. They assigned me to work with Blake Holbrook. You remember him?"

I nod. Blake had been a rising star until a career-ending injury a couple seasons ago.

"Well," Adam continues, "Blake was a piece of work. Cocky as hell, thought he knew better than everyone else. I'd give him exercises to do, and he'd ignore them completely. I'd tell him to ice, he'd use heat. It was ridiculous."

Adam's voice rises as he gets more animated. "One day, I caught him in the weight room, doing heavy squats when I'd explicitly told him to rest his knee. I lost it. Stormed in there, started yelling at him in front of everyone. Not my finest moment."

He pauses to take a sip of the coffee he had given to me. "Of course, Blake the dickhead complained to management. And guess who got wind of it?"

"Marjorie," I groan.

"Bingo." Adam's fingers tap a nervous rhythm on the table. "So, she calls me into her office and started in on me immediately about what happened with Holbrook. I tried to explain, but she cut me off with a wave of her hand.”

Adam's voice drops to a whisper, mimicking Marjorie's tone. "'You've been here, what, three months? And already you're causing problems. Mr. Holbrook is a valuable asset to this team. If he says your methods aren't working, then clearly, you're not doing your job correctly.'"

He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping. "Can you believe that? She didn't even want to hear my side. It was all about keeping the star player happy, never mind that he was sabotaging his own recovery."

Adam leans in, his eyes wide. "Then she said maybe they made a mistake hiring me and perhaps I’m not cut out to be a PT for the Blades. She went on and on about how many people applied for my job and, yet, they chose me and I need to follow protocol or else.”

He mimics Marjorie's clipped tone perfectly. "'But we chose you. And this is how you repay us? By alienating our star player?'"

"She told me one more complaint and I was out."

I sat there looking at him in disbelief.

"So what happened today with her?" he asks.

I explain the Barnesy situation, my frustration mounting. "And now she thinks I was flirting! As if I'd ever..."

Adam pats my arm sympathetically. "Marjorie wouldn't know flirting if it slapped her in the face with a hockey stick. I’m guessing no one has ever flirted with that woman her entire life."

I snort. "God, I wish she wasn't our boss."

"You and me both, girl," Adam sighs. "You and me both."

Adam's eyes suddenly light up. "Speaking of flirting, though..." He leans in conspiratorially. "Have you seen that new assistant coach? What I wouldn't give to get my hands on those biceps."

I nearly choke on my coffee. "Garrett?"

"That's the one," Adam purrs. "I'd let him coach me any day, if you know what I mean."

My stomach, flip-flops thinking about Garrett.

“I mean, did you get a look at how broad his chest is? And those shoulders…good lord. Can you say tasty?”

"Adam!" I laugh, shaking my head and putting my finger over my lips, motioning that he needs to be lower his voice. "Sorry to burst your bubble, but Garrett's not gay."

He arches an eyebrow. "Oh? And how would you know that, Miss Lockhart?"

I hesitate, biting my lip. "I...may have met him before. In Vegas."

Adam's jaw drops. "No. Way. You need to spill right this very second."

"We, uh...hooked up," I admit, my cheeks flushing.

"Holy shit!" Adam squeals, grabbing my arm. "You slept with the hot new coach? Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

I shush him, glancing nervously at the door. "Keep your voice down! It was before I knew he'd be working here."

"Details, girl. I need details."

I roll my eyes. "It was just a one-night stand. At the Excalibur in Vegas."

Adam's grinning like a Cheshire cat. "So...do you still want to jump his bones? You must. I mean, look at the man."

"God, yes," I groan. "But after Marjorie's warning? That would be career suicide."

"Damn," Adam sighs. "What a waste of prime man-meat."

I smack his arm. "You're terrible. And don’t you tell a soul about this. I’m serious."

"You love me," he winks. "And, your secret's safe with me, babe."

When I’m back at my office I immediately text Sophie.

Cyn: Vegas mystery man is the new Blades coach! Don’t tell a soul about us. Including Evan!

Sophie: You are kidding me?? That’s crazy! My lips are sealed.

I hope so. I don’t need anyone finding out about this. If Marjorie catches wind of it, she will absolutely fire me.

I tug gently on Oscar's leash as he sniffs at yet another fire hydrant. "Come on, buddy. Mommy's got stuff to do back at home."

I’ve always wanted a puppy, and the day I picked up Oscar from the Bernedoodle breeder was one of the happiest days of my life. I had no idea he would require so much time and energy, though. I’ve heard some people even compare it to caring for a newborn.

The evening air is crisp, carrying the promise of fall. I inhale deeply, trying to clear my head. It doesn't work.

Garrett's face flashes in my mind. Those warm brown eyes. That chiseled jaw. The way his hands felt on my skin...

"Stop it," I mutter to myself.

Oscar looks up at me, head tilted. I can’t help but smile at his sweet face, a mix of black, brown, and white.

"Not you, silly." I reach down and scratch behind his ears. "Just your mom being dumb."

We round the corner, and I can't help but sigh. "What am I going to do, Oscar?"

He woofs softly in response.

"I know, I know. I need to talk to him." I bite my lip. "But how do I say 'Hey, remember me and that mind-blowing sex we had? Yeah, it can't happen again. And please don’t mention to anybody that it ever happened.'"

A jogger passes, giving me an odd look. Great. Now I'm the crazy dog lady talking to herself.

"It's just..." I pause, collecting my thoughts. "He's so...different. Not like the usual meatheads I deal with."

My mind wanders to Barnesy and all his bullshit, getting me in trouble.

And then I think about Michael, the love of my life. I was crazy about him for years, but we were just friends. I finally got out of the friend zone but two months later he broke up with me and gave me the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech. Just like that, I lost my friend and my boyfriend.

Oscar tugs at the leash, eager to keep moving.

"You're right. No use standing here." We continue our walk. "But seriously, Oscar. The first guy I actually like in forever, and he's off-limits."

I kick a pinecone, frustration building. "It's not fair. Why'd he have to show up here, of all places?"

Oscar barks, as if in agreement.

"I mean, I worked my ass off for this job. I can't risk it for...what? A fling?"

But even as I say it, I know it's not true. Garrett could be a lot more than just some fling.

"God, I'm in trouble," I groan.