Page 22

TWENTY-ONE

Joey

I know the guys are giving me sideways glances at practice this morning.

Not because I’m on their asses.

But because I’m smiling.

Not that I’m a hard ass normally. My coaching style is strict but fair. I don’t let the guys pull one over on me (unless it’s in the service of team camaraderie, like when they thought it was funny to replace all my pens with crayons and I went with drawing up the practice plans on a giant pad of construction paper). But I’m not screaming at them when a game goes to shit.

I’ve felt that. I hate it.

I grew up with too much yelling and I know it doesn’t help these guys play better.

They know what they’re doing.

They’re professionals—despite the pranks and sheets of construction paper with crayon scribbles—they need a guiding hand, not someone to control every single thought and movement.

Stifle all creativity and the team loses something valuable.

Spontaneity.

And some of the best things on the ice come from giving the guys the time and space to be able to react off-the-cuff.

Today, though, all the sideways looks are making me want to have them skate lines, just so they’ll stop staring at me like I’m a bug beneath a microscope. Still, I don’t acknowledge the extra attention. I know if I give them any opening, I’ll be giving them a mile, and they’ll be all up in my business.

So, amongst the ignoring of their double takes, I do what I always do: study their movement patterns on the ice, look out for anything that seems off—players who are favoring an injury, personalities that are clashing, someone who’s looking tired, chemistry or banter between guys that I haven’t noticed prior to today.

This isn’t a hard skate by any means.

But it is a good touch point.

My check-in done (and my smile still in place), I leave the guys to their free time.

Some will get off soon, others will stay to the end of the session.

Then it will be their chance to fuel up with protein and fast-acting carbs, take a nap, pack up their shit (because we’re heading to a new city tonight after the game), and come back tonight ready to play some fucking hockey.

I’ll be doing something similar, though with less napping and more prepping for this evening’s game—along with the upcoming matchups on our docket.

Though, I will find a good restaurant to hole up at so I can eat some fast-acting carbs.

I’m thinking a huge stack of pancakes smothered with syrup. I didn’t get to enjoy my last bath.

Maybe I’ll see if Damon wants to eat them with me…and then smother me with syrup.

Perfect.

I’m thinking about that fun little epilogue to consuming delicious carbs so intently that I don’t see the man standing in the hallway.

One second, I’m striding toward the conference room that I’m using as my office and the next, my arm is in an iron grip and I’m being dragged forward.

Into that conference room.

My temper spikes—I’m getting really fucking tired of him hauling me around—and I yank at my arm, trying to free it from Damon’s hold.

But he doesn’t release me, just slams the door shut and leans back against it. “What the fuck, Red?”

I ignore the shiver that slides through me.

I like it when he calls me Red.

Though not as much as I like him calling me baby .

I don’t let that soften me.

Because, first, I was walking into this room anyway. Second, like I said, I’m tired of this man hauling me around—or well, tired of him dragging me through halls and shoving me through doors.

Third, I don’t appreciate the scowl or the snapped-out question.

“What crawled up your ass this morning?” I grit.

His scowl deepens. “You’re seriously going to try that shit?”

“By shit , you mean doing my job and then getting ready to eat something?” I cross my arms and glare at him. “I was going to invite you to get pancakes with me, you grouchy jerk. And they’re really freaking good pancakes.”

He doesn’t seem to let that penetrate because his expression grows even more fierce. “You’re the one who left this morning, baby .” He pushes off the door, bending so his face is in mine. His hair is damp, his blue eyes spark with anger, and the scent of his cologne wraps around me.

It’s almost enough to distract me.

Thankfully, I’m used to resisting all of the temptation of Damon.

I shove the thread of desire down, the same one that wrapped around me when I woke this morning, telling me to roll into Damon’s sleeping form and wake him with my hands and mouth.

But we were up late last night.

He doesn’t get enough sleep as it is.

So, I quietly dressed and left his room and got ready for morning skate.

That was all.

Now he’s here, acting like this and?—

“No pancakes for you,” I growl, spinning away from him and moving over to the table, starting to pack up my shit. I need medicinal carbs. Immediately.

I ignore the silence that grows as I stuff everything into my backpack—laptop, tablet, papers, water bottle. But I can’t ignore it for long.

Because my temper gets the better of me.

I zip up my backpack, lift my gaze to his, glaring at him. “And for the record, you were sleeping and I had to come to the rink. You didn’t need to be here, so I let you rest.”

His face changes, the asshole bleeding away.

Too late.

I’m fully pissed now.

“I thought we got somewhere last night. I—” I press my lips together then exhale. “I took a chance last night and…” I sigh. “You’re just going to be like this? I don’t need another asshole in my life who’s trying to control me. If I want to leave, I get to leave. If I want it to be one night, it’ll be one fucking night. If I want it to be over, it’ll be?—”

Suddenly, he’s there.

In my face, those eyes furious now.

Well, join the freaking party.

“Fuck that.”

I blink. “Excuse me?” It’s a dangerous question. A danger he doesn’t heed.

“It’s not over,” he snaps. “It’s not one fucking night. And you don’t get to give me what you gave me, including what you gave me last night and just take it all away.”

“No,” I snap. “Like I said, I don’t need another asshole trying to control my life.”

“Red—”

“I was trying to be nice.” I jab a finger into his chest. “I was trying to let you rest.” Another jab. “And you know what?” I grind out. “Yes, I was going to invite you to pancakes because I know a really good place nearby, but also because I wanted a repeat of last night but with a side of freaking syrup, and you?—”

But I don’t get a chance to finish my insult.

Because I’m suddenly wrapped tight in his arms, his face is in mine, and he says,

“Syrup?”