Adrian: An Ironfield Forge Hockey Romance

by Frost, Sosie

  “Careful.” I gave him a warning—one more than he deserved. “You’re not in your pads.”

  Oz snorted, his expression dropping into utter disgust. “Like I wanna get dressed for this bullshit.”

  “Only if you don’t want to take a hundred mile an hour slapshot to the dick.” I shrugged. “I don’t recommend it.”

  “Not for this fucking team,” Oz said.

  Clover arched an eyebrow, but I’d heard this complaint before.

  “Season hasn’t started yet,” I said. “Gotta give it a chance.”

  Oz wasn’t a generous soul, especially toward a new team with no loyalties. He shook his head.

  “I’m only here because my contract mandated team workouts in the off-season.”

  Fantastic. “Well, welcome aboard.”

  “To what?” He swore. “This team is a fucking joke—a multi-million-dollar mismanaged mistake. It isn’t an organization. It’s a death sentence to our goddamned careers.”

  The best part about Oz was that he said what everyone else was thinking. That way we didn’t sound like the asshole compared to him.

  “My agent can’t get me out of this year, but next?” Oz spat on the brand-new carpet. “I’ll go somewhere where I’ll be fucking appreciated. Where my talent won’t go to waste.”

  “At least your talent has hasn’t gone to your head,” Clover said.

  Oz chuckled, winking at Clover. “Tell you what, sweetheart. If the good captain here can’t get his troops to stand at attention, come find me. I’ve got all the working parts.”

  “Sure do.” Clover wasn’t impressed. He was just lucky he was out of kicking range. “You’re a walking, talking dick.”

  “Walking, talking, shot-blocking.” Oz headed into the locker rooms. “Don’t find players like me on every team.”

  Thank Christ.

  The doors closed behind him. Clover edged away from me, brushing her dark hair behind her ears.

  “Always expect a kiss to start with a little tongue…” She forced a laugh. “Didn’t like it ending with an asshole.”

  “That’s Oz for you.”

  She grumbled, scuffing the floor with her shoe. Her glance up was too apologetic for my liking.

  “Suppose the kiss was a bad idea,” she said.

  Now my cock and my head hurt.

  Was it a bad idea? Abso-fucking-lutely.

  Did I regret it?

  Hell no. I only regretted that I couldn’t finish what I’d started.

  But, somehow, that made me an even worse friend.

  “The locker room isn’t exactly a romantic location,” I said. “Filled with too many pricks.”

  Her soft giggle was every comfort I ever needed. But too soon she scowled, her lips pursed into a demanding pout.

  “What the hell is a guy like Oz doing on the Forge?” Clover asked.

  A good fucking question that I was still trying to figure out.

  It was like the team wanted trouble.

  “Remember the goalie who went onto Sports Nation after his team failed to make the playoffs?” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder.

  “That was him?”

  Unfortunately. “He badmouthed every single player on the Crusaders—blamed everyone but the announcers for the loss. And when he didn’t get enough views when his interview went viral—he double-downed on social media.”

  “Sounds like a class act.”

  “Have you seen the rest of the roster?”

  Clover nibbled her lip, and I sighed. That should’ve been my treat.

  “Is it bad?” she asked.

  I wasn’t sure yet, but I didn’t like the feeling festering my gut. “It’s an interesting team this year.”

  “It looks like you have some work to do, Captain.” She cleared her throat. “I should…probably clear out. Don’t want to get you in trouble for having a girl in the locker room.”

  “Just an innocent tour,” I said.

  “Innocent? You call that kiss innocent?” She pouted. “I must be losing my touch.”

  And I was losing my mind.

  “Clover…”

  The girl had confidence, I’d give her that. And she might’ve convinced me she was nothing but a flirt had her steps not wobbled as she stalked to the door.

  “Told you we’d be good together,” she teased.

  Yeah.

  Good.

  Not exactly the word I’d use.

  More like…explosive.

  Uncontrolled.

  Dangerous.

  “You gonna watch the practice?” I asked.

  “I’ll stick around. See if I can’t find something to entertain me.”

  Where had I heard that before? “Behave yourself.”

  “Only ended up in the Marauders’ showers once.”

  I held up two fingers. “Twice. And I don’t know if I can trust you after that kiss.”

  Her smile stiffened my cock so hard it hurt, but I preferred that pain over others.

  “Keep kissing me like that, and I’ll never need to look anywhere else,” she said.

  “That’s why I’m worried.”

  “Just consider my proposition.” Her laugh echoed in the hall. “Like you could think about anything else right now…”

  The woman was a devil.

  And I was really starting to like the sin.

  More reason for me the focus on what was important. The game. The team. The middling practice with a few straggling men who’d only arrived because they wouldn’t get their millions if they didn’t strap on some skates and pretend to care about their new home.

  Not sure what the hell the Forge was thinking, but they’d hand-selected men with the worst reputations to fill out the roster. Guys with substance abuse issues. Ones more eager to fight than score—or ones who’d rather score with a puck bunny than to train with the team.

  Shit was bad on this side of the bench, but it got worse when only a handful of guys showed an initiative.

  I only wanted to see some commitment. A captain needed a chance to run a few drills and get a sense of his teammates, men I’d only ever faced as opponents.

  Unfortunately, Oz wasn’t the only one dissatisfied with his current lot on the team. Half of the men on the Forge believed they’d been abandoned by their former franchises. The rest? They were lucky they had a place to call home. Between the off-the-ice drama, league disciplinary actions, and general self-destruction, I wasn’t sure I had much of a roster to lead.

  Didn’t make for a happy team.

  Or a successful one.

  The team gave a cabinet prominently displayed in the center of the circular locker room, so new it smelled of fresh paint instead of sweat.

  I didn’t recognize my name shining in the Forge’s frosty blue.

  Not that the colors mattered. I had pads, a stick, and a job to do, regardless of the city I called home. Ice was ice, and I belonged in the rink, fighting and bleeding for a chance at the puck.

  I changed out of my street clothes and suited up. Loose pair of cotton shorts. Under Armor long-sleeved shirt. And, most importantly…

  The jock, which I’d come to greatly appreciate over the last year.

  Unfortunately, it slipped out of my grasp. The hard-plastic shell slammed on the tile floor.

  And shattered.

  Holy shit.

  A hand slapped my shoulder. Jasper Cash Harrington was the only guy on the team I’d permit to laugh at my misfortune, and only because he’d served at my side on the Marauders for three years before his scandal and subsequent trade.

  He secured his pads over his chest and shoulders, hiding the numerous scars which had beaten his body to a pulp over the years.

  “Be glad it didn’t happen during a game, eh?” he said.

  “It did.” I kicked the jock’s broken shards away from my locker. “The surgeons picked slivers of plastic out of my groin during surgery.”

  The defenseman visibly shuddered. “For Christ’s sake, man. Put a trigger w
arning on that bullshit. I’m gonna have nightmares for a week.”

  “Better than your usual dreams about me.”

  “Always the heartbreaker, Adrian.”

  Cash adjusted his pads, though I never knew how the man made it through a doorway when completely suited up. Apparently, the Forge drafted their team to be big. Not only was I one of the largest centers in the league, Cash towered over most of the forwards he harassed. Had a good thirty pounds on most of them too. All muscle. Cash took pride in physique, but weight-training was one of the only reasons he survived all his hits—legal and otherwise.

  Never saw a man turn pure violence into art before. His hits were brutal, his presence oppressive, and I was glad I no longer had to face the dirty son of a bitch when digging the puck out of the corner. Too bad the league didn’t approve of his talents. Cash had become a liability—a loose cannon loaded with pure shrapnel.

  Some men had adapted to the newer, more safety-conscious rules. And some, like Cash, spent more time in the penalty box than minutes on the ice. Problem was, the league wasn’t talking fines with him anymore. They now solved his problems with suspensions.

  Cash’s next questionable hit wouldn’t land him in the box—it’d send him to the unemployment line.

  “You know…that sort of injury turns a man religious,” he said.

  “Can’t blame God for this one.” I fished through my bag for a second jock. “He accidentally made the biggest, baddest set of balls in all of creation. Decided he wanted them back.”

  “The Lord giveth, and the Lord pulverizeth into pudding.”

  “Don’t worry. He rose again. Took a little longer than three days, but we’ve been resurrected.”

  “Hallelujah.”

  Damn. The only cup I found in my equipment was Doctor Stone’s little plastic nightmare. I tossed it into my locker.

  Cash retrieved it with a frown. “What’s this? Drug test?”

  Those weren’t as much fun. “Nah. Doesn’t matter.”

  “What did you get yourself into?”

  I’d been asking myself that same question since Clover trapped me on the plane. I glanced at my old friend.

  “You remember Clover Crosby?”

  Cash sucked in a sharp breath. “The one with the Honey Bs?”

  Great. It wasn’t just a Marauder’s nickname anymore—Clover’s body league famous. And for good reason. She possessed the most glorious pair of tits to ever grace this green Earth. Not too big. Not too small. Just perky, rounded, and weaponized. Clover’s breasts existed to remind the world that yes, there was a God, and he was generous, good, and, even after all this time, could still exceed his wildest expectations.

  “That’s the one,” I said.

  “Who could forget a woman that beautiful?” He side-eyed me. “Always wondered why she hung out with a guy like you.”

  I grabbed my stick and roll of tape, ripping a strip between my teeth before applying it to the handle. “If you figure it out, let me know. She wants to have a baby.”

  “Good for her.”

  “With me.”

  Cash snickered. “Get fucked.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  He pointed at my equipment bag. “You know there’s more effective ways of knocking a girl than using a plastic cup?”

  I’d burn the damned thing. “That’s from my appointment with the urologist.”

  “Don’t say that word.”

  “The doctor thought it’d wise to check if my team is ready to take that…breakaway shot.”

  “With a woman like that? I’d be more afraid of a false-start on her face-off.”

  I pitched the tape and leaned on my stick. “I’ve always tried to avoid knocking up a girl. Now my best friend wants me to do it intentionally.”

  “Try getting drunk. Worked for me and my ex. Hated the wife. Love the kid.”

  “How old is she now?”

  Cash gestured toward his locker. Didn’t have more than an extra shirt in it now, but he made sure to tape a picture of his little girl to the inside.

  The man had a violent, terrible reputation in the league, but he earned every scrape, scratch, and fist to the face for his daughter. She was the only reason he smiled following the divorce, and he’d spent a hell of a lot of money to ensure he got full custody.

  “She’s almost four,” he said. “Apparently…she’s spirited. At least, that’s what the nanny says.”

  “Which nanny? The blonde?”

  “Hell no. That was Helga…she quit two nannies back. Trying a new crop from a different agency. These ones promised they could handle her, but even they’re bitching that she’s difficult. Not sure what they’re so afraid of.” He smirked at the picture. “So, she’s feisty. Big fucking deal. That’s why I pay them a goddamned king’s ransom to keep her happy.”

  I finally found my backup jock and started to dress as the door swung open, and the team’s most talented troublemaker strutted into practice.

  ““Speaking of kids…” I said. “You’re late.”

  Beau Beckett was young, cocky, and might’ve been the greatest hockey player to strap on a pair of skates if the superstar could’ve found his way onto the ice with his head stuck that far up his own ass.

  I never judged a man for his athletic ability. We all possessed something that made us a stellar player. For some, it was dedication, time spent in the weight room, or an instinct on the ice that created plays.

  For guys like Beau? It was God-given talent.

  Which made it more aggravating that the kid would waste his potential on arrogance, alcohol, and women.

  “Rookie.” I snapped my fingers as he twisted the cap off his drink. “Nice of you to bring me a Gatorade.”

  Most first-year athletes knew better than to backtalk the captain.

  Beau wasn’t like most players, and that would get him in trouble.

  “Seriously?” He scoffed. “Get your own.”

  Cash chuckled to himself, probably contemplating the number of trash cans, lockers, and construction sites where he might’ve stuffed the kid.

  “I believe your captain wants a drink.” Cash crossed his arms. “Better oblige him if you hope to see the puck at all this season.”

  “His legs broken?”

  “Yours will be if you keep this shit up.”

  Beau had a mouth on him that had yet to be corrected. It’d come in time—or when another member of the line got tired of the attitude and answered him with a punch to the nose. He might’ve been hot shit in the junior league, but a professional team was far different.

  We had rules. Traditions. Decorum.

  And loudmouthed smartasses learned real quick about the hierarchy on a team when playing with real men versus little boys.

  Beau swore but surrendered his Gatorade. Unfortunately, he tossed it at me as I was strapping my pads over my shoulders. The drink rocketed across the locker room, and I turned just in time to catch the bottle before it battered my battleship and the rest of the fleet.

  “Gotta be quick, old man.” Beau headed toward the entrance to the rink. “Cause I’m gonna be the one busting what’s left of your balls.”

  I dropped the Gatorade on the floor. Cash backed away from the tumbling bottle.

  So did I.

  Didn’t take much to curse a team, and the last thing I wanted was to black magic the other guys’ voodoos.

  Cash pointed his stick at me. “If I were you, I’d wear a cup every goddamned minute of every day until God finally decides to castrate you. And hopefully, you get laid before that.”

  He was right, but I wasn’t about to bring that prophecy to life. “The injury is behind me. I’m not gonna get hurt again.”

  “Good thing I’m normally in the penalty box. With your luck, a fucking meteor will crash into the bench.”

  What the hell would possess him to tempt fate like that?

  Fortunately, the ice healed all wounds, cosmic and physical. And a brand-new rink offered us a chance to
do what we did best—overcompensating for our insecurities by pushing ourselves passed our limits and beyond what was required of a simple team workout.

  Drills weren’t always glamorous, but I’d never missed a workout with any team. The flashy plays and last-minute goals were good television, but the real sport was played from the fundamentals. Skating, stick handling, passing, shooting. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was important, and it separated the good players from the legends.

  The coaching staff was in full-force, clipboards in hand as they skated between our few participating players. Warm-ups first. Just some low-intensity skating around the rink. Couple good stretches. Few agility drills. Easy enough, but it wasn’t a team activity.

  For that, the coaches dropped a couple dozen pucks onto center ice for our first exercise.

  It wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a simple pass-and-shoot drill with a single defender. Nothing complicated. Nothing elaborate. Just some high school bullshit to build trust between a team of literal strangers. The five men on my line would be new to each other. It’d take more than a friendly beer and shared shower to build the camaraderie needed for a functioning team, but we had to start somewhere.

  At least we were all in the same colors.

  And it provided me with an important teaching moment for the rookie who had a mouth as big as his ego.

  “Let’s go!” Beau lazily leaned against his stick. “Hopefully you’re not this slow during a game.”

  I skated to his side, waving Cash away before the defensemen checked his own teammate. “Hopefully, you won’t always be this loud.”

  “Might be loud, but I’m honest.”

  I pulled a puck from the pile and debated on where to take my shot. The net was still in the right place, but it wasn’t nearly as fun.

  “Real men don’t need to talk,” I said.

  “You’re gonna tell me how to be a real man with your own neutered neutral zone?”

  Cute. Real cute.

  “For a kid with your reputation with the ladies, you’re sure obsessed with what’s in my pants,” I said.

  “Just wanna make sure that C on your jersey stands for Captain and not Castrato.”

  “Supposed to be kissing my ass, not daydreaming about my cock.”

  Beau had a smirk that screamed for a punch. “You know what, Adrian. I think we’re gonna get along fine.”