Filled Potential (Stag Brothers Book 2)

by Lainey Davis

  Tim keeps talking and eventually shoos us out of his office so he can head down to the courthouse. I’m feeling stunned and disoriented again as I start walking with Ty and Mrs. Stag toward the elevators, not quite conscious of my actions, until Ty winks at me and says, “Don’t worry, Junebug. I’ll make sure we win each series in 4 games so this won’t take very long.”

  I start to protest him calling me that, but the elevator door slides shut and he’s gone.

  Thirteen

  JUNIPER

  True to his word, Ty and the Fury are on fire. They sweep their playoff series and are up 3 games to 0 against the Dallas Knights. Some of the players wolf-whistled when I climbed onto their private plane the first time, but Ty stood up and screamed that I was their "fucking legal counsel" and called them a bunch of jagoffs. So that was interesting. Mostly I try to keep to myself on the road, meeting with team executives and hiding in my hotel gym, burning a hole in the treadmill.

  I’ve missed several rowing practices now, and it seems unlikely that I’ll be able to compete in the team’s next regatta. I keep hoping Tim will finish things up with his baseball hotshot, but he’s been wound up in court and bail hearings for weeks.

  As a result, work is tense, too, when we're in Pittsburgh. I don’t actually have much complicated legal work to do with my new group of NHL clients, but I’m finding there’s a lot of communication with agents and legal departments from current or potential sponsors. Ben and Donna have both assured me that I'm catching on fast, and that my work is efficient, accurate, and meets the needs of my clients. So why do I feel so unsettled?

  On the road in Denver, I don't get much sleep. After the Fury victory, I lie in bed in my hotel room trying not to think about how hot Ty looks all sweaty and happy, when my room phone and cell begin to ring simultaneously. I pick up the room phone, and a chorus of male voices floods into my ear. "Jooooooooniper! We neeeeeeeeed you!"

  "What the hell?"

  "Give me the phone. I said give me the fucking phone." I hear Coach's voice above what appears to be a herd of cattle in the background. "Juniper, I apologize."

  "What's going on?"

  "We need you. In an official capacity."

  An hour later, I'm signing Hayden Murphy out of the drunk tank at the Denver police station. The rest of the team is waiting outside on the sidewalk, leaning against sign posts, sloppy drunk to a man. I can't help but notice Ty isn't among them.

  Hayden slumps over my shoulder, drunkenly saying, "You don't take any of the shit, do you?"

  I shove him off me, and I'm strong enough that I succeed, which surprises him and causes the rest of the players to start cheering. "Listen," I shout at them.

  They stop talking and stand straighter. "I'm going to bed. I don't want another one of these calls. Get drunk in your room if you must. Do not piss on other people's property. Is that clear?"

  They collapse again in a fit of drunken laughter, and with Coach's help, I usher them into a set of minivan taxis he evidently called while I was in bailing out Murphy. I slump back to my hotel room, not sure whether to be relieved that Ty wasn't out with this gang of drunken fools.

  Back in Pittsburgh, my office is filled with roses. My heart skips a beat, and then sinks when I see they're from Hayden. And Coach. Apologizing and thanking me for taking care of the disorderly charge and keeping it out of the press. Rather than enjoying the recognition for what was actually a lot of really delicate legal work, I feel foolish for hoping the flowers were from Ty. I guess this is my work now.

  To make matters worse, I’ve been seeing Ty almost every day at the boat house when he’s not on the road. Even with the playoffs, Ty's holding up his end of the image commitments. He hangs out at the boathouse, flirts with the team, and buys everyone new gear. And then, of course, I'm with the hockey team when they are on the road, which means I'm seeing a lot of Tyrion Stag these days.

  The man is easy on the eyes, and that's a huge problem for me. I keep catching his stare on the plane, or else he'll catch me staring at him when we're in meetings or the team is viewing film before a game. I mostly try to ignore him at practice, which works about as well as when I try to ignore him all the time. I am totally unable to stop myself from behaving this way. I burn for this man. I need to talk to Tina or Alice, find out where I can meet some other men I can actually date. I wonder if Ben knows anyone…

  This morning I have nowhere to hide. I came out to the river to row alone--it’s an off day from team practices. My heart skips a beat when I see him leaning against the garage door, sipping his coffee and soaking up the early morning sun. I hate that I know he drinks his coffee with just a splash of milk. Two cups a day. I try to walk past him and just get to my workout, but he steps into my path.

  “Knew you’d be here even on an off day, Junebug,” he drawls, his grey eyes twinkling beneath his hat.

  “We’ve discussed that name before, Stag.” I brush past him as I unlock. He follows me inside.

  “Yeah, and I decided I’m going to keep calling you that until I think of something better. Like Jonesy.”

  I snort.

  “Nipper?” My face contorts in horror at the thought of that nickname, and Ty laughs. “Nah, not your style. Seriously, though, I had an idea about your training.”

  “Since when do you have any inside knowledge about rowing?” My voice is harsher than I intended, but I decide to blame the pressure from work.

  He doesn’t seem bothered by it and forges ahead, saying, “I don’t know shit about rowing, but I’m a professional athlete. Surely you’ve noticed that I work out for a living. I've been talking to Derrick and learning some shit. And anyway, I noticed that nobody here ever records your trainings.”

  “Records them how?”

  “Film, Juniper. Video? I spend hours every week watching myself skate. Someone records everything. Drills. Scrimmages. All of it. Then we sit with the coach and talk about it. Sooooo I thought I could record you rowing.”

  I pause in my task of lifting my boat from the rack. He’s right, of course. Nobody films us. My father used to back in Boston. In high school, when I was making tapes for college teams, he would put together montages of me starting, mid-race, and finishing. But I haven’t looked at my form on film in years. “All right,” I say. “But you don’t have anyone to take you out in the launch to record.”

  He grins, flashing a set of surprisingly straight teeth. “I thought of all that.” He points to the deck of the boathouse. “I borrowed a camera from one of the film guys. If I stand on the deck there, I can record you for a long ways. If you circle the island, I can walk to the point there and catch you coming back around.”

  He really has given this a lot of thought, which both stuns and angers me for reasons I can’t quite figure out. “What’s your game here, Stag?” I cross my arms defensively. "Why would you do this for me?"

  “No game, Juniper. Honest. I’m spending all this time here with you guys. Might as well help you up your performance, right?” He opens the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “You going to let me record you?”

  "Don't you have to go do a protein binge or carbo-load or something?"

  He waves a hand at me. "I drank a shake on the way here," he says. "And before you ask, I have PT after practice and yesterday was strength day so no. I don't have to be in the weight room, either. I'm all yours this morning." Why is his grin so fucking irresistible? "We making movies or what?"

  I sigh. “I guess I don’t really have a choice about it.” What I don’t say is that I’m scared to see. That I'm so blown away by his offer I can barely think straight. This isn't some flirtatious gimmick. This is Ty offering something truly meaningful to me. He wants to help me be a better rower.

  I really don't think anyone other than my dad has ever done something like this for me. I realize I've been standing still, just staring at him, so I shake my shoulders and get my boat in the water. I have no idea what my form looks like, haven’t had individual coaching in yea
rs. He walks up the stairs to the deck and gives me a thumbs up once he’s got himself situated. I shove off from the dock, planning to circle the island twice while he records and runs to his alternate viewing perch.

  Like usual, I spend the first few minutes angry rowing. I’m pissed that I’ve missed team practices and might lose my seat to another rower who isn’t as good as me, but shows up. I’m mulling over all my frustrations from work, trying to figure out why I’m irritated that Ty Stag seems to know his way around my mind and my crotch.

  But as I find my rhythm, all those thoughts slip away. It’s just me and the water again. I smell the river water, cool and brown in the morning haze. The muscles of my back and legs start to warm up from my efforts and when I enter the channel for my second lap, I decide I can really step up the pace. I glance over my shoulder and the way is clear as far as I can see. Grunting and pulling, I race toward downtown. I make my way around the southern tip of Herr’s Island and ease up the oars, gliding back to the dock, gasping for breath.

  I’m just pulling the scull from the water when Ty jogs down with his bag, grinning. I don’t fully have my breath back yet, and I'm heaving a bit as I walk with the boat, but he follows me, saying, “That was awesome, Juniper. Seriously! Can we go sit inside and watch? My boy showed me how to hook the camera up to a laptop.”

  He reaches out a hand to steady my boat as I settle it on the rack. “I don’t have my computer here with me,” I say, frowning. “Can you email me the files?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know how to do that. Didn’t you say you live just up the path or something? This won’t take long and you can still be at work before my brother cracks the whip.”

  The thought of Ty Stag in my house sends my heart racing. I run through a mental scan of the townhouse. I haven’t really been home enough to make a mess, but I know there’s laundry all over my bedroom. He absolutely cannot see my bedroom. Or any space that would make him think about sex. I know it's impossible for me to be near him and not think about sex. He really shouldn't come to my house. But I want to see that film... Finally, I shrug and start walking toward home. Ty follows me, fiddling with the camera.

  “This place has a great view,” he says, grabbing my laptop from the kitchen counter before I can protest. He looks out the window to the porch, the panoramic view of the river outside, complete with the gentle sound of water lapping the banks. He settles himself onto my couch, spreading his long legs until there’s barely any room for me if I don’t want to touch him physically.

  He spreads everything out on the coffee table, pops a cable into the laptop, and clicks the file that comes up on the screen. I wedge myself against the arm of the couch, trying not to think about how good he smells. Like sunshine and a little sweat. He must have really had to jog quickly between the deck and the lookout, because even though it's June, it's not hot out this early in the morning. Suddenly I feel shy realizing how hard he’s working just to do something nice for me, and I’m treating him so suspiciously.

  “There you are, Juniper,” he says as I come onto the screen. At first it’s awkward to watch, but soon I’m leaning forward, staring at myself. He points a thick finger at the screen and says, “Tell me what I should be looking at.”

  “Me looking,” I tell him. Sure enough, I’m looking over my shoulder when the oars catch sometimes, or dipping one hand lower as my head swings back around. I explain to Ty that I should look over my shoulder while I’m driving my legs, to keep the boat stable. I’m describing what should be happening at the turn when I realize I’m totally leaning on Ty’s leg with my elbows, as if it were a counter. The muscles are certainly as firm as the faux granite in my kitchen, but as soon as I’m aware of how close I am to his body, I jerk back.

  “I really need to get ready for work,” I say, my voice quiet.

  Ty looks at where I’d been leaning against his leg and his hand slides to his lap. He nods and starts disconnecting the camera.

  “Thank you, Ty, for the film. That’s going to be really helpful for me.”

  “Any time, Juniper,” he says. I can smell his breath, like mint gum and a very particular Ty-scent I shouldn’t be remembering from the club bathroom. Then he says, “I like watching you.” The air between us is charged. I can tell he wants to kiss me, and god! I want him. But it can't happen. I can't let it.

  I stand up shakily. “Well, you probably need to get this camera back. Can you let yourself out? I’m going to shower before going to the office. Like you said, your brother’s in a special mood these days…”

  “Sure thing, Junebug,” Ty says and winks. I rush into the bedroom and lean against the door with my eyes shut, as if that will help anything, and don’t exhale until I hear my front door latch.

  Fourteen

  TY

  "Stag! Get in here!” Coach bellows to me as I limp past his office. Practice has been brutal this past week, but we’re a few wins away from a Stanley Cup. This is exactly what I’ve trained for the last 20 years.

  “Sure thing, Coach. What’s up?”

  “Don’t give me that smug shit, Stag. Sit down.” I can tell this isn’t going to be a quick chat. I sigh, because I’d hoped to head to the boat house this afternoon and see if I could stare at Juniper’s ass for awhile while she helped coach the high school kids.

  Coach swivels his computer monitor toward me, pulling up a video. It’s last night’s game against St. Louis. Squinting, I see that he’s been watching me and their winger, Houser. “I fuckin’ hate that guy, Coach.”

  He frowns. “I know you do, Stag, and so does the rest of the NHL.” Houser came up with me in the minors, was drafted the same year, and we’ve probably had more fights on the ice than anyone else I can think of. “I want to know what the hell you plan to do about it.”

  I shrug. Last night I managed to ignore him other than a few shoulder checks. “I’m not going to throw the first punch, Coach.” I know what’s on the line here. I’ve read my contract. Matty has been very clear. One fight and I’m gone. The Fury were the only team even willing to touch my contract, and that’s just because they got a critical injury right before playoffs. Nobody wants a hothead they can’t control. “I swear to God, I’ll behave.”

  He scowls at me. “You’re a loose cannon, Stag. Guys like you give the other teams power plays with the fighting and the penalties. And now Houser has something up his sleeve. I could smell it last night.”

  “I scored a hat trick twice so far in the playoffs,” I snap back at him. “Look, I know my reputation is shit, but I’ve been festering in the minors for years now. I learned my lesson, I got the message, and I’m not going to fucking start with Houser. Remember how I wasn't there the night Murphy got arrested?" I shouldn't be smart mouthing to Coach like this, but he's not being fair.

  He nods and scratches his chin. “ Yeah, yeah. Good. Now get the hell out of my office and ice your hamstring.”

  I stagger down to the trainers, thinking how little I care about Houser, and how much Juniper is invading my thoughts lately. I’ve never met a girl who “got it” about sports. I don’t have to explain anything to her, because she knows about timing my protein intake and stretching, the mental zone before a game. She does all that, too. It drives me wild. I could sit with her all day, watching her film, and not just because I like to look at her. When we were in her apartment, her face was so concentrated. I could see her analyzing every little thing in that video.

  And then she leaned on my leg. Holy fuck, she leaned across my thigh and then told me she was getting into the shower. Naked. I had to go home and immediately take care of business as I remembered the feel of her pressed me.

  I practically ran to my room and fell on the bed. I ripped down my shorts, panting, and started stroking myself, imagining it was her hand on my dick. I thought about the expression on her face when I made her come in the bathroom, could still smell her scent clinging to my clothes from sitting so close to her on the couch. In my fantasy, as I rubbed mys
elf furiously, I imagined I actually did lean in to kiss her in her apartment. That she reached for my cock, kissed me back, stripped out of her sweaty clothes and straddled me. With one final tug, I felt the head of my cock swell and a thick stream of cum spurted into the air like the Point Park fountain, all over my clothes and my sheets. With a heaving sigh, I collapsed onto my bed as the last glimpse of my imagination faded--a memory of Juniper smiling, sexually sated.

  God, soon, I think. I have to have her again soon. As I sink into the massage table, I reach for my phone to shoot her a text. Can i ask u a favor @ the game 2morrow?

  This had better be related to my legal expertise

  Record me so we can watch and talk about my slap shot

  Doesn’t the NHL pay people to do this for you?

  They don’t smell as good as u

  Good night, Tyrion

  So you’ll bring your camera tomorrow?

  She doesn’t respond, and it takes all my restraint not to text her something crass about my text vibrating in her pocket.

  My brother Tim is still wrapped up in the Murdo scandal, so he’s not at the game against St. Louis. It's a home game, for god's sake. He must be really tied up if he can't even come watch a home game. I know he’d rather be here with Thatcher and Gran, but part of me feels glad because I like Juniper sitting up in the box with my family. I know she’s only here for work, but I like the look of her in a Stag jersey. I give her a wave when they announce my name, and I must have a shit-eating grin on my face because I can see Houser fucking staring at me across the ice. Shit. That’s like rule number one. Never give those assholes something to bait you with.

  There’s no way he can know anything about Juniper, though. She could be anyone sitting up there next to my brother, with the agents and other families.

  Every fucking faceoff, though, that asshole lays into me. “Who’s your girlfriend, Stag?” “After we’re done here, I’m going to show your girlfriend how a real man fucks.” I sink a goal into the net right past his fucking skates and ignore him. The arena erupts. We’re up 1-0 in the first period.