“I screwed up. It won’t happen again.”
“You’re damn right it won’t. You pull a stunt like that again and you’ll be hanging up your damn skates for good. Now, get the fuck out of here,” he says. I nod and glance at the TV as I get up, and there she is, my cuddle bunny, standing beside a redhead in front of twenty microphones that are thrust toward her. I recognize the logos of several sports channels as well as a bunch that read ACM and CCMA. “Coach, turn it up.”
“What?”
“The TV,” I say, but I’m already moving toward his desk to grab the remote.
The reporters ask her a bunch of questions, and the more she answers, the more irate I become. “Stella, what do you have to say to your younger fans, the girls who look up to you as a role model for no sex before marriage?” a reporter asks.
The redhead tells the crowd there are no more questions and attempts to lead her away—she must be her manager, Lana—but Stella pulls away and shouts over the noise, “I made a mistake.”
“Stella, Stella,” the reporters dog her for more, but her manager leads her away and into an awaiting SUV. Anger roils inside me. I clench my hands into fists, breathe in through my nose, and then I lose my shit completely. I yank the TV from the wall and throw it at the glass surrounding the coach’s office. He growls, his eyes practically turning red, as if he’s going to erupt and start spewing lava any second now. “You’re suspended, Ross!”
I don’t give a shit. I pull my jersey over my head and throw it behind me as I stalk toward the locker room. My shoulder is burning like fire, and I punch the cinderblock and wind up fucking my hand. I roar in frustration, and the next thing I know Eli is dragging me down the corridor toward the exit and out into the freezing air of the Calgary morning.
“Dude, calm the fuck down.”
“She said I was a mistake,” I hiss.
“What?”
“Stella. She said I was a mistake.”
His shoulders sag in defeat. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, fuck.”
“You gotta be smarter than this, dude. You just got fucking suspended.”
“FUCK!” I kick the shit out of a nearby trashcan, denting the cheap metal.
“Ah, shit,” Eli says, and I follow his gaze. There’s a bunch of vultures at the gate shouting my name and shoving microphones toward us. I take several steps toward the crowd, but Eli pulls me back. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here before you break someone else’s face.”
He leads me back inside, presumably so I can put on a sweater. Coach is screaming, and no one’s happy right now. With him or me, by the sounds of it. Eli shoots me a “you fucked up” look. And I know he’s right. I should be in there groveling, but Coach doesn’t let his temper get the better of him often. It’s smarter if I lay low for a while.
Eli grabs our gear and tosses me a shirt that I quickly throw on. The rest of the team is filing out of the locker room now, and they’re all scowling at me.
“Nice one, Ross. Your Hulk impersonation back there just cost us time on the ice,” Torres says.
“Knock it off.” Eli throws my keys to Torres, who catches them. “You can drive Van’s hummer to my house, right?”
“Sure, I can. Rookie can drive my truck.”
Rookie makes a face. “Why don’t I get to drive the Hummer?”
“No one’s driving my fucking beast,” I snap.
“Well, you sure as shit ain’t driving with that shoulder, now, are you?” Eli waggles his eyebrows.
“Fine, what-the-fuck-ever. Just hand me a bottle of whiskey and I’ll be fine.”
“Party at Boucher’s,” Jacob, says, as he throws an arm around Torres who quickly shakes him off.
“Not for you, fuck face. Run along to mommy.” Eli gives him a bitter smile. Jacob started as a defenseman the year before Rookie, but he slept with Eli’s favorite bunny once . . . in Eli’s bed, and let’s just say he never got an invite to one of Eli’s parties again. Jacob makes a face and gives us a one-fingered salute.
I turn to leave, done with the dirty looks each of my teammates throws my way, but I’m shoved from behind by Gagnon. “What the fuck was that?”
“Hey, hey, go easy. He’s injured, remember?” Eli says, but Gagnon pushes him away and gets up in my face.
“You disrespect me and Coach like that again, and I’ll have you traded so fucking fast your head will spin.”
“You don’t have that kind of sway. Everyone here knows you’re past it, and the only reason this team might have a shot at the playoffs this year is because we’re all carrying you. It’s the reason Coach didn’t just fire me right now—because he knows he can’t afford to with a sloppy-ass team captain. So get the fuck off me.” I shove him back. It hurts like a goddamn bitch, but I do it. Gagnon throws a right hook, but it’s quickly intercepted by Eli who pounds his fist into our captain’s face. I’d like to join in, but I’m too busy holding my shit together because my arm feels as if I just ripped it out of the socket.
“What the fuck is going on in here?” Coach says. “You!” He points to me. “Get the fuck outta my locker room, you’re suspended. And Eli you’re out, too—a two-game suspension.”
Eli looks pissed but there’s a half-smirk on his face. We’ve both been wanting to beat the shit out of Gagnon since we joined as rookies. The guy’s ego needs taking down a peg or two. And from the looks of the boys, everybody would trade those two games for the chance to beat down on Gagnon.
Holding my shoulder, I follow Eli out of the building and climb into his SUV. We’re dogged by reporters, but Eli just rolls down the window and tells them to move or get run over. He’d never do it, of course. I don’t think.
“You wanna go to a bar and get shitfaced before Torres turns up?”
“No. No bars—too many eyes,” I say. “Besides, you get caught drunk and disorderly and you’ll be hit with more than a two-game suspension. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was thinking what everyone else in that room has been thinking since the day they joined the team. Gagnon is an asshole. That fucker needs to go.”
“Yeah, well all you achieved with that little stunt was getting suspended, too.”
“Yeah, that kinda sucks. So, my place, it is.” Eli pulls onto 12th Avenue. “I love you man, but I not driving you an hour home in each direction.”
“Your place is fine. I just need somewhere I can drink myself into a stupor and crash.”
“Mi casa es su casa,” Eli says. “You want me to call some bunnies?”
“No! No bunnies. Fuck that shit.”
“You know you’re gonna have to move on, dude?”
“Just . . . drive, okay?”
“Suit yourself. I’m gonna call Sue Lei, have her work on your shoulder, and then maybe when she’s done, she can work on my dick. She’d do yours, too, if you want?”
“Jesus.” Sue Lei is a certified sports therapist. She’s also a certified whack job who’ll throw in a happy ending for an extra hundred bucks. It’s like a running joke with the team, and I’m pretty sure she could get into a heap of trouble, but no one’s reporting her any time soon because she’s damn good with her hands. Yes, I’ll admit it. I’ve paid extra for the pleasure of her . . . er . . . services, but I’d needed to blow off steam after a bad game, and I had no intention of bringing any bunnies around Emmett. It wasn’t my finest moment, and to be honest, I’ve spent plenty of time paying for it because I’ve been dodging her advances to work me over ever since.
“No, I don’t want Sue Lei touching me at all,” I say, staring out the window at the traffic and faceless pedestrians as we whiz by. The really fucked up truth is that I don’t want any woman touching me . . . unless it’s a fearsome, tiny blonde who goes by the name of Stella Hart.
After Rookie and Torres leave, I sink farther into Eli’s couch and nurse my beer. I haven’t touched it since he handed it to me ten minutes ago.
“This isn’t like you, man. Getting all hung up on a count
ry music singer, or any female at all. What the hell has gotten into you?”
“Stella got into me.”
His brows shoot skyward. “Shit, like strap-on got into you or—”
“No, dickwad. Jesus.”
He takes a long pull on his beer. “She wasn’t really a virgin, was she?”
“Pretty much.” I sigh and stare up at the ceiling. “I mean, she’d slept with some other guy when she was seventeen. Sounded more like statutory rape to me. He was twenty—bent her over in her dressing room when she was dealing with some heavy personal shit.”
“Dude. That’s low.” I think it says something when NHL’s biggest player is shocked by this lowlife who preyed on a young woman. “So, what about this boyfriend?”
“I don’t know—she never mentioned him to me. Not once.”
“That’s a tough break.”
“No shit.” I grab the remote and switch on the TV, flicking through several channels until I notice one playing Stella’s interview, so I cycle back.
“Come on, man. You’re really gonna torture yourself like this?”
“Yep.”
“Alright then. I’m going to wash my sweaty ball sack. Sue Lei will be here in twenty minutes.”
Stella’s hair falls in front of her face and she brushes it back, and that’s when I see it. They’ve covered it pretty well with makeup, but she has a bruise and a little swelling over her eye. I sit up and study her on Eli’s giant flat-screen. My head swims. What the fuck happened?
I pick up my phone, ready to dial her number, which is stupid because I don’t have her fucking number. FUCK! I have no way of getting in touch with her, short of going to her label and demanding they give me her address, which I’m pretty sure they’re not going to do after she just declared me a mistake.
I pull up Facebook and search for her official fan page. I shoot a message that says, “Call me” with my phone number attached, but I don’t expect her to respond. Why would she? A mistake is something you want to leave in your past.
Jesus. I can’t leave because even though I’m suspended, I’ll still be expected to train and sit on the bench during the game tomorrow night. Fuck. I wish I’d never let her leave with that douchebag. If I ever set eyes on him again, I'm kicking his fucking ass, and then I’ll pull his asshole through his goddamn nostrils.
A knock comes from the door, and I stalk toward it, all barely contained fury and annoyance. Sue Lei actually jumps when I answer.
“Hey, big boy.” She slides on by me into Eli’s condo.
“Jesus.”
“You want to work out some of that tension you’re carrying?”
“No,” I say. “You’re here for Eli.”
“He texted. He wants me to do you, too.”
I give her a bitter grin. “Well, I don’t wanna be done.”
“But we were so good together.” She steps forward and runs a finger down my abs.
I grab her wrist and squeeze before she can trail her hand any lower. “Can you not touch me, please?”
“Suit yourself.” She yanks free and picks up her portable massage table, sashaying to the other side of the room.
Eli stands in the doorway. “Ignore him. He’s all broken up about the one that got away. It’ll just be you and me tonight, Sue Lei.”
“Oh, I heard about her. She’s a piece of work, eh?” Sue Lei says in a blasé tone of voice. “I saw her talk about you like you were nothing. That must have hurt.”
“Yeah, thanks for the reminder.” I grab my phone and wallet off the coffee table and walk back to the door. “I’m gonna take off.”
“What? Where the fuck you gonna go?”
“I don’t know? Home?”
“You can’t drive, dude.”
“Been doing it this whole time, haven’t I?”
“No, I mean you can’t go anywhere. Coach texted and asked me to keep an eye on you.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because he thinks you're gonna run off to Nashville.”
“Why would I go to Nashville? I’m just a mistake, right?” Eli doesn’t need to know that I’ve been seriously entertaining the idea for the last ten minutes.
“Jesus. Do you not know how to fucking Google? There was a report filed last night.”
“What kind of report?”
“Her boyfriend hit her.”
“Fucking son of a bitch.” I’m going to murder him.
“He backhanded her in the SUV after they left your place.”
“How do you know this?”
“It’s all over the fucking internet. You know, if you’d just looked her up in the first place you probably could have saved yourself a whole heap of heartache. She’s been dating that guy for two damn years. They’re like country royalty or some shit.”
“Cover for me.”
“What? No! I told him I’d keep you from doing stupid shit exactly like this.”
“I can’t not go,” I say adamantly. “Fuck, even if I am her biggest mistake, I have to make sure she’s okay.”
“Goddamn it, Van. You’re gonna earn me a lot more than a two-game suspension.”
“I don’t have time for this shit. I gotta go home and get my passport.”
He groans. “Sorry, Sue Lei. Looks like we’re sitting this dance out.”
“You’re still paying me, right?”
“Double . . . if you promise to keep quiet. We don’t want this getting back to Coach.”
“Fine with me. Now I’ll have time to go get my hair done.” She unfolds the table she just set up and packs her things.
“You book the tickets. I’ll drive,” Eli says once Sue Lei is gone.
“Tickets?” I lean on the ‘s’.
“You don’t think I’m going to let you go alone, do you?”
“Uh, yeah. Pretty much.”
“Hell no. I gotta see this shit when you fall flat on your face. Who else is going to film and put it up on YouTube when you fail spectacularly?”
“Thanks, buddy. I knew I could count on you.”
Several hours later, we’re standing in Printer’s Alley after midnight looking every bit as clueless as we feel. Or at least, as clueless as I feel. Eli’s just here for the free booze I’ve promised him, and a show.
“So, you know where she lives, right?”
I grimace. “Not exactly.”
“What? Dude, how the fuck do you expect to find her if you don’t have her number and you don’t know where she lives?”
“I don’t know, I thought maybe we could get one of those maps to the stars’ houses or some shit.”
“You know it’s not Hollywood, right?”
“Do you ever use your mouth for anything useful?”
“I do lots of useful shit with my mouth. Just ask the puck bunnies.” He frowns when I glare at him. “Hey, excuse me,” he says, stopping a group of women who’re wearing penis headbands, and very skimpy dresses. “Hi.”
“Hi,” says a hot blonde with a fluffy pink veil.
“Oh my god, you're you!” a sweet-faced brunette says.
“Yep, and you’re you.” Eli grins. I roll my eyes.
The woman points to me with a shocked expression and a shaking hand. “And you’re . . .” Her words trail off in an ear-piercing screech.
“Are you guys famous or something?” a bored blonde standing off to the side asks.
“Or something,” I say. I'm not being cute. I just have no intention of spending time with strange women when I came here to find Stella.
“No! I’d know you guys anywhere,” the sweet-faced girl says. “You’re Eli Boucher and Van Ross.”
Eli could blind astronauts in space with the smile he gives her. “We are. You know your hockey, eh?”
“I’m a huge fan.” She shakes her head. “I mean, I’m a Nashville girl first, sorry, but the Crushers are my next favorite team.”
“Well, you just made us the next happiest guys on the face of the planet.” He actually fucking winks at her.
“I can’t believe you’re standing in front of me right now.” She beams, her face turning beet red. “Hey, can I get a picture?”
“Sure, but you gotta do us a favor first, sweetheart.”
“Anything.”
Eli raises his brows. “You hear that, Ross? The lady will do anything.”
I glare at my best friend and decide I need to be the one to hurry this along. “Do you know where Stella Hart lives?”
“Oh, you came here for her, even after she called you a mistake?” She presses her hand to her heart and smiles. “That’s the most romantic thing ever.”
“Was she crazy? Look at this guy,” the woman in the bride-to-be sash squeezes my forearm, and I frown because no matter how many random women do this, I still never can get used to being treated like a piece of meat. Though, I guess it’s not that far from what the bunnies do.
“Do you know where she lives?”
“Isn’t she out at Brentwood?”
“Great. Don’t suppose you know where that is, eh?”
“Oh, it’s like eleven miles from here.”
I scrub a hand over the back of my neck. “Ah, shit.”
“Listen, we’re here on pretty urgent business, and we have to get back before our coach knows we’ve gone missing. Is there any chance you ladies have a car and want to drive us? We’d totally appreciate it. We’d throw you season tickets.”
I glare at Eli as if he’s lost his mind. He shrugs, and then sends me a pointed look as if saying, “Do you want to find her or not?” He’s right. I’d much rather just hire a car and try and find Brentwood on our own, but we’re pressed for time, and there don’t seem to be many cabs around.
“Please?” I beg the girls. “I’m desperate.”
“Oh, my god, that’s so sweet. I wish I had a man who would do that for me,” the bride-to-be says, and I make a face.
“Your fiancé wouldn’t do that for you?”
“No.” She pouts. “He’s kind of a douche.”
“Why are you marrying him them?”
“He’s okay for a first husband.” She shrugs, and Eli and I share a look. I hope the poor bastard knows what he’s getting into.
Puck Love Page 18