Twisted Wrister: A Next-Door-Neighbor Sports Romance (The Playmakers Series Hockey Romances Book 7)

by G. K. Brady

  Blake’s head jerked like he’d been slapped, and he clenched his fists at his sides, his whole body vibrating.

  “Yeah, like that,” Ferguson drawled. “It’s like I hit a hot button every time I mention her.” Ferguson stared at him for long beats. “You don’t, do you?”

  “I don’t what?”

  Ferguson didn’t break his gaze, but his eyes narrowed. “Have a hard-on for M? Because that would not be cool.”

  Fuck, I hate it when he calls her ‘M’! Blake tipped his glass back, but it was empty. “No? And why’s that?” he near-growled.

  “You know why, asshole. I saw her first.” Ferguson leaned back in his chair, pursing his lips.

  “And did squat about it,” Blake tossed back. “Well, nothing except lie, that is.”

  “About what?” Ferguson demanded.

  “About me taking your place the night of her work dinner. I guess technically you didn’t lie to her because you never told her! But you sure as shit lied to me when you said you’d told her I was her date that night, and you lied to me about asking her to the brunch.”

  “You were all over my ass, and I was sick of it.” An audience of their teammates began closing in. “So I haven’t asked her to the brunch yet. I’ll do it right now.” He started scrolling through his contacts while the statement hung there, loaded and heavy.

  Blake’s back molars ground against one another. “You might have seen her first, but you switched to team Tracy. Which made Michaela fair game. And she’s already got a date for the brunch—me.” He jabbed his thumb against his chest.

  Ferguson abruptly stood, facing Blake, a look of disbelief on his face. “Fuck me, you cocksucker! I told you I was working my way up to it. So while I’m doing that, you roll in like a fucking red tide and steal her away.”

  Blake squared himself up. “I didn’t steal her away. You’ve been nothing but working your way up to it ever since you met her. I guess she decided she wanted the guy who actually made a move.”

  “You? You’re a fucking joke,” Ferguson chuffed. “She’s your mystery woman, isn’t she?” As if a light had winked on, he let out a wild, high-pitched laugh. “MW doesn’t stand for ‘Mystery Woman.’ It stands for ‘Michaela Wagner.’ And here I thought you had my back.” He shook his head. “I don’t fucking believe it. What the hell could she possibly see in you anyway?”

  Blake got his breathing under control and braced himself for the next buffeting. This storm had been a long time brewing. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  Ferguson turned his head to him, venom in his eyes and his voice. “What makes her different from the pink-haired bitch or that girl in my lap who wants to go down on you so bad she’s practically drooling? What is so fucking special about M that you betrayed a bro, huh? She suck your dick better than it’s ever been sucked before? Or is it the way her ass looks with the sheet draped over it? It’s a mighty fine ass, I’ll grant you that.”

  Blake was on the verge of exploding, and he held himself back by a razor-thin margin. This was neither the time nor the place.

  But Ferguson wasn’t done.

  “I get it. No man could keep a sane thought with those sweet tits of hers; they’re some of the finest I’ve seen. But I don’t want your—”

  Blake’s fist crashed into Ferguson’s jaw, knocking him backward on his ass. He didn’t remember making a conscious decision to hit Ferguson, didn’t remember cocking his fist. He was only aware of the angry buzz in his head, the veil of red clouding his vision, and the overwhelming tsunami of fury swamping him, urging him to hit Ferguson again and again and again.

  Fist primed for another hit, he became aware of loud voices around him, of someone pulling his arm back, of people gasping—and of Ferguson turtled on the floor, arms covering his head.

  A hand wrapped around Blake’s neck, dragging him backward, and T.J.’s commanding voice in his ear said, “I can think of better ways to celebrate a hat trick, Barrett. Now chill the fuck out. I’m getting you the hell out of here.”

  Blake hunched forward in his chair, locking out the stark office. The waiting was agony, though when Coach LeBrun finally walked in and took a seat across the desk from him, Blake wasn’t sure getting it over with was any better.

  Behind him, like sentinels, stood the captains: Grimson, T.J., and Nelson. LeBrun seemed to take for-fucking-ever to lower himself into his seat. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his hands steepled in front of him.

  “Want to tell me what happened last night?”

  No, not really. “Ferguson and I had a disagreement.”

  “About what?”

  Blake’s jaw tightened. When he didn’t respond, LeBrun straightened and let out a long exhalation. “You two have been friends a long time, so I don’t think it’s about your changing roles in hockey. Friends usually work that stuff out without having to throw punches. It wasn’t alcohol since you’re no drinker, so that leaves one possibility: you fought over a woman.”

  How the fuck does he know?

  As if Coach had read Blake’s inner thoughts, he said, “I can’t think of anything else that would make you lose your mind the way I hear you did. You have an edge when you play, but you keep it on a tight leash. Women … they have a way of snapping that leash and laughing at us idiots as the leash goes sailing into a bottomless pit. I gather it was one of the ladies at the club?”

  Blake shook his head.

  “Oh fuck. That’s even worse.”

  Coach hadn’t been there, but Grimson and T.J. had. If they’d been paying attention, they still wouldn’t have known who the catalyst was at the center of this shit-show, and Blake was not about to reveal her identity. That was between him and Ferguson.

  But he had snapped. Like he’d never snapped before. Like he’d never imagined himself capable of snapping. The thing of it was Ferguson could have said whatever the hell he wanted about Blake or about the chick he’d been finger-fucking last night—none of that mattered. But he’d had M’s name on his filthy tongue, and goddamn it, he’d seen her picture. The intimate portrait Blake never should never have taken in the first place, meant for his greedy eyes only. No! Ferguson thinking about M, seeing M … Blake’s guts were bunched in an ungainly wad.

  “This thing between you and Ferguson”—Coach’s words jerked Blake from his whirlwind of miserable thoughts—“cannot bleed over to your team. It will not be tolerated. You’re a hell of a center, Barrett, and because you’ve never done anything like this before, I’m not suspending you, but do not push me.”

  “But Coach, you don’t understand.” God, Blake sounded pathetic, even to his own ears. Had he become one of those whipped dudes who’d turned over his man card? “He gave his balls to a woman to hold for him.”

  Coach dropped a hand to the desk and began drumming with his fingers. “That’s just it, Barrett. I do understand because I’ve been in those skates.” He straightened and cleared his throat as if suddenly uncomfortable he’d revealed too much. “Any damages sustained by the club last night will come out of your paycheck. Now get out of here.”

  Blake tucked his tail between his legs and scrambled from the office. When he walked into the hotel room, Mac looked up at him from where he reclined on his bed. “You still on this road trip?”

  Blake sank onto his mattress and released a long exhale. “Yep.” He flopped back on his bed, holding back a humorless laugh. At least it was out in the open now.

  Three days later, Blake walked into the condo on Ferguson’s heels. The tension filling the Range Rover on the ride home from the arena had been so thick Blake could have practically chewed it. Ferguson had yet to apologize for the crude way he’d talked about M, and Blake hadn’t uttered a single “sorry” for the black eye, split lip, and lacerated cheek he’d given his ex-buddy.

  Fergs stormed to his side of the condo, and before Blake could retreat to his, he was back, crashing through the great room with a big-ass suitcase.

  “What are you doing?” Blak
e huffed.

  “What does it look I’m doing, asswipe?” Ferguson didn’t stop, just barreled into the laundry room, where he made all kinds of racket.

  Arms crossed, Blake leaned against the doorframe and watched as his roommate—correction: soon-to-be ex-roommate—stuffed the suitcase with laundry. Clean or dirty, Blake hadn’t a clue. Fergs probably didn’t either.

  “Looks like you’re packing the contents of the laundry room,” Blake replied blandly.

  Ferguson, who was stooped over the bag, shot him a glare over his shoulder. “Guess you’re not as stupid as you look, genius. For your information, this is my shit I’m packing.”

  “Did I say it wasn’t?”

  Ferguson stood upright and crossed his arms, mirroring Blake’s stance. He flexed his chest. “Don’t you have something better to do than stand there and harass me? Haven’t you fucking done enough?” He pointed to his face.

  Blake ignored the questions. “Where are you going?”

  Fergs went back to packing. “Anywhere but here. And before you start in on the rent, I’ve got it covered through the end of December. After that, you’ll need to find yourself a new punching bag.”

  Blake rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, stop acting like a prima donna. We’ve had plenty of go-rounds where I ended up with a face like yours.”

  Ferguson straightened again and turned, his index finger cocked. “One major difference: they were fair fights, not unprovoked, blindside hits in the middle of a fucking nightclub where people are drinking and having a good time. Except you, because you’re too fucking perfect to drink. Maybe if you let loose once in a while, you wouldn’t walk around with your nose in the air and a stick up your ass.”

  Blake pushed from the doorframe, fists clenched at his sides. “Unprovoked? You were begging to be hit, and you know it. You must be out of your fucking mind if you think anyone would walk away from the shit you threw down about M. You were so far out of line you were in the next county. Say anything you want about me, but you leave her out of it.” Blake’s temper, held in check at a simmer for the better part of three days, heated to a rolling boil as if his burner had just been cranked.

  “Who’s the real prima donna, Mr. Twisted Fucking Wrister? You’re so in love with your own press you can’t pull your head out of your ass long enough to recognize you got where you are by sheer luck.” He jabbed his thumb into his chest “And because you had—had—a friend willing to stick up for your ass when you were too big a pussy to do it yourself. You wouldn’t be where you are if I hadn’t fought your battles as a kid. Christ, you make me sick.”

  Blake’s brain streamed but didn’t process all Ferguson’s words, and he stood rooted where he was as Ferguson returned to chucking clothes into the suitcase. Fury and misery and shame brewed inside of him, a toxic sludge that blunted his ability to think or move.

  “Something else you want?” Ferguson snarled from where he was, bent over his task. “Because if you don’t mind, I’d rather do my business without an audience.”

  Blake snapped out of his fog. “Knock yourself out. See you at practice.”

  “Actually, you won’t.”

  What?

  As if he’d heard Blake’s silent question, Fergs continued. “Coach informed me he’s shipping me down to the minors for what he affectionately calls a little R&R. It’ll officially be called a reconditioning stint, but you and I both know what it really is,” Ferguson said bitterly.

  An arrow of sympathy struck Blake, but it quickly passed through him. Ferguson had sabotaged himself. For whatever reason, he hadn’t kept his head in the game, and ultimately that’s what a pro did. He locked out the other bullshit and kept his focus on his club and on winning. Period. No gray area.

  “Good luck with that,” Blake said as he retreated to his bedroom, Ferguson’s grunt chasing him.

  An hour or so later, when he heard the front door close, Blake exited his room, where he’d paced the entire time. He was exhausted yet keyed up. When he ducked his head into Ferguson’s bedroom and bath, he noted their empty contents. Not that Fergs had weighed himself down with a lot of stuff to begin with, and not that he’d packed any furniture in his suitcase, but the family pictures and bits of his hockey past were gone. So were Ferguson’s pillows and the quilt his grandma had made for him. The necessities that turned a space into home.

  Ambling into the kitchen, Blake spotted an unopened bottle of bourbon sitting on top of a note. Ferguson had scrawled, “Take a swig once in a while and learn to be human again.”

  Blake scoffed and crumpled the note, lobbing it into the trash. Asshole. You didn’t fight all my battles for me. Jerk. And I don’t need alcohol to loosen up.

  He slid onto a barstool and stared at the bottle, turning over questions in his head. Was he a prima donna? A perfectionist? A pussy? No. Ferguson had been lashing out, out of his mind. Did Blake deserve some blame? Maybe, but Ferguson was jealous, and he had pushed too far, damn it. He was always pushing too far, and Blake had tolerated it all these years out of some sense of loyalty. Except that loyalty had been deserved once upon a time, and things had changed. People changed, and not always for the better.

  His ponderings twisted in on themselves, and his temper spiked again.

  “Christ, I’m never getting to sleep.” His eyes strayed in the general direction of M’s condo. Would she answer if he knocked on her door? Even if she did, it was after midnight, she was probably asleep, and he was in a foul mood. Not a winning combination.

  Instead, he studied the bottle. He liked the taste of good bourbon. He liked beer and wine too. What was wrong with that? Enjoying the stuff didn’t make him a drunk, though it often made him sleepy. He could use a little bit of sleepy right about now.

  He stood, plucked out a glass, opened the bottle, and poured a measure of bourbon. A small sip first, then he threw the rest back, letting the liquid burn a satisfying path down his throat. His sore muscles began to let go. Yeah, alcohol definitely had its purposes.

  After consuming a second pour, his spiraling thoughts stopped their tight tailspin, taking on a less frenzied pace—like a lazy whirlpool—that made them easier to examine one by one … or put aside altogether.

  Yeah, he was feeling better now. The grip on his anger wasn’t exactly loosening, but the anger itself was a dull thud. Why didn’t he drink more often? Because his mom did. Because he wanted to maintain control. But wasn’t he actually giving up control by molding his actions around hers? Lots of people drank, and it didn’t mess them up. Case in point: Michaela. Considering her size and how much vodka he’d seen her consume, she held her own just fine. Then again, maybe she was used to it. Shit, maybe she was a functioning alcoholic, and he hadn’t seen it before. Tinny alarm bells clanged with the echoes of his mom. No, his mom was a non-functioning alcoholic. Big difference. The alarms quieted.

  More brown liquid splashed into his glass, and he downed a few gulps. What had he been thinking about? Oh yeah. Michaela. He thought about M all. The. Time. What had he filled his mind with before it had been filled with her? No idea.

  He had also been thinking about functioning alcoholics. Being an attorney, she had a lot of schmoozing to do, and that usually involved some form of alcohol. How many attorneys battled alcoholism? I bet a lot of them function just fine. Simply because a person didn’t rage at others like his mom didn’t mean they weren’t as addicted as she was.

  Time passed, and Blake sat in his dark living room, every muscle taut as he moved between philosophical discussions in his head to solutions to humanity’s problems to the bad shit that had gone down between him and Ferguson. The harder he thought, the more he drank, and by 2:00 a.m., he was fucking tired and more wound up than ever. But it wasn’t the bourbon.

  It was because M was only a few feet down the hall, and every molecule in his body screamed for her. The bourbon should have dulled the ache, but like the rest of his emotions, it only seemed to sharpen it. He told himself he shouldn’t wake her up.
Besides, she’d ask about the trip, and he couldn’t talk about Fergs yet. So he drank a little more, trying to declaw the pain digging into him.

  Chapter 24

  How Think Do You Drunk I Am?

  Pounding on her door brought Michaela out of a deep sleep. What the hell?

  She’d fallen asleep on her couch clothed in her jeans and sweater. Staggering to her stockinged feet, she crept toward the racket.

  “M, lemme in!”

  “Blake?” she hissed. “Are you drunk?”

  He bellowed, “You know I don’t do that shit. Now lemme in, woman!” His voice became a plea. “I miss you.”

  Opening the door, she ushered his staggering frame inside. He reeked of distillery fumes, and his white button-down shirt was partially undone and untucked. One sleeve was cuffed at his elbow, revealing his corded forearm. His dark dress pants were intact, but he wore only socks. His normally neat blond hair stuck out in asymmetrical tufts. In short, he resembled a bed that had been slept in for weeks without being made.

  She grasped a steely bicep and, unable to get her hand around its circumference, wrapped both hands around it and pointed him toward her couch. He plopped down heavily and looked up at her with a lopsided grin plastered on his handsome face.

  “When did you get home?”

  “A few hours ago. Didn’t want to wake you up.”

  “Did you go out with the boys or something before you came home?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  Then why are you shit-faced? “So you sat at your place and drank?” She tried, and failed, to keep the incredulity from her voice.

  He did this hiss-cringe thing. “Don’t tell my mom.”

  “You’re a mess.” Reaching down to stack pillows behind his back, she murmured, “Men. Why do we women put up with your nonsense?” She straightened and looked down at him, perching her hands on her hips.