Adrian: An Ironfield Forge Hockey Romance

by Frost, Sosie

  “What is it, Alaric?” Coach Harland rapped arthritic fingers against his desk. No matter how gnarled, they weren’t as bad as the rumored arthritis in his ankles—the reason he never wore skates while we practiced. “Problem?”

  “Got a couple.”

  “Be quick.”

  I picked my words like I disarmed a bomb.

  Yellow wire—problems with the rookie.

  Blue wire—the conflict between Leo and Felix.

  Red wire—the lack of participation in these workouts.

  Snipping the wrong one could blow the coach…or my career.

  “Problems this soon?” John waved away my concern with a bejeweled hand. Rings on three of his fingers, Rolex on his wrist. Man had the money to buy three hockey teams. “It’s too early to worry about that.”

  “The team’s got morale issues,” I said. “Even worse…I think most of the world knows about them already. We’ve got player fights and an image crisis, and we haven’t even blown the first whistle at training camp.”

  Coach Harland’s lips pressed into a thin line.

  And John simply hooted, dismissing the thoughts as he slipped a flask from his jacket pocket and offered me a drink. Coach and I declined. He shrugged and took a shot for both of us.

  “You know why I wanted you on this team, Adrian?” John asked.

  “Because my face looks good hanging on the banners outside the arena?”

  “We call that a perk in my industry.” John’s laugh carried out of the office. Wasn’t sure I liked it. “I wanted you on this team because I know you’ve got a big set of balls on you.”

  Fantastic. “Glad they’ve met your approval.”

  “You’ve got a sack on you, boy. Must be made from goddamned steel to take a hit like that.”

  “Yeah, it’s a real problem getting through metal detectors.”

  “That’s what we need for the Forge. Someone serious. Someone who wants to do what’s right and will put his body on the line to do it.”

  I’d learned that lesson the hard way. “I’m thinking I should let the goalie block the shots himself.”

  “You’d never risk losing a game like that.” John pointed to the coach. “Tell him, Harland.”

  He nodded. “It’s why we drafted you, Alaric. We needed a man who’d put the team first.”

  Yeah. And they got one.

  But only one.

  “Not sure the rest of the team will appreciate the sacrifice,” I said.

  “Hardly your concern, is it?” John leaned back in his chair and smiled only to himself. “You know your job. Get on the ice. Work your magic. Charm the media. That’s all we ask of you.”

  “But what are you asking of them?”

  Coach Harland said nothing, but John seemed more than comfortable addresses the issues I hadn’t raised.

  “It’s a growing year.” John shrugged and offered an empty gesture. “And these things take time. Especially since we’ve drafted men of a certain…caliber.”

  “Thugs, addicts, and assholes?”

  He cackled with laughter. “I told you I liked him, Harland. He cuts right through the thick of it, doesn’t he?”

  “Probably shouldn’t.” Coach Harland gave me a warning I chose to ignore. “Team meeting’s started. The men expect their captain to be in attendance.”

  “Those men expect nothing except a paycheck.” I stood, but I wasn’t going anywhere. “You want me to be a leader. But I don’t know what I’m leading or why. This isn’t a roster. It’s a circus, and you’re expecting me to tame the lion with what? A flash of my balls?”

  The coach’s jaw tightened. “Can’t pick your family, can’t pick your team. Your job is to play center, not make personnel decisions.”

  “Someone should. We’ve got major problems here. Guys fighting. Rookies partying with any woman they can find. Men drinking themselves into a stupor.” My patience wore out. “And now the media’s running stories. Sports Nation had a fifteen-minute segment on Beau Beckett today—allegations of womanizing, drinking, drugs. It’s bad enough when we’ve got trouble in the locker room. It’s worse when the entire world knows about it.”

  John chuckled, wagging a finger toward the coach. “He’s too noble for his own good. Gonna cause a lot of problems himself.”

  “Me?” I frowned.

  “All this goodie-two-shoes, white knight stuff. It’s great with the ladies, but the guys I picked for this team? The ones mouthing off to the league, hitting below the belt, having a bit too much fun? They’re gonna hate you, Captain.”

  And this pleased him.

  He stood, fixing his sport coat before gripping my shoulder. The man earned his money from trust funds and dividends, not faceoffs and bruising hits. He didn’t have the strength to intimidate me, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

  “Let them hate you,” he said. “It’ll sell more tickets that way.”

  “What?”

  He buttoned his jacket. “I’ve got an interview with one of the networks—can never keep them straight. We’ll meet tomorrow, go over some more details.”

  Like hell.

  I stepped in front of him, staring down at bushy eyebrows twitching with impatience.

  “You’re gonna tell me what’s happening with this team.” Wasn’t exactly a respectful tone, but at least I didn’t swear. “Why this roster? Why isn’t anyone doing something about the behavioral issues? Why does the media have so much dirt on us already?”

  I knew the answer, and I would’ve traded the hundred million in my contract to get it wrong.

  John checked his watch, as if the very conversation had cost him more money than he’d wasted by ruining the franchise. “The league is competitive at the moment. And, frankly, this market is not primed for a new team. Ironfield has their football and small-time baseball. Hockey was never going to make an impact unless we gave them something to watch.”

  “A winning team would work.”

  “Hardly. The chances of creating a winning team out of whole cloth from the discarded scraps of the rest of the league? Come on. You must’ve realized it was a fantasy.”

  “So, all the talk about building the franchise and creating something lasting?” My bitterness tasted vile. “Just a lie?”

  “The dynasties will come in time. But first…we must create something that generates enthusiasm. Fans have seen winning teams before—it’s not interesting. They’re looking to be entertained.”

  The thought sickened me. “And that’s what this team is? Entertainment?”

  “You must admit, it is an interesting collection of men with all their flaws and baggage—those thugs, addicts, and assholes?” John dared to wink at me. “All led by the one white knight of respectability that keeps the Forge…legitimate.”

  “Are you even going to help us win?”

  “Building a winning team is boring.” John offered no sympathy or apologies. To him, the destruction of my career was little more than a passing amusement. “Especially when the league, fans, and people of this city would rather watch the brand-new Ironfield Forge self-destruct.”

  12

  Clover

  The Ironfield Forge had betrayed my best friend.

  But Adrian wasn’t a man who surrendered to anyone or anything. He’d fight, even if he had to stand alone against an entire franchise while they exploited the players for media scandals and league ratings.

  His plan? Unite the Forge despite their differences and petty arguments. Throw a party. Welcome the men to his home. Extend his hospitality and offer his support to make the transition onto the new team as easy as possible.

  Unfortunately, he refused to tell them the truth.

  Adrian only revealed what had happened with the head coach and team owner to me. And then he swore me to secrecy, citing his willingness to give me a child as collateral for my silence.

  It was a dirty trick. And it bit him in the ass.

  Adrian scheduled his party on my most fertile day. And the
presence of twenty-three drunken men was not exactly an aphrodisiac for a girl like me…even if every last one of the Forge might’ve crawled out of the pages of a naughty shirtless calendar.

  Our mountain of potato chips had dwindled from Everest to molehill, but it wasn’t like the team did much but drinking.

  The salsa had been the first casualty, tossed into the pool. We’d be picking cilantro out of the filter for the rest of the summer.

  Then they came for the popcorn. Most of the unpopped kernels were stuffed into the engine of Rhett Marlow’s Corvette in the hopes they’d pop on his ride home.

  The pizza? Most of it was consumed. The rest? Turned into a messy game of Indoor Ultimate Frisbee. Mozzarella cheese clung to Adrian’s windows. Most of the marinara sauce ground into his carpets.

  I didn’t understand it and took refuge in the kitchen. At least, until the guys decided to play Russian Roulette with shots of Kool-Aid. I sent them on their way with paper cups and a bottle of ghost-pepper infused hot sauce.

  Someone wouldn’t make it home tonight.

  Adrian returned to the kitchen following a spontaneous soccer game involving four of the guys, his only laundry hamper, and an entire handle of whiskey that was emptied in ten minutes. He was a sweating mess, his hair plastered to his head and his thick muscles glistening as he removed his shirt to wipe his brow.

  He tossed the shirt into an unused kitchen cabinet.

  Not sure why the man bothered to buy a mansion when a pigsty was cheaper and cleaner.

  He chugged a gulp of water from the sprayer hose in his sink before spritzing the sweat from his head. He turned, muscles tensing and pecs flexing.

  “So…this isn’t the exactly the party I had planned,” he said.

  I handed him a clean towel. “You think?”

  “And our romantic evening turned into a gong show.”

  “What?”

  “You know—the shitshow that happens when you lure any hockey players to a party with a bribe of alcohol and…more alcohol.”

  “Not that.” I’d learned the term long ago, when Adrian had left for a celebratory party and returned a completely shaved head. I had to draw eyebrows on the man for three weeks before they finally grew back in. “The romantic evening part.”

  “I didn’t realize today was the day when I scheduled the party.” He lowered his voice with an apologetic shrug. “I wanted tonight to be…better than before.”

  Dangerous territory.

  No matter what he said or promised, nothing could’ve been better than our night together.

  Which was exactly why I planned tonight to be as simple as unzipping his pants and hopping on for the deposit.

  The last thing our relationship needed was for me to feel anything more than confused.

  “I’ll make this up to you,” he promised.

  “Don’t worry about it. There’s only one thing I need from you…or, I suppose, a million things. But you can handle it.”

  “I don’t want to just handle it.” Adrian ran his hands through his hair, shaking out the water. “Hell, the last time I handled it, we didn’t conceive.”

  “That wasn’t your fault.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Without getting vulgar? I nibbled my lip.

  “Let’s just say, you didn’t leave much room in my womb for any doubt,” I said.

  Adrian’s pride would undo both of us. Especially since his ego centered in his pants where all the world could admire the bulge.

  “Behave…” I warned him. “It’s not that kind of party.”

  “You’d be surprised the sorts of parties we get invited to.”

  “And I’m glad you’ve never told me about them.”

  “Why?” His grin burned hotter when he didn’t wear a shirt. “Jealous?”

  Yes.

  For the first time in my life.

  A searing hot splinter of jealousy stung in my gut. Wasn’t like Adrian was a saint or anything. He had a reputation. Girlfriends. The occasional lipstick stain on his pillow or pair of panties left under his bed.

  It’d never bothered me before.

  I forced a smile. “Oh, yes. Adrian Alaric, playboy of the professional hockey league. Attending all those wild parties with a girl on each arm and another waiting in the car. Maybe I should call Magnolia Mallory—give her the scoop of the century?”

  “Wait until she hears that I’ve knocked up an innocent woman.”

  “I think I’m far from innocent now.”

  “You will be…once I’m done with you tonight.”

  Oh, all those promises. And he’d deliver if given a chance.

  That was the problem with Adrian. He was too much a gentleman to realize how his every touch, whisper, and devilish intention could spellbind a woman to his charms.

  Especially one who had already succumbed to his will.

  Adrian approached, his hand guiding my chin up so I’d meet his gaze. His dark eyes danced with wicked recklessness. My breath stilled as he leaned close. His lips gently—so frustratingly gently—brushed mine.

  A kiss.

  Outside the bedroom.

  Without provocation. Without reason.

  And it was every mind-fracturing perfection I’d always wanted from a tender, promising kiss.

  But this was wrong. So wrong.

  Yes, we’d already slept together, but this intimacy was more than I’d ever stolen from any other man.

  And more than I could accept from my best friend.

  And yet, my lips parted and welcomed the flick of his curious tongue. His hands circled my waist, and I stepped into the protective privacy of his embrace—hidden from the world as his powerful muscle shielded me from all things…

  Except the doorbell.

  A drunk Beau Beckett tossed three condoms filled with beer into the sink and slid through Adrian’s kitchen on his way to the door.

  “That’s probably the strippers!” He kept one of the balloons for himself, ripping a hole in the rubber with his teeth and taking a swig. “I’ll handle it, Captain.”

  Adrian pulled away from me, grunting as he chased after the kid. “What the hell is he doing now?”

  Beau was one of the most attractive men on the team—the sort of good-looking that made a girl tipsy from just his smile. He was young, impetuous, and made it his goal to acquire the panties from any attractive girl who crossed his path.

  It didn’t surprise me that the troublemaker would order strippers for Adrian’s party.

  …But it was a surprise that he’d order an all-male burlesque show.

  Adrian howled as Beau’s mouth dropped open in shock. The rookie peeked behind the four burly men as they hauled a chest into the house containing their silks, props, and enough whipped cream to turn any woman lactose intolerant.

  “Who the hell are you?” Beau asked.

  The captain of the dance troupe—apparently appointed by virtue of the size of his potbelly—pulled a business card from inside the thong hidden beneath his rip-away pants. He handed it to Beau, though the rookie batted it away before touching the phallically shaped paper.

  “You called. I answered.” The dancer had a smoker’s voice…if the smoker had swallowed every cigarette once he was done. “Where do we set up?”

  “Buxom Beauties and Their Booties.” Adrian read the card with a frown.

  Beau snorted. “Ever hear the phrase false advertising?”

  On cue, all four of the men slapped their asses, squealed a practiced Oh! and delivered a synchronized thrust so vulgar I didn’t want my fertile womb anywhere near their hips.

  “We are full-figured entertainers,” the dancer explained. “Curvy in the right places, bootylicious in the back, and loaded with enough little blue pills to swordfight, if that’s the sort of entertainment you’re looking for.” He gestured between Adrian and Beau. “Someone’s gotta sign our contract. Anyone at this party allergic to nuts or nut related products?”

  Adrian threatened Beau with a p
ointed finger. “And this was why I hesitated before inviting you into my home.”

  “How was I supposed to know they’d be dudes?”

  “Give us a shot.” The dancer offered me a shimmy of his shoulders and a peek at the goods under his shirt. Unfortunately, it was hard to see anything past a tangle of chest hair so thick it’d matted over his nipples. “The lady can’t take her eyes off of us.”

  Only because it was like watching a car crash…

  In which four ugly men sweated and gyrated until their pants lowered just enough for a plumber’s crack.

  “Rookie…” Adrian took my hand and led me away. “Get rid of them or else you’ll be joining them on the stage.”

  “Yeah…” Beau snorted. “Like my ass is only worth fifty an hour.”

  Morbid curiosity might’ve drawn me to the strippers.

  But the explosion near the pool captured my attention.

  Adrian and I burst onto the patio as a circle of fire blistered his yard before burning itself out in a haze of choking smoke.

  “For Christ’s sake, who gave Vasha the lighter fluid?” Adrian ripped the bottle out of Vasha Morozov’s hands and banished him to the porch swing.

  However, this seemed a bad idea. The hyperactive-puppy-turned-defenseman instantly created a game and gathered bets on how long one could surf on the swinging bench while the other teammates either yanked the chains or beat the surfer to a pulp with whatever inanimate object was closest.

  And yet, it seemed infinitely safer than the shenanigans organized by Leo Telane and Oz Zane. Commandeering the kiddie pool which had served as an oversized cooler was inevitable. However, taking all the hard liquor at the party and in the house and emptying it into the kiddie pool was something I’d never seen before.

  As was the garbage bag/garden hose homemade slip n’ slide which allowed the men to careen headfirst into the pool of alcohol and ice.

  A few of the guys had managed to land in the pool. The others nursed scraped elbows and knees from missing the slippery garbage bags and skidding across the pavement. Probably for the best. They didn’t need anything else to drink until they could feel their injuries again.