by Lily Harlem
I huffed, so irritated now that I felt as though I had ants crawling on me. I spun and marched forward several steps, planning on following Mike and sitting near the bench to watch the game, the way Dad used to on occasions. No one would take any notice, I wasn’t on the radar yet as the new owner. Besides, the cool air would do me good rather than the stuffiness of the skybox. I needed to take some of the heat from my blood. Heat put there by a certain infuriating goaltender.
“They are particularly sweet, though,” Dustin said suddenly.
I froze. Half turned. “What are?”
He stepped forward and gestured with his long, wide stick, the blade almost but not quite touching my ass. “Your cheeks, in that slinky skirt, very sweet.”
Now I wanted to do more than slap him, I wanted to shove him, knee him, whack a fist into his guts. But what would be the point? He was padded up so much a rhino could charge him and he wouldn’t feel it.
“Are you this inappropriate with all of your bosses or just female ones?” I asked, barely keeping a quaver from my voice.
“I’ve never had a female boss before,” he said with a shrug that shifted all of his upper body padding.
“Well, get used to it,” I said, prodding his jersey and feeling the hard chest protector he wore beneath. “Because I’m here to stay and calling me sweet cheeks is not going to get you into my good books.”
He shot his eyebrows up and they disappeared into his helmet. “Good books?” he asked quietly and then dipped his head close, right by my ear. “But perhaps I want to be in your bad books.”
I could smell him now. A faded but expensive citrus aftershave and breath that was laced with mint. “What are you talking about?”
He straightened and his shadow left me. “I’m saying I’m no teacher’s pet, Miss Gunner, so you want me to toe the line when you give your little pep talks. You’re gonna have to come up with a better speech than ‘keep your eye on the damn game,’ because that much I get.” He paused. “Get it?”
“I get that you’re lacking in manners,” I said, refusing to be intimidated by his size and his attitude. “Which is my least favorite attribute in a person.”
He tutted through an infuriating smile. “And here was me hoping to be your favorite.”
“Speed, for fuck’s sake…Sorry, ma’am,” Mike said, rushing in and twisting his hands together. “Get your ass…self out here, now.”
“On my way,” Dustin called. He set his attention on me. “I guess I’ll be seeing more of you and your sweet cheeks then. If you’re my boss now.”
Before I could reply, he was gone. Several fast paces and his bulk slipped from view.
I was left alone in the locker room, staring at the debris the players had left—day clothes, the odd stick, endless enormous shoes—and wondering what the hell I was doing. How could I, even for one second, hope to control this pack of Neanderthals? Because I knew damn well that was them being polite. What would happen when they all turned into misogynistic dickwads like Dustin? A real vipers’ nest would be more appealing.
Well, I’d just have to show them what I was made of. Dad had brought me up tough, despite the luxury we’d lived in. Not only that, the Vipers really did need me.
After delving into the books following Dad’s heart attack, I knew that money was tight. Dad splashing out on Dustin Reed as the new goaltender last season had tipped the balance over the edge. Well over the edge and right down to the bottom of the canyon.
What was the saying? Last in, first out.
Yep, Dustin “Speed” Reed had better tread carefully. Because when I started swinging contract renewals around, his would be the first to hit the trash bin and I, too, could aim with a perfect shot.
Mike hopped up and down on the bench throughout the entire game against the Sharks. He shouted and cursed—apparently forgetting I was just behind him—he muttered and wrung his hands, paced and balled his fists.
It was tense; the opposition hard to beat. I sat, stood, pulled my jacket close and then flapped it when I felt hot. I was all about the team, seeing how they interacted and bounced off one another. Phoenix was the top scorer, Raven and Vadmir a solid defensive pairing, and the way Ramrod had his guys pulling together as one unit was not only awe-inspiring but demonstrated his skill as a captain.
Brick had a run-in that resulted in two minutes in the penalty box, but luckily this didn’t interfere with the scoreboard and when he hit the ice again he was smiling. Within a minute he’d put the Vipers another goal ahead.
Dustin produced a robust front. His sheer size combined with agility made it hard for pucks to cross the line. He saved several shots from top-class players and made it look effortless—as if he could do it in his sleep.
I couldn’t deny he was worth his price.
When he was doing his stuff that was. Shame he couldn’t keep his impudent mouth shut.
One look at the young substitute goaltender, Jackson Price, made me wonder how well he would fare in goal? He’d been playing for several years in the minor leagues, but creating a reputation that had made my father trade for him, much cheaper than his more experienced players admittedly, yet still, he was ours now. But had his goaltender blades met the cold stuff yet? Perhaps it was time for him to flex his keeper muscles, let him do his stuff for the Vipers.
I could make that decision.
Right?
And if he was just as good as Dustin, would we still need “Speed” Reed? I could trade him when his contract ended. That would go some way to balancing the bank account. Not completely, granted, but it would help and it was definitely something for me to think about.
The game drew to an end amidst much excitement. The Vipers had claimed victory and were fisting the air, banging helmets and slapping sticks. The home crowd went wild, behind me triumphant fans yelled and applauded. The Sharks slunk to the tunnel as the majority of the Vipers slid high and fast from sight, leaving only three to take the final moment of glory—Ramrod, Vadmir and Dustin.
Mike raced from view, several fellow coaches whacking him on the shoulders as he went.
I stood and followed suit, wanting to hear what he said to the team about their win and their play and keen to be a part of their elation.
The locker room was crowded with big men and piles of equipment. The atmosphere was euphoric, a stark contrast to the earlier determined, somber air. Helmets had been removed and some of the players had stripped off their tops, revealing wide, hot chests, though most still clunked around in their skates.
I could hardly hear myself think and Mike certainly couldn’t make himself heard. That was until Ramrod careered in, Raven and Dustin hot on his trail, and began chanting a rhyme about the unbeatable Vipers.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a gaggle of rink bunnies scurrying in, the door held wide by a grinning security guard. I bristled. What the hell was he thinking, letting any old Tom, Dick or Harry in to see the players. Didn’t he know the rules?
A wild cheer erupted from the players as they reached the end of their chant and spotted the tottering girls.
I moved my attention to Dustin as he removed his blocker and trapper. I don’t know why. I guess I was looking for dirt on him. Expecting him to behave badly with the rink bunnies.
I wasn’t disappointed.
A woman in white hot pants and a practically sprayed-on Vipers t-shirt raced up to him just as he dropped his gloves. She kind of fell, but more threw herself onto him. He shoved up the cage of his helmet and I saw him laugh as he caught her in his arms and pulled her close.
I could have sworn her knees purposefully weakened so her body could sag against his. He didn’t seem to mind, and he wrapped his big hands around her ass and lifted her into the air as she smacked a kiss onto his cheek.
I shook my head, sighed and turned to Mike to discuss the game.
He was reaching a huge bottle of champagne from the fridge and talking animatedly to Ramrod.
My attention was drawn back to Dusti
n. He’d taken his helmet off and his short black hair was sweat-slicked and stuck close to his scalp. He looked like a man who’d worked hard, given it his all and was damn pleased with his performance.
He shot a look my way.
I kept my expression neutral but held his gaze. He’d done his job, that was all. Kept the pucks out of the net. What did he want, a freakin’ medal?
Suddenly he moved toward me—rink bunny still attached and fluttering her lashes.
“Hey, boss,” he said with a grin.
He had a ridiculous scarlet lipstick mark on his flushed cheek, at an angle. Did he have any idea how tacky that was?
I folded my arms.
“You like what you see?” he asked.
“I see a man doing his job, which pleases me, yes, since I’m paying you.”
His smile slipped a fraction. “Ah, okay, it’s like that, is it? Well, you’ll notice that I can keep my eye on the game.” He pointed at his eyes with two spread fingers and then once again let his gaze dip down my body. It was a languid perusal that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up in annoyance as a flush of heat wound through me.
I wanted to stamp my foot in frustration. He wasn’t attractive, he was maddening—wasn’t he?
“Even though,” he said, “you’re standing there with your sweet cheeks I could still concentrate. Amazing that, a guy who can multitask.”
“You’d be a poor goaltender if a woman in the arena stopped you from keeping your eye on the play.”
He leaned closer. A drop of sweat was making its way down his temple.
The girl he held caught it on her finger and drew it into her mouth.
I shook my head and grimaced. Disgusting.
He laughed and pulled her closer. “You’re right, so it’s just as well you have me, the best of the best.”
I huffed. “And the most arrogant.”
He shrugged and straightened. “Just saying it how it is. If you wanna perceive knowing I can deliver results as arrogance, that’s up to you.”
Once again I had the urge to wipe the cocky smile from his face. What the hell was his problem?
“Well,” I said, unable to help what was about to spill out of my mouth. “I think you may have to sit out the starting lineup for the next game. It’s time for Price to prove his worth.”
Oh yeah, that worked. His lips flattened until they were pressed white and his eyebrows pulled low. “What?” His nostrils flared and he puffed up his chest.
“You heard me. My father paid good money for an up-and-coming goaltender and he deserves the chance to prove himself in meetings of this caliber. I’m going to speak to Mike.” I turned, reached for my purse.
“Fuck, really. Are you crazy? Price is just a kid. The next game is against the Rangers. You really want a kindergartener in goal?” The tease had gone from Dustin’s voice. I’d shocked him to his socks with that suggestion.
Good.
“He’s hardly a kindergartener.” I secured my purse on my shoulder. I was sure it wasn’t that stupid an idea. At least I hoped it wasn’t.
“Sure he should have some starting experience, but pick your fucking moments.”
“Are you saying he’s no good?” I tipped my head, daring him to criticize a fellow team member who was standing on the other side of the room. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. The guy didn’t seem to have any scruples.
“No, of course not, he’s great, but he hasn’t played under this kind of stress before and he’s still recovering from a hand injury.”
“What hand injury?” That was news to me.
He shook his head. “Jesus, we really should be afraid of you, very afraid. You’re fucking dangerous.”
After one last glowering look he turned, leaving me gawping at his wide back as he tugged his new friend toward the champagne.
Dangerous. Hardly. I was here as a savior. My role was to pull the club from financial jeopardy.
I strutted from the locker room and into one of the back corridors away from the crowds, my heels clacking and a frown creasing my brow. If being dangerous and ultimately unpopular was the way it had to be, then so be it.
It wasn’t as if I gave a shit what Dustin Reed thought of me anyway.
Chapter Two
Overnight, Dustin’s comment about Price’s hand injury bothered me. He’d been right, I should have known that bit of information. It should have been in my head.
So I found myself in my father’s office at the arena bright and early with the intention of studying all of the players’ files, learning their stats and making sure “Speed” couldn’t trip me up again.
I didn’t like being caught out, not one bit.
With files spread all around my desk and set on the blue-and-white-striped couch beneath my big window overlooking downtown Orlando, I got down to business. Each player’s bio made for interesting reading. Vadmir had required knee surgery in Moscow before his transfer to the Vipers and I wondered why the hell my father had spent so much money on a player who hadn’t proven that he’d fully recovered. Phoenix and Brick both spent more time in the sin bin than was acceptable. Ramrod, well, I’d heard about the problems he and his fiancée had encountered with a crazed stalker the year before, but my father had added the insurance reports into his file and that made for extra reading. They’d had a close call.
I snacked in my office at lunchtime, too engrossed to do otherwise, and had just poured a midafternoon coffee when Mike knocked on my door and wandered in.
“Hey,” I said, looking up from the couch. “You want coffee?”
“Nah, I’m good.” He rubbed his hands together and shifted from one foot to the other.
“Something wrong?” I asked, sitting back and crossing my legs.
“Er, not, not wrong exactly, it’s just…”
“What?” I sipped my drink.
“Speed, he’s pis…fed up today.”
Ah, I’d guessed this was coming. I was surprised it had taken until three o’clock for it to be mentioned, though. “Really?” I acted surprised.
“Yeah, he seems to think you’re benching him when we meet the Rangers next week.”
I shrugged. “Yes, I did want to discuss that with you.”
“That’s good. We should, discuss it that is.” He nodded rapidly.
“It seems fair to give Jackson Price a chance to gain experience playing for the Vipers. That’s what he’s here to do, after all. I know he’s new and young, but he has a great record. My father wouldn’t have traded for him if he didn’t think he was adding strength to the team.”
“I agree, but let’s throw him on for the last period if we’re ahead. Starting with him in goal will throw everyone’s psyche off. He just hasn’t done that before, not since he arrived. What with your father being taken ill and—”
“And his hairline metacarpal fracture is healed, according to his last medical report, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Well no, I—”
“I want you to think about it, Mike, that’s all I ask. I’m not going to pretend to be a hockey coach or even a hockey expert, but I do know about finances and business. Between you and me, my father has got the finances into a mess with his excitement to keep bringing elite players to the team, extravagant merchandising and marketing plans and the upkeep of the arena. It means I have to look at players as though they’re not men at all, merely commodities.”
“Commodities?”
“Yes, contracts, employees, whatever.” I sipped my coffee again, hungering for the caffeine hit. “Stock.”
“But—”
“There’s no buts. I’m not here to be popular, I’m here to pull this club from the red and at the same time keep my father happy with the results. That’s all I want to do.”
He nodded and backed toward the door. “Yes, Miss Gunner. I had no idea we were in a mess.”
I frowned. “Can you keep that bit of information to yourself, you know, until I get my feet under the table
properly? Figure out what to do.”
“Of course, ma’am. You can rely on me.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it.” I paused. “Is that all, Mike?”
“Yes, yes, it is, and I’ll think about putting Price out there when puck drops next game.”
“Good.” I set my coffee down and picked up Dustin Reed’s file. “Let me know what you decide.”
“Certainly, ma’am.” He turned and went from my office, half pulling the door closed behind him.
I sighed. It seemed I wasn’t going to be popular with the head coach, either, but what could I do? I was entitled to express my opinion. It wasn’t as if I was telling him what to do, just making suggestions. In the long run it could save me money, my father money, my whole damn family money.
And we had to slim down our expenses.
Dustin’s file proved to be colorful reading.
He’d grown up the eldest of three in Calgary. Seemed he’d been skating as long as he could walk and played throughout his junior high years before going to Okanagan Hockey Academy where he was quickly spotted as a talented goaltender. He then went on to play for several league teams, which included winning CHL Player of the Year before finding himself here, with me, at the Vipers. He also had a gold medal under his belt, having played for his country in the 2010 Olympics.
At only twenty-nine, he’d done a lot in his personal life, too. He’d married and divorced, no kids. Spent his summers in Austria voluntarily coaching kids from all over Europe and, back home, had helped establish a charity, along with several other NHL players, aimed at getting underprivileged kids onto the ice.
I paused and glanced out the window at the hazy sunshine and the shimmer of heat sitting on the horizon. Perhaps he wasn’t so arrogant after all. Surely someone that generous with his time and obviously good with children couldn’t be as big a schmuck as he came across.
I turned to his stats—six-feet-one and a half and a fraction under two hundred pounds. His bulk, when padded up, could certainly fill the goal. I flicked to his injuries—nothing major, slight concussion after an altercation with a Penguins player the year before. Broken nose and split lip from a high stick during a practice scrimmage—why he hadn’t been properly protected was anyone’s guess. And an appendectomy aged eighteen, performed in Ontario. I wondered if he had a scar on his lower abdomen. Of course he would have. No doubt it was silvery by now, like the one on his chin, and sitting right in that sexy bit of a man where the abdominal muscles turned into obliques, the tempting, lickable section of their hips that always made me...