by Lynda Aicher
“Holy fuck, Pretty Boy!”
Dylan twisted around at the exclamation to glare at Feeney on the other side of the open showers. There were six other guys at various showerheads, and every one of them turned to stare at him.
“What?” he snapped, in no mood for more shit. He’d already taken a full dose over the hickey.
“What kind of rabid bunny did you hook up with last night?” Feeney pointed at Dylan. “She left claw marks down your back and ass, man.”
What the fuck? Dylan jerked his head to try and see what Feeney was talking about, but of course it was impossible without a mirror. His mind called up the wild way Samantha’s nails had cut down his back and her digging grip on his ass as he’d powered into her. Yeah, that flashback wasn’t appropriate in a shower full of naked men. Not when his body was responding.
Feeney’s snickers were joined by the laughter of the other guys. “Did she keep you up all night too? Is that why you played like you had a brick in your shorts?”
“What? Is Pretty Boy having lady trouble?” Henrik Grenick asked as he entered the showers.
“Yeah,” Ted Cutter said, his blond hair covered in shampoo. “Maybe you can give him some pointers on dealing with bossy women. Oh, wait.” The man smacked his palm to his forehead. “You’re the wrong person for that job.”
“Fuck you,” Grenick growled. The six-foot-five defenseman was all bulk and grouchy attitude that turned into pure power on the ice. Unfortunately, his reputation for always having a flashy, controlling woman on his arm was almost more legendary than his skating skills. He scanned Dylan’s back and smirked. “I didn’t know you were into that kind of shit.”
Dylan flipped them all off and turned back to the wall. He didn’t need to defend his sex life or his game. Nor did he need to remember how hot the hookup with Samantha had been. He’d already lingered on it more than he should have.
He quickly washed his hair and got the hell out of the showers. He normally liked to hang out in the locker room and decompress after a game. Not tonight.
He was tugging his socks on when Holden Hauke sat on the bench beside him. Great. The respected winger had seen his career take off last season and was on another hot streak this year. He was also a friend, mentor and one of the guys Dylan shared ice time with during the off-season.
“What can I do for you?” he asked the man without looking at him. Hauke’s locker was on the other side of the room, so he obviously wanted something. Hopefully it wasn’t to heckle him more.
Hauke waited until Dylan slipped his cowboy boots on and finally turned to face him. His gaze dropped pointedly to Dylan’s neck, and Dylan fisted his hands to keep from covering the mark. It was just a fucking hickey and definitely wasn’t worth the attention it’d generated.
“Have you thought about toning that stuff down?” Hauke finally asked.
Dylan glanced around. A lot of the guys had already left and those who remained were mostly ignoring them. Too much so.
He lowered his eyelids and slouched against the locker, a crystal calm easing through him. If only he could grab his hat without looking obvious. He crossed his arms and cocked a half smile. “What do you care about what I do?”
“What you do in your personal life is your business.” Hauke leaned back to mirror Dylan’s pose. The casual thing they were both shooting for was ruined by the tension that strung between them. “But I know from experience how one misstep can ruin your career. Even if it has nothing to do with your game.”
Dylan frowned. He’d prepared for any number of reprimands and advice on how to live his life. He wasn’t expecting concern. “What do you mean?”
Hauke blew out a breath and gave up on the casual act. He braced his forearms on his thighs and scanned the room before looking to Dylan again. “There was more involved with my midseason trade three years ago than simple player changes,” he said, voice lowered to a level that had Dylan copying Hauke’s pose so he could hear the man.
That had been Dylan’s first year with the Glaciers, and he’d spent half of it playing on an affiliate team, but he didn’t remember hearing anything out of the ordinary about the move. Players were traded all the time, the who and why of it often unclear.
“How so?” he asked, more than intrigued.
Hauke glanced at Dylan’s neck again then wet his lips, hands clasped tight. “I let my personal life go too far. I was young, a bit arrogant, frustrated with things and thought what I did off the ice wouldn’t matter. I was wrong.”
Dylan finally gave in to the urge to rub a hand over the mark on his neck. He hadn’t asked for the damn thing and now it was all everyone wanted to talk about. “This was a onetime thing,” he grumbled. “It got a little wild. That’s all.”
“Mine was a onetime thing too. One that almost cost me my career.”
He stared at the man’s profile. “What’d you do?”
A slow smile spread across Hauke’s face. “It’s not important now. But it only took one picture of me in a bad situation to threaten everything I worked for my whole life.” He nudged Dylan’s knee with his. “Just be careful. You never know who’s going to screw you over just because they can.”
“I know that,” Dylan insisted, then consciously lowered his voice. “Look. I might be young, but I understand that half of any sport is about image and impressions. I don’t actually drink or fuck around that much. The parties and stuff are all part of the persona.”
Hauke’s nod was slow and deliberate. “I was there once too. The sudden money, attention, fame—it can do wacky things to your head and game if you’re not careful.”
“That’s not me,” Dylan said with confidence. “I’ve worked too hard to lose it all over being dumb like that.”
“Yet you foster the image to let everything think it’s you. Why?”
Dylan bit his cheek and tried to find an answer that didn’t make him sound like a shallow jerk searching for fame. “It’s all part of the master plan,” he ended up saying. “My agent’s with me on this.”
Again, Hauke’s gaze drifted to Dylan’s hickey. “If that right there is something you need, then promise me something.” He waited for Dylan to nod. “You’ll talk to me before doing anything stupid.”
About ten different responses filed through Dylan’s head, along with a few questions. He was certain Hauke was referring to more than hickeys, and Dylan definitely didn’t need Samantha Yates. In the end he simply agreed, not exactly sure what he was agreeing to.
Hauke checked his phone when it buzzed and smiled. “I’ve gotta run. Vanessa’s waiting for me.” The sleek PR rep who was Hauke’s fiancée was known as the Ice Queen when Hauke wasn’t around. Hard, cunning, beautiful and incredibly smart, the woman could cut any jock down with a mere look. He glanced at Dylan as he stood. “You good?”
“Yeah. I’m good.”
Hauke gave him a fist bump before heading back to his locker. He was the starting right winger and on his third pro contract, which the Glaciers had renewed with a five-year, forty-two-million-dollar deal after his performance last season. That was what Dylan wanted.
And he wasn’t there yet.
He still had over half the season to shine, but he couldn’t afford more games like tonight’s.
He swiped his hands through his hair and focused on that. All the bullshit of the video and hickey was just that—bullshit. It was done and in the past. The important question was, what did he do going forward?
An idea had been nudging around in his mind all day. One tossed out by Samantha as a gibe, but damn if it didn’t have merit. Enough so that he’d spent half the morning searching the internet for game videos. It was unorthodox and counterintuitive and just might work.
Ignoring the other guys, he placed his hat on his head, grabbed his stuff and made his way to Coach O’s office. He knocked on the half-opened door and poked his head in. “Do you have a second, Coach?”
The man looked up from his laptop, brows furrowed. “Rylie. What’s
up?”
Dylan stepped into the office and shut the door behind him. That got the other man’s attention. Coach’s open-door policy worked to keep communication open with the players. But likewise, a closed door meant serious business.
Coach Olander straightened in his chair and closed his laptop. Like most head coaches, he always wore a suit to a game. Now his navy jacket was slung over the back of his chair, his tie was loosened and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. The shiny gloss of his shaved head was countered by the dark shadow of a goatee that framed his mouth. His frown shifted to a question behind his metal-framed glasses.
“Is this about the video?” Coach asked.
Dylan tossed his jacket on a spare chair and set his hat on top of it. “Sort of,” he answered once he’d sat in the worn visitor’s chair. He kept his shoulders back and thoughts focused on his end goal. “We’d talked a few weeks ago about setting up some extra practice for me. I was checking to see if you’d done anything about that.”
Coach crossed his arms and settled back in his chair. “I told you then, I think your game is fine. You’re a solid defenseman. One bad night doesn’t warrant an intervention.”
Dylan debated his next move before going for the direct approach. “It’s a contract year.” He sniffed. “I have to improve this season.”
“That’s true every season,” Coach countered.
“Right. But we both know how critical this one is for my career.” Dylan held the man’s gaze until Coach glanced down, chuckling. The tightly wound spring that pulled all of Dylan’s muscles into his chest sprang free, loosening everything.
“Your tenacity is one of your best traits when it’s not getting you in trouble.” Coach shook his head.
“Thank you. I think.” He rarely backed down when it came to getting what he wanted, and going outside the team for help during the season was prohibited.
“Most guys wait for the off-season to get specialized help.”
“I don’t want to wait that long. Not this year.” Not when every game was one more chance to earn that golden contract.
“So you obviously have some thoughts on this help,” Coach said. “What is it?”
He had only a moment of hesitation before he plowed on. “I’d like you to get Samantha Yates in to work on my offensive game.”
That was what he needed Samantha for. His instincts said this was right. The videos had proved what he’d already assumed. He could learn things from her that another man couldn’t show him. Her play was adapted to succeed against men bigger and rougher than her. He wasn’t small, but her style was unique and if he could mimic it, he’d rock.
Coach’s eyebrows shot up. At the same time, his lips twitched as he battled a smile that eventually settled into amused questioning. “I did not expect that.”
“Which is one of the reasons I want her. No one will expect it.”
“What about the possible backlash?”
“Of what?” He settled into the debate now. “Working with one of the best offensive players in the game? Of trying to improve my game?” Any doubt fled with Coach’s reaction. This was something new. An approach that hadn’t been tried. At least not that he knew.
“Of working with a female—”
“Who plays damn good hockey.” He pressed forward, moved by his conviction. “I don’t care what her gender is. Have you seen her play? She’s quick, smart and an excellent team player. Her assists and goals are almost equal, which gave her the most points in the league her last year at U of M. She’s received awards upon awards for her skills and scored the most points on the USA women’s team last year.” He paused to suck in a breath and caught the smirk Coach was barely holding back.
Dylan clamped his mouth shut and sat back, holding still. The desire to squirm under Coach’s gaze took him right back to his six-year-old excitement and his granddad’s demanding rules that had sucked the kid out of him.
After another long pause, Coach asked, “And this has nothing to do with that little challenge yesterday that’s all over the internet or getting back at her?”
Dylan flinched, frowning. “What? No.” He shook his head. “God, no.” Then he backtracked. “Well, yes in that I wouldn’t be here asking for this if I hadn’t lost to her. But no, it’s not to get back at her. I want to improve my offensive game, and I think she can help.”
Coach narrowed his eyes. “Is there anything I should know?”
Damn. He ducked his head and wiped his palms on his jeans. There was no avoiding the next admission. “I don’t think she’ll agree if she knows it’s me.”
Coach’s bark of laughter morphed to a frustrated growl as he squeezed his eyes closed and dug under his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ, Rylie.” He resettled his glasses and glared at Dylan. “What’d you do to her?”
“Nothing.” Dylan threw up his palms in a show of innocence. “I swear. It was mutual.” He noticed Coach didn’t ask what she’d done to him. He barely resisted rubbing his hand over the damn hickey mark. The other man had missed the shower fiasco, and Dylan still hadn’t gotten a look at those scratches, but if they were still visible today then she’d more than left her mark on him.
“Mutual? Christ.” Coach’s jaw drew tight and he whipped his glasses off to give his eyes a full rub. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” He slipped his glasses back on and rested his elbows on his desk.
“No. You won’t.” Dylan edged forward on his seat, pressing the point. Victory was close. He just had to finalize the details. “This will work. I know it. I only need you to set it up and fit it in to the practice rotation.”
Coach studied him for another long moment. Nerves had his skin dancing with imperceptible vibrations that wanted to burst out of him. He contained it though, every impulse to twitch, bounce, flinch or look away. This was too important.
“If this is a big farce to get laid, I swear to God I’ll bench your ass until you think it’s glued there.”
Dylan sat back, relief washing through him. “It’s not. I swear.”
More tense seconds passed in which he endured Coach’s hard scrutiny. When his clenched “Fine” finally came, Dylan almost whooped in victory. Almost. He managed to withhold it.
“Thanks.” Dylan stood, eager now to escape before the man changed his mind. “You won’t regret this.”
“I’d better not.”
He scooped his stuff off the chair and left the office on a note of success. He settled his cowboy hat on his head, absorbed its comforting presence. His strides lengthened and slowed almost on their own as he put on his denim coat and headed for the player exit.
There were always a few fans, women included, outside the back doors, and his southern charm was in place, ready to go. All the crap of the last twenty-four hours was now another step in getting him to where he wanted to be. On Top. And if that happened to involve the feisty Samantha Yates, all the better.
Chapter Seven
Sam hoisted her bag over her shoulder, grabbed her stick and slammed her trunk closed. The wind whipped through the parking lot in a full-frontal assault that had her bracing against the frigid air as she trudged to the ice rink doors. The public facility was surprisingly quiet that afternoon, given it had four different rinks and only one was rented by the Glaciers for practices.
The distinct crisp yet stale scent of the indoor ice hit her as she headed toward the back rink. She inhaled and let it sink into her, like she did every time. From her earliest memories, the aroma was one that calmed her.
Longing contracted in her chest and her breath hitched, the loss hitting her hard. Avoiding the rinks hadn’t erased the memories.
She blew out a long breath and hoisted her bag higher. Some things couldn’t be changed, but there was a chance this meeting could be a new step forward. One she couldn’t force herself to turn down.
The area around the Glaciers practice rink was blocked off, the sole entrance guarded by a broad man whose girth was hidden
beneath a navy suit. He checked his list and let her through, giving brief directions to the coach’s office.
Faint calls combined with the familiar scrape of metal on ice and tunes from a popular rock song to echo through the high rafters of the complex. Each step down the hall was a trek into her past and a step into the unknown.
The call a week ago had come out of nowhere, and the last thing she’d expected to hear was “Can you help us?” Her initial burst of laughter had been quickly shut down by the stern assertion that it wasn’t a joke.
The frosted glass on the top half of the door was emblazoned with the Glaciers’ logo. Coach Olander was etched into the black plaque on the wall. The pitch and cramp in her stomach wasn’t a new sensation, only it usually came before she stepped onto the ice. With one last settling breath, shoulders pulled back, she gave the door three firm knocks.
“Come in.” The gruff shout was muffled but clear.
Her palm slipped on the handle and she tightened her grip to counter the dampness. She’d started playing on the boy teams when she was five years old, and any hesitation had been seen as proof of her weaker state. Her stride was confident when she stepped into the room.
“Coach Olander?” She let her voice raise in question, even though she recognized the man instantly. He wore a Glaciers baseball hat, and his dark goatee and boyish features behind thin wire-framed glasses didn’t mask the authority he projected.
“Come on in, Samantha.” He stood and extended his hand, his grip firm but not crushing. “Put your stuff down and have a seat.” He motioned to one of the visitor chairs, removing the last possibility of the whole thing being a big joke—on her.
Her large bag looked completely at home in the office cluttered with tools of the game. Boxes of pucks, a large variety of tapes, water bottles, a shelf of Glaciers gear and another of practice jerseys. His desk was stacked with papers, clipboards and folders all collected around a laptop that he closed as they both sat down.
