Bad Boy Breakaway (Coastal Crushers #2)

Chapter 1

BENNETT

I’ve thrown two critical things in my thirty-one years on this planet: a punch that earned me a three-game suspension and — as of ten minutes ago — my cell phone against my new condo’s wall.

“Son of a bitch!” The words echo off the bare surfaces as I stare down at the freshly cracked web of glass spiderwebbing across my cell.

Add ‘shattered phone’ to the growing list of Stupid Shit I’ve Done Lately.

“Damn.” I gingerly scoop my cell from the hardwood and sink down onto the wheat-colored sofa, fury still burning in my chest.

Staring up at the ceiling, I replay tonight’s events. Winning the pre-season game — good. Would’ve been better if I’d been in the game versus sitting suspended on the bench, but a win’s a win, I suppose.

It was the twenty minutes post-game that fucked up my life.

Prince calling me into his office and informing me that his daughter, Tori Prince — the Ice Queen herself — is my new babysitter.

As if I’m not a grown-ass man, a professional damn hockey player. Like I can’t be trusted to behave on my own.

There was no fighting back, either. It was Prince’s way or the highway. And at this point in my career, I can’t afford to be a free agent. Besides, I like playing hockey with my triplet brothers, Weston and Callum. I don’t want to relocate and be on my own with a new team.

Knock, knock, knock.

I jerk my head at the door. Maybe it’s one of my brothers, here to rescue me from my lonely fate. Hopefully they brought pizza.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Geez, I’m coming.” I lumber across the empty space and yank the door open.

“Here’s the house rules.” Tori shoves a sheet of paper at my chest, her scarlet lips tight.

Fuck. Not pizza.

She folds her arms over her chest, staring at me with those dark eyes. She’s shed her signature black blazer and my gaze drops to the deep V of her blouse before I can stop myself. She clears her throat, one brow arched. I flash her my best unrepentant grin.

“Read them over and let me know if you have any questions.” Her voice carries that same maddening husky edge.

Low, controlled, every word crisp and deliberate, like she’s used to being listened to.

No fake politeness. No softness. Just precise and Ivy League-educated.

The kind of voice that belongs in boardrooms, not standing in my doorway handing me a damn rulebook.

“You assume I can read then.” I stare down at her, but she doesn’t crack.

“Very funny, Steele.” Her face remains neutral, displaying zero signs of humor.

I take a deep breath and scan the rules. And there are quite a few.

Rule 1: Curfew at nine, except game days.

“Any chance we can stretch that curfew on weekends?” I lean against the doorframe. Casual, hopeful.

“None.”

“Great. Love the flexibility.”

“Not my job to be flexible.”

Rule 2: Attend all practices, workouts, team meetings. Be punctual.

“Always.”

“Coach told me you’re typically late.” Tucking a dark, glossy strand of hair behind her ear, the hall light catches the bright sparkle of her diamond earring.

“Guess I’ll work on that.” I swallow hard and keep reading.

Rule 3: Daily check-ins, morning by 7:45 AM, evening by 8:45 PM.

Rule 4: No loud music. No neighbor complaints.

“Loud’s relative.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Steele. If I can hear it next door,” she hitches her thumb in the direction of her adjacent condo, “then it’s too damn loud.”

So thrilled to be living next to my warden.

“Killjoy,” I mutter, continuing to scan.

Rule 5: No unvetted visitors.

“Wow. Do you need a list of approved people or something?”

Tori nods. “That works. Have the names to me by the morning.”

Are you kidding me? This is going to seriously fuck with my hook-up game.

Rule 6: All social media posts must be approved by Tori 24 hours in advance. No posting between 10 PM – 8 AM.

“Seems random.”

“Does it? Really? When’s the last time you posted something appropriate and meaningful after 10 PM?” She narrows those dark eyes at me, a tiny furrow creasing her brow.

She has a solid point, but I’m not about to admit it. I clutch the paper tighter, continue reading.

Rule 7: Maximum two alcoholic drinks per social outing, zero within twelve hours of games.

“Now we’re overreaching, Princess. Not that I’m going out and getting wasted, but two drinks max? A guy can’t let lose when he feels like it?” I kick at the floor, annoyed.

“No. Not when that guy —” she throws up air quotes — “is suspended from the team. Not when that guy”— more air quotes — “caused this mess in the first place in a drunken brawl with a local, ruining any goodwill the team managed to build.”

I throw my palm up. “Whoa, there. I was not drunk. That dickbag bar owner was trashed, not me.”

Tori levels an icy gaze at me and I puff out my chest, refusing to back down.

“So your defense is you made a poor decision sober?”

Well, she’s got me there.

I rake a hand through my wavy hair. “Fine. Maybe not one-hundred percent sober.”

“Exactly. This clause will prevent unfortunate incidents like that from occurring in the future.”

Why do I feel like I’m getting lectured by a very hot, very strict teacher right now?

Aggravation simmers low in my gut, but I push it down and keep reading.

Rule 8: Mandatory rest hours. In bed by ten, lights out by 10:30.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re giving me a bedtime?”

“Yes. You’re a professional athlete. You need your recovery time. Oh, and no screens after 9:30 PM. Blue light’s bad for the REM cycle.”

I roll my eyes and huff out an exasperated sigh, white knuckling the paper. This woman’s beyond maddening and it’s not even technically day one of lockdown yet.

Rule 9: Mandatory Counseling. Weekly sessions with the team psychologist. Progress will be monitored.

“No. Uh-uh.” I shake my head. She’s gone way too far. “Fucking therapy? I don’t need to lay on some shrink’s couch and spill my guts.”

Therapy? Fuck that. I’ve spent eighteen years avoiding shrinks, and I’m sure as hell not explaining why to the Ice Queen.

“First of all, Leighton has a PhD in Sports Psychology. She won’t appreciate being called a shrink.

Second, you almost landed a man in the hospital, Steele.

If that doesn’t scream anger issues, I don’t know what does.

” Tori purses her lips and stares up at me, my mouth getting drier with each passing second.

This isn’t good. I’m losing the first battle, the earth quaking beneath my feet and leaving me unsteady.

I don’t like it one little bit.

“How long is this fucking list?” I scowl at her, getting more pissed off by the second.

“You’re almost done.”

Rule 10: Location sharing. Phone GPS to remain on at all times. Must notify Tori of any location changes outside of daily routine.

“You’re going to track me 24-7?” I squint at her in disbelief, my gut swirling.

“Absolutely. I told you – I’m your new warden.” She flashes me a wicked grin, all white teeth and ruthlessness. Like she’s thoroughly enjoying this.

Rule 11: Weekly face-to-face debrief meetings. Will discuss upcoming schedule and any changes to rules.

“Changes to the rules?” I crush my eyebrows together, tension radiating through my temple.

“See the asterisk.”

* Any violations of these rules can and will result in penalties. Three violations = Max Prince involvement. Five violations = potential contract review.

“Contract review?” My voice comes out strangled.

“Yes. If you can’t abide by these simple rules, you’re not a team player. And the Coastal Crushers only want team players. Surely you can understand that, right?”

I clear my throat, aggravation humming through me.

This entire scenario is unreal. Back at the office, I thought Tori was fucking around, only trying to assuage her daddy.

That we’d walk out of the arena, she’d hand me the keys to the condo and tell me to get lost. Maybe shoot me a ‘Stay out of trouble’ to be on the safe side.

But she’s not fucking kidding. About any of it.

This dark-haired siren’s really and truly going to rule my life. At least until her dad decides otherwise.

I’m benched and circling the drain toward a buyout.

Blood roars in my ears, and I lick my lips, swallowing hard over the lump in my throat. Seemingly accepting my fate.

For now.

“Thanks for stopping by.” I bite out the words, not the least bit thankful.

“That’s it? No questions? Concerns?” Her voice tips up, her delicate fingers smoothing the non-existent wrinkles from her slacks.

Oh, I have concerns. Plenty of them.

But I’ll have to chisel her down over time.

“Nope.” I shove a hand in the pocket of my sweats and act way more nonchalant than I feel.

“Good. Glad we got this hammered out. I’ll be on the lookout for your morning check-in tomorrow.”

With that, she spins on the heel of her stiletto and sashays away, pausing at her door and wiggling her fingers at me in a condescending wave.

“Night.”

Scowling, I slam the door shut without returning the sentiment.

“Fuck my life,” I moan into the barren apartment.

Buzz, buzz.

My shattered screen lights up on the sofa and I skulk over to read the text.

Ice Queen: Almost time for lights out

I chuck the phone down on the cushions, blood still pounding in my ears. My entire body’s wound tight, adrenaline rushing through my system.

This is what happens when someone backs me into a corner. I come out swinging.

Except the Ice Queen’s not some player in a jersey on the ice or another bar bro asshole. No, she’s all scarlet lips and curves, sharp edges and soft floral perfume. And the way she gazed at me, like I was something she can control, someone to tame?

My cock hardens despite my anger and I curse under my breath.

Fucking perfect. Now I’m getting hard for my warden. The uptight princess in her power suit who’s probably never broken a rule in her entire charmed life.

The Ice Queen thinks she’s got me locked down?

Let her think that.

I’ll play nice for a minute, let her think she’s got this under control. Then she’s going to find out exactly how well I follow orders.

She wants a bad boy? I’ll give her one she’ll never forget.