Coast to Coast

by R. J. Scott

  “Thoughts for another day,” I whispered, leaping from one website to another, checking out the online images of Westie, as his chic Manhattan friends seemed to call him. Princeling fit the smug bastard much better if you asked me. Westie seemed a name a hockey player would carry. Mark was as far from a hockey player as I was from a Manhattan fashion model.

  Four rapid sharp knocks on the door brought my gaze off the Internet. I cleared the search page and brought up the player profiles I’d supposedly been working on, before beckoning whoever was out to come in. Mark stepped through the door. My eyes flared in surprise. He stopped right in front of my desk, his big brown eyes resting on me. Lord, but he was a pretty, pretty man.

  “I’d like to discuss this trip to find an associate coach,” he stated.

  I leaned back in my chair, folded my arms over my favorite worn white dress shirt, and cocked an eyebrow. He cocked right back. Sassy little brat. Something about the little shit was wiggling under my flesh. It felt like a thorn. A princely irritant that would need to be dug out with my jackknife.

  “We can discuss it over dinner,” my mouth said. My brain skidded to a halt as it wondered when and how the cock-to-mouth connection had been established. Also, why? He drew back as if he’d been presented with a severed head. “It’s a barbecue at my place with the rookies. Perhaps you could actually spend time with your team, get to know the players a little? It might make you less… what’s the word I’m looking for? Clenched? No. Strained? Mm, no. Priggish? Well, that one fits as well, but it’s not quite the proper term. Bossy?”

  He placed both hands onto the top of my desk. One side of my mouth twitched. No twitching of his mouth took place.

  “I am your boss,” he reminded me flatly. “So, if I’m acting bossy, that means I’m doing my job.”

  I shrugged. He looked flustered. Good. Little heirs needed to be reminded that the world didn’t revolve around them, even if they did have kissable mouths and curls that needed to be finger-combing and tugged while someone was fucking them from behind.

  Rowen, what in the name of fuck are you doing inviting this haughty brat to come to your place? Have you lost all your marbles? The kids won’t want one of the owners there. Oh, okay, we’re thinking with our dick now. Wonderful. Just great. Hey, moron! Does the name Carl ring a bell?

  “… rookie dinner I’d be happy to come over and meet them. Maybe we can discuss this associate coach business in more detail. Time and place?”

  “Six p.m. my place.”

  “Good.” He stood up and walked to the door, giving me a fine view of a high, tight ass covered with cool tan linen material. The man could dress, there was no faulting him there, and obviously his summer trousers had been expertly fitted, as they hugged his buttocks just perfectly. Out he went, never glancing back. The door closed. I waited. Ten seconds later, the door creaked open, and Mark strode back into my office. “I’ll need your address.”

  “Main office has it. The Raptors are paying for my accommodations until I find a permanent address, also one of the addendums to my contract— to save you time with that fine-toothed comb I’m sure you’re going over my paperwork with.”

  He wanted to say something badly. There was even a slight curling of his upper lip that took place. I waited patiently as he found the words.

  “You’re insufferable,” he informed me before spinning around and exiting with all the flair only a New York model could muster. Would clapping be the right thing to do here? Would he come storming back in, eyes fiery, nostrils flared, sensuous mouth set, and call me another stuffy name? God, that would be kind of exciting. My cock sure thought so. And that was a whole different kettle of very dangerous fish. Piranha chowder to be precise. And me without any oyster crackers.

  He arrived at ten after six. Fashionably late he would call it. I called it fucking rude.

  I flung the door open, and Mark blinked at me in shock after my front door barely missed his snobby nose.

  “I said be here at six.”

  He peeked around me, then thrust a bottle of wine at me as his gaze returned to my face. “No one else is here yet,” he pointed out casually.

  “That’s because they’re coming at seven. I told you to be here at six. You do realize that being late is highly unmannerly?”

  He breezed around me and entered my place as if he owned it. Which he kind of did, but that wasn’t the point at all here. I closed the door with a bit of vigor.

  “I got bound up in some multitasking. Trust me, Coach Carmichael, I wasn’t trying to get your panties in a twist. I’m now running two businesses on separate coasts. Time simply got away from me.”

  “Being late is inconsiderate and shows that you are incapable of managing your time efficiently. Also, it’s a selfish behavioral trait that I won’t brook. If you’re not on time to meet the plane on Friday, I will instruct them to take off without you.”

  I stomped into the kitchen to shove the wine into the refrigerator.

  “Don’t refrigerate that. It’s a petite sirah and should be served at room temperature,” the princeling called. I jerked the door of the fridge open and yanked the damn wine out, then set it soundly on the counter. “I wasn’t sure what you were serving and thought a light red would go with most anything.”

  I returned to the living room, stopping dead, a bitter retort on my tongue, to find Mark reading over my vast collection of CDs. He’d toned down his clothes a bit. Now he was in a blue shirt with the sleeves casually rolled to his elbows, white slacks that showed a good deal of his ankles, and black suede loafers with small silver buckles. A chunky silver watch sat on his left wrist, and his hair was windblown. The man was far too attractive. Maybe if I just took a deep breath and let it out through one nostril I could—

  “I haven’t seen one of these in years.” He plucked one of my CDs out of the wooden case that housed them, a taunting smirk playing on his lips. “I think my grandmother has some stored with her 8-tracks and bell-bottom pants. Hmm, The Eagles. Never heard of them. Are any of them still alive?”

  “Didn’t any of your deportment teachers tell you that it’s rude to come into someone’s home and make fun of their personal items?” I stalked over and took the CD from him, the smell of his cologne tickling my nose. “And yes, quite a few of them are still alive.” I placed Hotel California back in place in chronological order by date released.

  “Probably need walkers to get on stage.” He bent down to study my movie collection, his nose wrinkling more and more tightly as he looked over the fantasy films. “So you like dragons and elves and knightly things? That’s… interesting. I prefer more socially significant films, you know, the kinds that rely on acting and not Harry riding CGI hippogriffs.”

  “I have to turn the potatoes,” I told him, leaving him to sneer alone. Snotty self-absorbed asshole—curls and plunderable mouth aside. The grill sat on my small patio, shaded nicely, a gleaming beauty with a side burner and room for all the baking potatoes that were already on the heat. As I rolled the foil-wrapped spuds, something came to me. I closed the lid and walked back inside. Mark was resting on my sofa, scrolling through his phone. His gaze darted to me when I entered, the look a curious one.

  “You knew Harry rode a hippogriff.” I walked past him into the kitchen, feeling rather proud of myself.

  He entered on my heels. “I saw the trailer,” Mark quickly informed me.

  I gave him a nod and a yeah-sure kind of look, then started pulling out salad fixings. “Do you know how to make a salad or did the staff prepare all of your meals?”

  He bristled up like a bantam rooster. I was growing quite fond of that look and the high color it brought to his cheeks.

  “I know how to cut a damn cucumber,” he snapped, so I gave him a long, fat cuke and the cutting board. “You seem to think I had this fairy-tale life, but I’ve sat huddled on heat grates in New York City, so you can just stop poking at me for being an elitist.”

  That brought me up short. Perhaps I
should have read more about his life instead of gawking at his IG images from Portugal or Miami as he lounged around in swim trunks and a glowing tan.

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize,” I said as sincerely as I could.

  He gave me a curt nod, washed his hands in the big double sink, and then started chopping the cucumber. Bits of dark green skin flew all over the counter, but I didn’t mention it. I focused on my task.

  “Tell me about this associate coach you want to talk to,” he said, after a moment of stilted silence engulfed us.

  “I’d rather hold off until you meet them. It will keep you from jumping to conclusions as you did about me being a lowly college coach,” I said, cutting the fat tomato into chunks on my own small board. “We can discuss the lack of quality goalkeeping the team has and the dismal prospects in the pipeline.”

  “Uhm, okay.” I glanced over. He was intent on his cucumber slicing. “I’m not sure exactly what you expect me to say.”

  “Well, for starters, you could say that your father and the old guard understood jack shit about drafting well. Aside from a few key kids who were picked up here and there, Ryker Madsen being one, your rebuild is going to take years. It will anyway, but you need to unload the deadwood on this team and bring in new talent. I have some suggestions.”

  I waved my knife at the list hanging on the fridge.

  “Wonderful. He made a list.” I heard him mutter and smiled to myself. “Of course I’ll look over your suggestions and present them to my siblings. We’ll be taking a more hands-on approach now that we understand some of the poor decisions Dad made.” Our eyes met. “Hiring you not one of those poor decisions, I’m sure.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  A few minutes went past with the sound of chopping and slicing filling the cool air.

  “This goaltending situation,” he said, when I passed over a red onion for him to peel and slice. “If you had any say, which you do not as player choice is not part of your coaching staff hiring caveat, but if you had any say, whom would you go after?”

  “You’ll see on the way back from Seattle. We’re dropping into Nevada before we come home, to talk to him. We could touch on what we need to do with Aarni Lankinen.”

  His lips settled into a fine line. “I’m not at liberty to discuss players’ contracts with you. But we are aware of his past indiscretions and are hoping to sit down with him and make him an offer.”

  “Look, I know he has a no-move clause. It’s public knowledge.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes, anyone can look up the team and what the players’ contracts are. I also know that your father and his advisors made a mistake signing him. He’s a cancer. His history is full of cheap shots that have severely maimed and injured other players. If you and your siblings are serious about making this team into something, then he has to go. The tension he stirs up in the locker room is palpable.”

  “Thank you for your input. We’re currently in discussions on how to handle this situation,” he replied tersely.

  My mouth opened. The doorbell rang. I let the Aarni situation drop. I could see he was tense—his jaw was set and his shoulders tight. I wiped my hands on my jeans, walked over to him, and placed my hand on the back of his neck. His head flew up and spun to face me, eyes wide, lips soft and parted.

  There was a split second of free fall. My eyes fell to his mouth. He wet his lips. All it would take would be for me to lead his mouth to mine with a gentle bit of guidance from my fingers biting into his neck. The doorbell rang again. The ghost of Carl, the angelic egomaniac from long ago, reappeared and slapped me silly. I pulled my hand from his neck.

  “Good then. Good.” Then I hustled off to the front door, glancing back once or twice as I chided myself for even thinking of kissing the man. He was so not my type. It would be a massive mistake on so many levels. Also, we disliked each other. Deeply. Must have been a hormone surge brought on by a lengthy dick drought.

  Shaking off the moment of insanity, I opened the door. Five young men stood there, all smiling nervously at me.

  “You’re all early,” I said, then gave them a welcoming smile. “Welcome to Casa Carmichael. Come in. Hey, Ryker,” I said, offering Jared Madsen’s boy my hand. This one had potential. As did the next fellow through the door, Alejandro Garcia, or Alex as he was known in the dressing room. “Alex, welcome. Come in.” Tim, Drake, and Josh also filed in, each looking as tense as the others. “We’re outside. Just step through that way. I’ll get the steaks, and we’ll eat soon.”

  The guys headed outside. Mark met me at the doorway, a massive bowl of salad in his hands. He sidled around me, eyes on his bowl of greens, and slipped outside before I could say anything. Probably for the best if I were being honest. Shoving the free fall into his eyes aside, I went into the kitchen and pulled out the covered platter of fat steaks, and carried them to the grill. The guys were standing around my cactus, a twenty-foot saguaro beauty, whom I’d named Spikes McGhee, staring at the white cowboy hat with the shiny gold star I’d tossed up onto the crown of the cactus.

  “Uhm, Coach,” Ryker began, “Is there a reason there’s a hat on this cactus?”

  “That’s Spikes McGhee, and he’s sheriff around these parts.”

  “Dear God, he named a cactus,” Mark muttered, then crouched by the cooler to get a drink. The guys gathered around Spikes McGhee chuckled, and the tension lessened a bit. Mark pawed through the cans of Dr Pepper for several minutes. “Isn’t there anything besides Dr Pepper in here?”

  “Nope. There is nothing but Dr Pepper. Dr Pepper is life.” I gave the kids a wink, then began dropping the rested steaks onto the grill, the hiss and smoke making my stomach rumble in anticipation.

  Mark huffed and puffed and ended up drinking wine. Within thirty minutes, we were all at my new picnic table, eating rare steak and buttered baked potatoes with huge sides of salad. On the Border was playing inside, the beautiful early songs of the Eagles drifting outside. Mark and the rookies had all relaxed by now, which was a good thing. The uppity-ups had to get to know the players, especially these new ones, if they wanted to build a dynasty on their broad young backs.

  “The thing I want you all to know is this.” I wiped my face with my napkin, then met all the expectant looks. “I am going to work you hard. Make no mistake. But I will always be fair, and I will always be willing to talk to you.” I glanced at Ryker, then at Alex. Mark was chewing a bite of steak as I spoke. He’d been quiet as we’d talked about our love of hockey, who our idols were, and when we’d known this sport would be our life. Obviously, he’d felt left out, but that was okay. He could stand to sit and listen to the rookies on his team. “I will ask you to learn my system, but I will never take your creativity away from you. I’m just going to ask you to work hard, learn, and grow. And above all, enjoy yourselves because if you do make the team, you will remember your rookie season as long as you live, and I want you all to smile when you recall it.”

  Grins and nods followed. I clapped Ryker on the shoulder and then told him about my one and only time playing against his father. When the tale was done, the guys were all laughing and swapping stories about other great defensemen. Mark’s gaze and mine met over the platter that now held the T-shaped bones from our meal. Spikes towered behind him; the setting sun warmed his skin and eyes. It had to be the sunset making his gaze so tender. Right?

  Five

  Mark

  I got away from the barbecue before Rowen could corner me again. I’d spent most of the time in the backyard, wondering what the hell had just happened in the kitchen and trying not to look at him. Stupid-ass cactus with the name and all that Dr Pepper, but I refused to find any of it remotely cute. Because I swear he’d meant to kiss me, and that fact alone was fucking terrifying. I almost made it out to the safety of my car when he caught me.

  “You leaving?” he asked from his front door. I glanced up to see him leaning on the frame, his muscled arms crossed over his chest, looking all kinds of sexy.

/>   “Yes.” I kept my cool and refused to go into any long-winded explanation of why I was leaving or how unsettled I felt. I had things I needed to do, and first on the list was calling my brothers and actually doing what I’d told Rowen I’d already done, which was discussing contracts and Aarni Lankinen.

  “You want to drive to the airport after practice on Saturday, or would you rather ride with me?”

  The thought of sitting in a car with Rowen for any length of time was vaguely horrifying. I’d barely managed to avoid going over and dry humping him in the yard, let alone having to handle being in close proximity to him. You’re going to be in a plane with him on Saturday, idiot.

  Why was I having such a strong reaction to him? He was snarky, irreverent, a freaking idiot, and the wrong person for this team, but somehow he’d gotten under my skin. I didn’t like it, and I didn’t want it. I liked to do things alone, and he was messing with my mojo.

  I’d been on my own in business since the day I was pulled from the street to model. Some might call that a fairy-tale ending. I called it dumb fucking luck that I was begging for money outside the right coffee shop at the right time on only the tenth day of sleeping in doorways.

  Alone was a state of mind that I craved, and solitary didn’t have to mean lonely. I had friends; Lucas, my business manager, was as close as a brother—closer actually, given my brothers had washed their hands of me. In fact, I’d learned early on not to depend on anyone. And it wasn’t just because of my family. The modeling industry hated me as well. They didn’t take kindly to a messed-up kid saving his money and doing his own thing and on his way through going against the norm. They’d seen me as nothing more than a body that sold magazines, and most of them hated that I wanted to be more. Or at least it had felt that way. I’d scraped and wheedled and forced my way up, wanting more than just being a pretty face. I wanted respect, and I worked damned hard to get it.