Coast to Coast

by R. J. Scott

  Simple. I lost control of my faculties and threw myself at the sexy coach who I didn’t even want to employ and who got on my last nerves with his arrogance and then looked all hot, and I just freaking lost it. That was not on my list of conversation starters. I decided that talking about hockey was a safe bet.

  “So hockey and music? That’s some combination.”

  He chuckled. “You’re changing the subject. More whiskey?”

  “No, thank you.” I clasped my half-full tumbler to my chest and contemplated what the hell I was going to do next. I’d run out of that room as if my ass was on fire, and now I had to go back and either face what I’d just done head on or actually get another room at the motel and then forget this ever happened. I wanted to run, but that was just me being a coward. “Why would the Raptors be interested in you?”

  He glanced up from his empty glass and shook his head. “Apparently I’m an unpolished diamond who has skills that need to be channeled. Or at least that is what some of the journalists said when they posted about how they regretted I’d fallen so badly.” He laughed, but it was humorless. “Those were the charitable ones who said I had potential. The rest of the hockey press consigned me to the trash. I was hung out to dry by my coach, right at the same time an old video appeared with the cocaine. Add in the sex tape, and it was a trifecta of shit.”

  I swallowed. “Sex tape?”

  He leaned forward and placed the glass on the table. “It wasn’t exactly a sex tape, more a sex photo, only it was enough for the homophobic prick in management who decided that it was three strikes and I was out.” He paused for a moment. “So, Mr. I-own-the-Raptors, is there anything else you want to ask me?”

  Well, shit, and there was me thinking I had anonymity in this bar in the middle of nowhere. “You know who I am?”

  “Jesus, hockey is in my blood, and you’re a Westman-Reid. Of course I know who you are, or at least I knew who your dad was. My condolences, by the way, not that your dear departed father did much for hockey. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “What I don’t know is why you’re here with Rowen for the Raptors, why you don’t know what a Z was, and why in hell you were talking to a wall.”

  I ignored all of that and went straight for the jugular, in the most reasonable way I could think of.

  “If you know I own the team, then you understand that I have the final say on hiring and firing, and I’m going to say that right now the Raptors don’t want you.” I tilted my chin, waiting for him to argue his point, but he sat in silence for a moment more.

  “Do you want to win games, Mr. Westman-Reid?”

  “Of course. The team—”

  “You have too much money tied up in former big names and assholes who are destroying the Raptors. Not to mention D-men who are dead weight and leak goals like a sieve, who I wouldn’t want anywhere near me. Meanwhile, I’m the best you’ll get for the money you have left right now. I have potential, with a side order of fucked-up drama, plus a huge helping of lack of control. Rowen sees that. I accept that is who I am, and if the Raptors take me, I can guarantee you that you’ll win some games.”

  Some games? I met his steady gaze. “Seems to me any goalie can say that. Hell, any player can come to me and say that with them on the team the Raptors will win games. Luck can always win games for even the shittiest team.”

  “Touché,” the rough-and-ready rocker said, raising his left eyebrow. His gaze raked me from head to toe. “You want to get out of here?”

  “To go where?” I asked and then realized immediately he wasn’t suggesting we find a coffee shop or go for a walk. The carnal expression on his face was much more focused than that.

  “I don’t think… it wouldn’t be… no, I—"

  The door to the bar flew open, cold wind and rain gusting in with a disgruntled-looking Rowen, whose gaze settled on me. He stalked straight over.

  “What the hell, Mark?” he asked.

  I gestured with my glass. “I’m having a drink with our tryout goalie or whatever you want to call him, but he’s aware now that we don’t want him.” I stood up so I was toe to toe with my nemesis, and he frowned at me, his gaze resting on my lips and stopping there a fraction too long. So much for him forgetting the kiss had happened.

  “Yes, we do want him.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  We were at an impasse, temper simmering below the surface.

  Colorado stood, and pushing his long hair back from his face, he glanced from me to Rowen and back again.

  “Oh, it’s like that,” he said with a lewd wink. “Later.” He ambled toward the back door, and then it was just me, Rowen, the long-timers, and the barman.

  “You seriously want him? He just drank whiskey straight down, he’s got all these tattoos, and worst, he just propositioned me—”

  “He’s exactly what the Raptors need,” Rowen interrupted.

  “He had a sex tape!”

  “A photo.”

  As far as I was concerned, that was still as bad. “And the cocaine—”

  “Is bogus—”

  “Everyone and their wife says the Raptors need experience—”

  “And he has it, at least some of it, and we’ll bring out the rest in him.”

  “Look, Rowen—”

  “He could get us into the top twenty teams, maybe top fifteen,” Rowen shouted over me. “And who knows, in two or three years, we could be contenders for the cup.”

  I shoved at his chest. “Keep your voice down. I’m done talking about this. My decision is final.”

  “We’re not done yet.” He gripped my hand, then pulled me to the door, straight out into the cold evening. “He’s trying out. I’m not arguing, and meanwhile, what the hell was that kiss about?”

  “I apologize.” I used my most formal tone, and finally he let go of my hand and nodded—so that was a done deal, then. We would forget about hiring Colorado and the fact that I kissed him, and there was no need for me to worry that I’d crossed a line. He’d see my points about Colorado and do what I said. We walked back to the motel in silence, both hunched in our coats to block out the lessening rain. He unlocked the door and allowed me in first. This was all very civilized. I can handle this.

  He shut the door, then took off his coat, and with exaggerated care, he walked toward me. He didn’t touch me, but for every step back I took, he advanced one until I had my back to the door and he was just a breath away, his hand flat on the wood. His inscrutable gaze gave nothing away. Was he pissed? Aroused? I can’t tell.

  “Hands by your sides,” he said softly.

  “What—?”

  “No touching,” he growled and used his free hand to unbutton my pants, sliding the zipper down, and touching my cock with the back of his hand as my pants loosened. I was already hard. Hell, I’d been hard since he’d walked into the bar with the rain behind him, all passion and utter focus. He eased my pants down a little and then skimmed a finger under the band of my jersey shorts. Never once did he break eye contact as he slipped his hand inside and curled his fingers around my cock. My legs wobbled, but I locked myself in place. “Okay?” he asked me, and I guessed that was my chance to ask him to stop. I didn’t want him to stop.

  “Yeah.”

  He moved a little closer, not touching me anywhere except for my cock, and then he twisted his hand from root to tip, and I was embarrassingly close just with that.

  “You kissed me,” he said, and I felt his breath against my lips. “You’re dangerous,” he added and slid his hand over the length of me. “We are going to argue and butt heads, and you will hate everything I do, but after it all, I can have you up against a door, getting you off, and you won’t say no.”

  “I should.” My voice sounded husky, a little broken, and I wetted my lips in the vain hope he would kiss me. Instead he rested his forehead against mine.

  “Just once,” he said and quickened the pace. I fisted my hands at my sides and closed my eyes as pressur
e built inside me, exquisite burning pressure.

  “Harder,” I near whimpered and wished I could’ve taken the words back because I sounded desperate. His lips were so close to mine now all I needed to do was lean a quarter-inch forward, and we’d have been kissing.

  “I’ll get you there,” he whispered, and his voice, his hand, the scent of him, it all sent me over the edge, and only when I’d finished coming did he kiss me as hard and focused as I had kissed him. I rested my hands on his hips and then went in search of his cock to get him off as well, but he chuckled into the kiss. “You really think I didn’t get myself off the minute you left?”

  Abruptly I was shy. Me.

  Sliding my hands up and around his neck, I laced my fingers and held him there to kiss. Every muscle in my body was loose.

  “First lesson in hockey. You want to know what hockey players call it when we hook up on the road?”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Never-to-be-talked-about-again stress relief.” He unhooked my hands and strode toward the bathroom. “I’m getting a shower.” He shut the door firmly behind him, and I heard the lock. I guessed there was no chance of more, then. Wet, slippery, hot, sexy.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t ever talk about this again,” I said to the room. Thank god no one was here to see me do it.

  I undressed and then wiped myself down with my shorts before pulling on soft cotton sleep pants. I chose the left side of the bed and climbed in, pulling the blanket up over my chin and turning on my side to face the wall. I heard the shower stop, closed my eyes, and listened to him come out of the bathroom and get into bed. I didn’t think for one minute he’d pull me in for a snuggle—after all, this was just stress relief, as he’d termed it.

  Anyway, I was tired, and it wasn’t as if I was attracted to him in any way.

  Liar.

  Eight

  Rowen

  It was one of those days…

  I’d stubbed my toe after getting out of bed, tripped over a janky bit of elevated sidewalk during my run and skinned my knee, burned my toast, got soap in my eye in the shower, and got a fucking Pepsi instead of a Dr Pepper at the soda machine in the players’ lounge. Oh, and Colorado’s flight had been delayed, so he’d probably miss the first preseason game against Dallas. The only good thing so far had been the arrival of my new associate coach, who I was going to introduce to the team as soon as I could get my stupid laptop to stop doing updates.

  “Okay, screw my little wordy welcome thing for the press release.” I slapped the lid down and gave the updates a middle finger. Then I stalked out of my office to find Terri and make the intro. She was ensconced in her office, unpacking personal items when I knocked on the open door. “You ready for this?”

  “Of course.” She nibbled at her lower lip as we walked to the Raptors’ dressing room.

  “For what it’s worth, you look great in the Raptors colors,” I said, then gave her a smile. It was the truth. The hockey world was going to love her once they got over themselves.

  She tugged down her shiny new red Raptors jacket, nodded, and ceased gnawing on her lower lip. Rounding the corner, we then skidded to a halt when two players rolled out into the corridor, fists flying. I shoved Terri behind me, then bolted down the hall to grab hold of Alejandro and jerk him away from Aarni Lankinen. Both men were half dressed, hockey pants and pads, sans jersey and skates, and Ryker Madsen was right in the middle of things, trying to get them to calm down.

  Alex was incensed. Nostrils flared, breathing rapid, bulging brown eyes, he took another swing at Lankinen getting to his feet and managed to clip him in the side of the head. Aarni lunged at Alex, and it took all I had to keep them separated until four other players got involved.

  “What the hell is going on here?” I barked. Arms around Alex to keep him from lashing out. I walked the irate rookie backward several paces and placed him against the cement wall.

  A stream of rapid-fire Spanish flew over my shoulder at Aarni. I gave the kid another shove, just enough to jar him out of his mindset, I hoped.

  “Fucker, miserable fucking asshole,” Alex snarled through gritted teeth. I pinned him to the wall again, one hand on his shoulder, the other pointing at the fracas with Aarni taking place behind me.

  “Someone better speak up and do it now!” I shouted, and that raised voice seemed to sink into at least one brain.

  “We were listening to one of Alex’s playlists while gearing up,” Madsen stated, his voice big and strong in the packed hallway. “Nothing bad or rude, just some Aventura, Luis Fonsi, Daddy Yankee…”

  “That fucker,” Alex growled, pointing back to Aarni, I assumed. “He said that if I wanted to listen to beaner music, I should haul my ass back to Mexico and do it quick before the wall is finished and I never get back in!”

  My jaw would have hit my chest had it not been clenched so tightly. See, this shit right there was why Aarni needed to go. He was a toxic lake poisoning everyone who came in contact with his polluted shores. But oh no, the high and mighty Mark Westman-Reid and his billionaire siblings were too busy doing who knows what to even grace us here in the trenches with a visit over the past week. Sure, they peeked in from high above, hiding in the owners’ box as the grunts did the hard work of trying to polish up this turd of a team. Probably sitting up there sipping high-priced bubbly and talking tariffs and tax breaks with leaders of the Young Republicans. Hell, maybe they were trying to lure a new GM in to replace the one who resigned just two days ago due to “internal differences with the new owners.”

  “I never said that,” Aarni shouted behind me. I shook that finger again, never looking back at the talking canker sore. “I never did. He’s a fucking liar.”

  Alex wriggled to get free. I pressed on his shoulder harder and glowered at him. That seemed to calm his rightfully angry jets for a moment.

  “Both of you are sitting out the game tonight,” I informed them.

  “What? Why am I being benched? He was the one who used a slur!” Alex railed.

  “He did, and you jumped him instead of coming to me or one of the other coaches to report the offensive language. Fighting things out may have worked under your old coach, but it does not fly with me,” I told the bodies packed in the corridor. I dared Alex to say a word with my incredibly mad eyebrows. He wanted to, I could see it, but he bit back what was on his tongue, then nodded. Aarni, the moron, had to keep running his mouth. I glanced back at him over my shoulder and gave him the same look I’d silenced Alex with. He fell silent, but I could see the bubbling resentment just under the surface. The sooner that bag of skating shit was gone from this team, the better. Time for me and Mark to have another talk, and this time, there would be no fucking hand jobs or wet kisses. “I will not tolerate racism, homophobia, or sexism in this building.”

  I stepped back from Alex, who, even though he was still panting and tense, was in control.

  “This is the first and only time I will say this. Anytime I hear of anything offensive being said about a fellow player’s heritage, religion, or sexual orientation, I will slap the offender down so hard their great-grandchildren will feel it.”

  The players mumbled and nodded, skulking back into the dressing room. Madsen tossed an arm around Alex’s shoulder and led him away. When the hall was emptied of players, I spent a solid minute raking my fingers through my hair, then turned to find Terri standing in the corner by a coffee machine, blue eyes wide. Well, fuck. That was a great first impression.

  “Is it too late to change my mind?” she asked, pushing out from the wall with what appeared to be some sass in her walk.

  “You signed the papers, so yes—it is too late.”

  “Well, damn. Guess I better go say hi to the team, then.” She squared her shoulders and tossed her ponytail over her shoulder. “Woman coming in! Drop your socks and cover your cocks!”

  And into the dressing room she sauntered, large as life. I chuckled at the shouts and gasps and squeaks from the men, then linger
ed in the doorway, arms folded, as she made herself known to the guys. My gaze rested on Aarni, for he was simmering and ugly-looking. Wisely, if he had a comment to make, he kept it to himself. Most of the men stumbled over shy greetings, eyes wide in obvious shock.

  “I think they like me,” Terri said after the short meet and greet. “Shall we go find the rest of the coaching staff and watch them fumble for words too?”

  I fell into my best Bogie impersonation. “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  She chuckled, then began humming “As Time Goes By,” which kind of cemented the whole friendship thing right there and then.

  Truthfully, given how this Tuesday had started, I should have assumed the general shittiness would carry on right through our first game of the year. No one expected much from preseason games. They were basically televised scrimmages as we coaches worked at whittling down our rosters from about forty hopefuls to our final twenty-three, which we had to submit to the league as “Opening Day Playing Rosters”. Which was all fine and good because we had about three weeks to thin things down. I already had a mental checklist of problematic players and had made a note to myself to track down Mark and have a talk with him ASAP.

  It seemed odd to me that two men could work in the same building and not see each other at all. Not that I wanted to see Mark. Sure, we’d had a bit of fun on that trip to meet Terri and Colorado. We’d made out, and he’d fallen against that door with a soft sigh that I still heard and replayed whenever I was in the shower with a stiff dick in my hand. Sadly, that stiff dick was mine. Mark’s dick had been lots more fun to stroke, but that was just that—fun. Nothing more and nothing less. Two horny men in a dingy motel. Passions and anger flared. He kissed me. I jerked him off. We went to bed. Simple and clean with no histrionics. Mark had been quiet on the flight home, which suited me because I had a team to build and had little time for relationships. I blinked when the R-word flittered into my thoughts. The voice of the woman singing the national anthem became white noise for a second or two. One hot hand job did not a relationship make. Or even a friendship. In truth, I disliked the man. He was too pretty, too rich, too well dressed, too rich, too prone to being a snob, too rich, and too kissable. Which seemed to be the case for those model types; lips to die for but a personality to avoid. Whatever. Who cared about him? Not me. I had a team to build and no time for fashion models who tasted like honey fresh from the comb. Not that I liked honey much either. Or combs. Hated combs. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and exorcised his highness from my mind.