Chapter 9
. . .
Will
“We’re all heading out for a meal tonight. How about you join us?”
Taking a large pull from my water bottle, I smile gratefully at Silas when he enters the conversation and interrupts my workout with the most annoying person I’ve ever met.
Tristan Vaughn.
Jackass doesn’t even cover it.
At twenty-six and having played pro for seven years, this guy has a rep for being a dick, and, jeez, does he live up to it. How the hell we’ll pull off playing on the same forward line without me throat-punching him in the first period I have no idea.
“I’m busy tonight,” I confirm, dropping the dumbbell in my left hand to the soft black mat beneath my feet. “I have a meeting with Drew.”
Silas bends down to pick up the dumbbell and sets it back on the rack behind me. “How are things going with her?”
Curling my bicep, I blow out a slow breath and repeat the rep with the dumbbell in my right hand.
The last time Drew and I were in the same room together, I was trying to hide the hookup I’d just had with my PT. The same PT who now can’t look me in the eyes when I’m lying on her treatment bed.
I should probably do us both a favor and request to be reassigned.
“Things are fine,” I reply, briefly glancing at my captain.
His blue eyes move to mine, and then I look away. The last thing I need is for him to see my discomfort over the memories of Candice’s bra hanging off my floor lamp.
The details of that Saturday night can never get out.
He scratches at the back of his neck. “I approached Drew to ask if she’d take me on as a client.”
My attention darts to him. I’m aware that representing my captain would be amazing for her career, but I don’t like the thought of Drew working with another hockey player. For starters, she wouldn’t have the time to manage us both.
“What did she say?”
He just smiles like he’s having a private joke with himself. “She sent me a very professional reply, but declined the opportunity, explaining that I was assigned to Lydia and her portfolio was currently full.”
The satisfaction I feel is definitely unjustified. Regardless, it slides through my veins.
Changing the subject, Silas thumbs over his shoulder to where Tristan and another one of my teammates, Mason James, are talking by the spin bikes. “I see you and my winger were just hitting it off,” he sarcastically points out.
Given Mason is a defenseman, I know he can only be referring to Tristan, and it would be pointless for me to deny the disdain I feel toward him. I barely know the guy, and I already hate him.
“He’s a prick.”
Silas chokes out his next words. “Don’t hold back, rook. Go ahead and tell us all how you feel.”
My attention zeroes in on a mass of loose black curls as Tristan throws his head back and barks a laugh toward the gym ceiling in response to something Mason said.
“He likes to think he’s the popular guy around here and acts like everyone loves him when even his laugh annoys the shit out of me.”
Silas’s eyes grow wide, and I can tell that he likes the guy. Fuck knows why.
He shrugs a single shoulder, and I turn and set my dumbbell back on the rack.
“He’s confident and not afraid to say what he thinks.”
With my back to Silas, I scoff, recalling the brief conversation I just had with Tristan, where he told me that leading scorer in my rookie season could only happen in my dreams.
Clearly, the guy has never watched me play or refuses to acknowledge that now that I’ve signed with the Rogues, he’s no longer the best forward on the team.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t hate on him too much. You guys have way more in common than you think.”
“We both wear a green-and-gold hockey jersey,” I retort, picking up my white gym towel from the floor and wrapping it around the back of my neck. “That’s where our similarities start and end.”
I reach out and tap a finger against my captain’s temple. “And if you can’t see how full of himself he is, then that isn’t my issue.”
He folds his arms across his chest. Down the length of his right forearm is a word scribed in black ink that I can’t decipher. I want to ask him about it, but he speaks first.
“You need to get along with Tristan. He’s a fan favorite because he scores a lot of goals, and it won’t go down well if you come in and rock the boat.”
Biting my lip, I nod at Mason James. He looks the total opposite of Tristan.
With his mass of dirty-blond hair and bright green eyes, I can see why he’s popular with the fans for a whole different reason from Tristan, even if his looks aren’t the only thing that he brings to the ice.
He’s a damn good defenseman, although with the goals the team leaks, he’s fighting a losing battle.
Our current goalie, Denver Smith, has the worst shutout record in the entire league and, to be honest, belongs on the farm team.
Trouble is, the alternate goalie is even worse than Denver, and trying to convince a decent goalie to transfer to a team where shutouts are nearly impossible is like trying to stop the tide from rolling in.
“Tristan isn’t a team player. He’s not interested in assists, only in how many times he can light the lamp,” I tell Silas, although it seems to fall on deaf ears.
“You’re both cocky as hell, and I’ll be really honest …” He puffs out a despondent breath. “I was worried that you guys wouldn’t get along even if I hoped that you’d show some maturity.”
Right as Silas finishes up his sentence, Tristan turns and makes a beeline for us, sharp gray eyes full of mirth when they lock on me.
He’s two inches shorter than me and around thirty pounds lighter. I know because I’ve memorized the stats for each of my teammates. Hardly difficult when you’re gifted with numbers like I am.
“Why the scowl, Jones?” Tristan asks me on his approach.
Most of the guys here use each other’s first names because Coach prefers it between players, but Tristan makes an exception where I’m concerned. Probably because he knows it will wind the hell out of me, and getting beneath my skin is his only realistic play at getting the better of me this season.
He’s an average player at best, but he shines on a subpar roster.
“Because you piss me off,” I bluntly reply.
Mom and Dad never minced their words, and neither do I or my sister.
To my surprise, Tristan seems to appreciate the directness. Aside from his stats and dickhead nature, I actually know very little about this guy. Unlike me, he rarely uses social media, and when he does post, it’s always hockey-related and thanking the fans.
Kiss-ass.
Drew would be impressed, and for some reason, that makes me despise the guy even more.
“I’m sorry for any inconvenience I might have caused you, Jones. I merely pointed out that making lead goalscorer in your rookie season is madness, and I’m advising that you adjust your expectations.”
I step toward him, a silent reminder of our physical differences. “Did my record in the NCAA pass you by?”
I know it didn’t—I can tell by the sour look on his face.
He probably thinks that collegiate hockey is a waste of time, given he went straight into the pros after a year on the farm team, but he’d be wrong.
College hockey is the best prep for any future pro, and I’m glad I listened to my parents’ advice to hold out on the NHL.
“Can we save the face-offs for the opposition?” Coach enters the conversation from nowhere, coming to stand between me and Tristan.
I’m the one who breaks eye contact first, setting my attention on Coach.
“Just getting to know each other,” I reply.
Coach sounds less than convinced when he says, “Sure,” patting Tristan on the shoulder. “Vaughn, I need you in my office ASAP. I have your medical reports back from Candice, and I wanted to go over the good news with you.”
The elbow injury my teammate picked up on the back end of last season is not the reason why I blush, and Tristan’s smirk makes me regret my hookup with Candice even more.
When Coach heads toward the doors and Silas makes for the treadmills, I’m already thinking up excuses to cut my gym session short.
Something I never do.
“Can I offer you some more advice, Jones?” Tristan whispers.
Swallowing down the temptation to tell him to fuck off, I somehow manage a friendly smile. “I have a feeling I’m going to get it anyway, so go ahead and say whatever helps boost your ego.”
He swipes a hand across his jaw. “Banging the team PT doesn’t count toward your goal tally. In fact, I wouldn’t classify it as scoring at all.”
If I punch him, then I’ll effectively confirm his suspicions because that’s all he has right now. There’s no way Candice would breathe a word to anyone, let alone to the team’s biggest asshole.
My breathing is steady, expression stoic, as I quietly reply, “And spreading shitty rumors about your new teammate isn’t going to help you out either.
You need my assists as much as this team needs my goals.
And whether you want to admit that or not makes no difference to me.
I’ll be the crowd favorite by the end of the season. ”
The tendons in Tristan’s jaw flex. Being the golden boy means everything to this guy. Only the weak require validation from others.
Still, I’m curious as to how he guessed about Candice. Surely, a brief flush of my cheeks wasn’t enough to spike his suspicions. The guy isn’t smart enough for that.
“Word is, you struggle to keep it in your pants, Jones.” Tristan’s voice adopts a darker edge. “Next, you’ll be fucking Drew because you just can’t help yourself. What a conquest that would be.”
I square up to him, not giving a shit who witnesses it. “Say what you want about me, Tristan, but never ever speak about Drew in that way again.” My warning is more of a hiss.
He lifts a single shoulder and looks off to the side before focusing his attention back on me again. “It’s funny how you have such a visceral reaction to the women you’ve either fucked or would like to fuck in the future.”
I shake my head at him, perplexed over his behavior. Sure, we don’t get along, but this feels like he’s trying to sabotage my pro career before it’s even gotten started.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Tristan rolls his lips together, jaw still ticcing. “Hallie Vaughn. I don’t suppose that name means anything to you, does it?”
At first, the memory of that name is hazy, and then my brain catches up as I recall the hot blonde from my sophomore year in college, who has the same last name as … Tristan.
Fuck. She never once told me that her brother was a pro hockey player.
“You banged my sister and then broke her heart after you stood her up at the movie theater and then …” His fingers twitch at his sides. “And then you took her best friend out and fucked her too.”
I did exactly that, and I know Hallie was really fucking mad at me for ghosting her. The last text she sent me before she blocked my number and avoided me around campus contained more expletives than it did regular words.
“So, yeah,” Tristan continues when I say nothing, “I guess you could say that there’s everything wrong with me when it comes to dickheads like you, Jones. You fucked my baby sister, and I’ll never get past that.”
“We were never officially dating.” I point out the truth. “She wanted more, and I didn’t. I made that really clear when we hooked up for the first time.”
Tristan’s gray eyes turn almost black. “The first time?”
Shut up, William.
Tristan prods his finger into the center of my chest, and I don’t move away. He needs to have his moment of anger because I’d be the same if anyone hurt June.
No, I’d be worse than Tristan. I’d fucking murder them.
“If you want to keep that pretty face of yours symmetrical, then stay out of my way.”
I scoff at his pathetic threat and step into his finger. “How do you think the fans would react if you beat up the player they’ve been waiting to arrive for over four years?”
He considers that for a moment, burning rage softening in his eyes.
“Like I said”—I double down on the upper hand I have—“I never want to hear you speak of Drew like that again. She’s the ultimate professional.
And for what it’s worth …” I let him hear the apology in my voice.
“I don’t make a habit of hurting women. If I’d known that Hallie was into me like that, I wouldn’t have slept with her for a second time. ”
All I get is Tristan’s stony expression. “At least you live up to your last name—your dad is an entitled prick, and from what I read about your mom, she looks down on everyone around her too. I’m willing to bet your sister is the same.”
I squeeze my forehead against his, looking down at the piece of shit below me.
“Say that again,” I spit right before Silas breaks us up.
“Say that again!” I repeat, but I only get Tristan’s satisfied smirk.
“Will, your session is over.” With a palm in the center of my and Tristan’s chests, Silas tips his chin at the locker room door. “And, Tristan, I think you were supposed to be in Coach’s office ten minutes ago.”
Tristan grunts, and I snarl as I spin and pound the heel of my hand into the locker room door before ripping the towel from around my neck and tossing it at the wall.
“I fucking hate it here!”