2. Easton
2
EASTON
L ate summer sun beat down on my shoulders as I strode toward the arena, causing my shirt to cling to my dampening skin on the short trip from my truck. Cool air pelted me in the face as soon as the automatic doors slid open, and I released a relieved sigh. Lifting the ball cap from my head, I shook out my hair, hoping the perspiration would dry by the time I made it upstairs.
I was a little peeved that I had to be here so early. Practice didn’t start for over an hour, but each player was required to meet with the new team dietician this morning. It was a waste of my time since my diet was rock solid. You didn’t become league MVP by fueling your body with subpar nutrition. In Boston, I had access to the best trainers and sports dietician in the league. I doubted there was anything this newbie could do to top that. Word on the street was she barely had any experience and was only a year out of her training.
“Walker,” Coach Bradford greeted me cordially at the door, and I nodded. He was nice enough, but I could tell he was still apprehensive about having me on his team. I might have been at the top of my game when the Thunder canned me, but no coach wanted controversy following his players. When the news of my trade broke, the media went into a frenzy. Rumors surfaced about what caused my sudden departure from Boston, but so far, nobody had been able to pin down the scandalous truth. I just hoped it stayed that way, especially after the call I received from my publicist a couple weeks ago.
An up and coming journalist from Sports News Today was sniffing around, trying to dig up dirt. Roni chose the worst possible time to call and inform me of this. And to ensure I was on my best behavior, which I wasn’t. I was moments away from being balls deep in the sexiest woman I’d ever laid eyes on when the ridiculous ringtone she kept programming for herself into my phone completely derailed my evening. I’d been so angry, I kicked the poor woman out before I even had a chance to taste her. And I’d been kicking myself ever since, not only because of the way I'd handled things, but also because I’d been careless. Anyone could have photographed me leaving the bar with her or entering the hotel with her hand in mine. Roni would have a fit if something like that ended up online. I was supposed to be cleaning up my image, after all.
That was why I’d tried to keep my head down and lay low since that night. I’d met up with my new team captain—a title I'd once held—and another teammate when I first arrived, but other than that, I had stayed holed up in my hotel room until last week when I finally moved into my lake house.
Since then, I’d only come out for my workouts and to grab supplies. I declined invites to dinner and more than a few offers to enjoy some female companionship. The last thing I needed was for the paparazzi to snap a photo of me with a random woman and have her dragged into this mess. My publicist—who also happened to be my sister—would probably castrate me. According to her, my playboy days were over. The Wraiths were a family friendly organization, and if I wanted to gain the love of their fans, I had to play the part. If the real story about my departure from the Thunder ever surfaced, I would have to prove that I’d turned over a new leaf. That type of scandal had the potential to wreck my career, but the public loved a reformed bad boy. I just had to convince them that I’d really changed.
I passed Tillman, our goalie, on his way out. He flipped through a binder with a blown-up image of the MyPlate symbol nestled in the clear plastic sleeve on the cover. Great. This new dietician was treating us like we were elementary kids who didn’t know the difference between carbs and protein. Tillman nodded his acknowledgment of me, and I returned the gesture. I hadn’t spent much time with my new teammates yet, but I’d learned pretty quickly that Tillman was a man of few words.
Coach Bradford rapped his knuckles against the frame of an open door. “Ready for the next one?” he asked, speaking to someone inside that I couldn’t see.
“Come in,” a welcoming female voice replied, and a spark of familiarity flared to life in the far reaches of my mind.
Bradford stepped aside, and I was greeted with the view of the most luscious ass I’d ever seen. Fitted navy blue slacks hugged generous curves, her heart-shaped ass on full display as she leaned over her desk to retrieve something. I couldn’t have told you what it was because all I could see was an image in my head of her making that same move without any clothes on. Her auburn hair was twisted into an intricate knot at the back of her head, with a few loose curls framing her face. She turned slowly, consulting the clipboard in her hand, and tucked a wavy tendril behind her ear as she faced me fully. I let out a low curse, and her gaze lifted to mine. Her eyes widened for a split second before she schooled her features.
“Shayla,” the coach began, and her focus shifted to him. “This is our newest player, Easton Walker. He’s joining us this season from Boston.”
She slowly slid her gaze in my direction as though she couldn’t stand the thought of looking at me. I couldn’t blame her. The last time I saw her, she was standing shirtless in my hotel room while I demanded she leave. I hadn’t wanted to, but at the time, I thought it was for the best. Looking back, perhaps it was considering we would now have to work together.
Her nostrils flared slightly before she took a deep breath and gave me a tight smile.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice. If there was any doubt she recognized me, it was quickly extinguished by the fury burning in the once soft gray eyes that had turned into molten silver. She remembered me alright, and despite my regret for how I’d clearly made her feel that night, the corner of my mouth tipped up at the fire flaring behind that carefully curated smile. It spoke of passion and heat, of cries of pleasure as her nails raked down my back. What I wouldn’t give to experience that. And I would have. If my sister hadn’t chosen the exact moment I was about to strip her naked to call me, I would’ve had Shayla in my bed, fulfilling every wicked fantasy her mind had ever conjured.
She had definitely been willing. Her voice had been all breathy, and that lacy bra had done little to hide her body’s reaction to mine. I was ready to dip my head and take a stiff peak in my mouth just to get a taste, but regretfully never got the chance.
The moment I heard Roni’s not-so-subtle ringtone, everything I’d forgotten about cleaning up my image the moment I saw Shayla came flooding back into my memory. It was an absolute cock-blocking move, but it had been necessary. I’d been reckless that night, letting the ultra smooth whiskey dull my inhibitions and make me forget I was walking a thin line. And my hockey career was on it. I cleared my throat, forcing down memories of a half-naked Shayla and extended my hand.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” I replied with a wicked grin. She hesitated a moment, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly before begrudgingly slipping her warm palm into mine. Searing heat raced up my arm and settled in my groin like a shockwave, and my smirk faltered. She felt it too, if her widened gaze was any indication. She shook once then pulled her hand free, smoothing it down her pants leg. Fuck, this was going to be hard. How was I supposed to remain professional around her when all I wanted to do was lay her out on her desk and?—
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Coach Bradford announced, interrupting my very unprofessional thoughts. He walked out and closed the door behind him.
Shayla cleared her throat and stepped around her desk, effectively putting a barrier between us. “Mr. Walker—” she began.
“Easton,” I interjected, not wishing to be so formal. After all, I’d had my tongue down her throat and my erection pressed against her only weeks ago.
“Easton,” she corrected before continuing, “I’m going to assume that coming from the Boston Thunder, you’ve worked with a dietician before.” Ah, straight to business. If she didn’t want to address the elephant in the room, that was fine by me. I tipped my head in confirmation. “It says here,” she added, glancing down at her clipboard, “you were named league MVP two years ago. I’m guessing that means your diet is mostly optimized.”
“Mostly?” I asked, wondering how she thought she could improve on what helped me become the top player in my sport.
“There’s always room for improvement,” she stated, crossing her arms as her lips curved into a smug grin. “I may be new at this, but that just means I have a fresh perspective and the most up-to-date information.”
“Right,” I drew out, my voice dripping with skepticism. “And what kind of real world experience do you have that makes your expertise so trustworthy?” Now it was my turn to be smug.
She winced as pain flashed across her features, and I instantly deflated. I hadn’t just hit a nerve. I’d dug in deep, twisting a finger into a wound that wasn’t yet healed.
She lifted her chin defiantly, her jaw set in a prideful line. “I’ve worked diligently with cancer patients whose doctors believed they’d never get their strength back following chemotherapy. I helped them not only return to baseline, but also improve their overall strength and endurance. If I can do that, I’m sure I could help you improve on some of your areas of weakness.”
Areas of weakness? There were no areas of weakness. I was the fastest skater on the team, had more wins under my belt than any of my teammates, and if you removed Weiss from the equation, I had scored more points than all of them combined.
“That being said,” she continued before I could reply, “we can begin assessing your needs at the introductory nutrition workshop I’m providing to all the players.” I gritted my teeth and fought the groan welling in my chest. I didn’t need anything introductory when it came to this job. I was a damn professional in every sense of the word. “And since you were the last to join the team, you’ll be in a session with the rest of our new players.” She glanced down at her clipboard again, and a ball of dread knotted in my stomach as she flipped over a couple pages until she found what she was looking for. “You’ll be joining Quinn, Slater, and Maxwell at eight a.m. on Monday.”
My face heated, and pressure built in my head until I thought it might explode. I’d been in this league for almost a decade, and she was putting me in a class with three jokesters who were barely out of high school.
“You stuck me with the rookies?” I asked indignantly. She offered me a tight smile, but a wicked gleam sparkled in her eyes.
“It’s nothing personal. The rest of the sessions were full, and you’re the newest member of the team.” She shrugged nonchalantly, which only added to my ire. I’d be damned if I’d sit through some introductory course with three rookies. “And before you think about skipping,” she continued, as though reading my mind, “you should know attendance is mandatory.”
She was bluffing. She had to be bluffing.
“Coach Bradford has already signed off on it. He wants his players in tip-top shape before the season starts.”
“Is that all?” I ground out, my jaw clenched so tight, I was surprised I could even form words.
“Just one more thing…” she said, plucking a binder from her desk and coming around to stand in front of me. Her sweet scent filled my nose, and I fought the urge to pull this infuriating temptress into me and seal her sassy mouth shut with my lips. She handed me the binder with a barely contained smirk and mirth dancing in her eyes. “You’re free to go,” she announced, dismissing me without so much as a goodbye before taking her place behind her desk again. I turned to leave and was almost out the door before she spoke again. “And, Mr. Walker,” she began, and I peered at her over my shoulder, “don’t forget to bring a pen and paper. You’ll need to take notes.”