12. Friendly Fire
FRIENDLY FIRE
brETT
“Where you been, man?” Decker asks. He and Kane Carter make some room so I can join in the circle of my teammates. I accept the chin tip from goaltender Lincoln Kennedy, aka The President, with one of my own.
“Just looking around,” I lie. “This place has a lot of alcoves.”
“London was asking for you,” Chase Hawkins, Hawk to his teammates, pipes up, his mouth full of whatever the waiters are circulating on trays.
Shit. I shove my hands in my pockets. “That can’t be good.”
“It’s fine,” Lincoln assures me.
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him speak. He didn’t utter a word in the dressing room this morning. That’s his weird goalie quirk. He stays completely mute in the dressing room. I don’t question the shit some guys believe in anymore. Whatever rocks your ocean liner.
“He just likes to make the rounds near the end of events like this for some face time and a handshake.”
“He’s probably worried I ducked out early. I’m not his favorite person on the payroll.”
Lincoln chuckles. “Just do your thing on the ice. He’ll come around. But in the meantime, it probably wouldn’t hurt to find him.” The goalie gestures past my right shoulder with his beer bottle. “He’s over there with Shanna and Chelsea.”
Boom.
Her name detonates like a bomb in my brain and my dick twitches with interest.
Down boy.
Still, I glance over my shoulder. I find her immediately, almost like I sense exactly where she is. And she looks right at me, like she can sense where I am, too, and my cock lurches like a goddamn divining rod.
I’m stuck in the moment, just staring across the room at her, like we hadn’t just fooled around like a couple of high school kids.
Jace slaps me in the chest with the back of his hand. “Nik was telling me there’s a place for rent in his building.”
“If he’s still here by the time the lease gets signed,” someone mutters from the edge of the group.
I turn. The comment came from Mason Gray, fellow defenseman, and apparently, not a fan. Guess I wasn’t misreading the vibe at practice this morning.
“Nice to meet you too,” I say coolly.
“Just saying,” he shrugs. “Plenty of guys roll in with big talk. Not all of them stick around.”
Beside him, Liam Yarrow says nothing, as usual. But I catch the way he crosses his arms. A silent endorsement. Or maybe just backup.
“Ease up, Gray. Shouldn’t taunt the hockey gods like that. You might be the one who ends up on their shit list,” Decker warns, and I know he’s only partially joking. He’s one of the most superstitious guys I’ve ever met, and in this business, that’s saying something.
“Whatever.”
For a second, I think the kid is going to posture, and I prepare for the challenge for dominance. Because fuck Mason Gray. I’ve got real problems right now.
Thankfully, he reassesses our surroundings.
“I need a drink,” he says, and he and Liam take off.
“Ignore him,” Kane Carter advises. “Kid’s good, but he’s a real hothead. He’s just worried you’re gonna take the start from him and Yarrow.”
“He’s right to worry.” Decker knocks back a swallow of beer. “Now where was I? Oh, yeah. Nik’s place.”
I surreptitiously rub the bruise that manifested on the back of my arm, that vulnerable gap of skin between my shoulder pad and my elbow pad, after the guy gave me that hard shoulder into the boards earlier. “I don’t think Ehrhoff’s my biggest fan either.”
“He’s good people. You just need to get to know him. Don’t let the quiet intensity fool you. And besides, he offered the information after I said you were looking for a place.”
I’m surprised to hear it.
Jace gives a sharp whistle that draws a lot of attention, no doubt including Craig London’s. On the upside, at least I’m present and accounted for now.
“Hoff! C’mere for a minute.”
Centerman Niklas Ehrhoff glances over his shoulder at the summons. Pushing away from the bar, he ambles toward us with a drink in his hand.
“What’s up, boys?”
“I was just telling Sills here about that vacancy in your building.”
“Yeah, you should come check it out.” Nik pulls his phone out of his pocket, and something bounces on the floor between us. Lincoln’s foot shoots out before I even clock it, keeping the puck from rolling away.
“Nice reflexes,” I tell him, as he bends down to retrieve it from the floor.
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” he jokes, holding the puck out to Nik.
“Oh, shit! You brought the lucky puck? Can I touch it?” Hawk’s grin is diabolical as he intercepts the hand-off. “This is the puck that contains all of Hoff’s power,” he tells me. “He carries it with him everywhere but the shower.”
It’s beat up, and has a piece of stick tape wrapped around it with some stats Sharpied on it. That puck definitely has some historical significance, but Nik Ehrhoff has scored so many big goals, I can’t even begin to guess which one it might be.
Chase is still chirping. “If I rub it, will I have a fifty-goal season like you?”
Ehrhoff doesn’t take the bait. After a couple of swipes of the screen, he hands his phone to me. “Give me your info. I’ll set something up.”
The second his hand is free, he snags the puck from Chase and tucks it back in his suit pocket. “It’s not for luck. And you couldn’t score fifty goals in a season if every goalie in the league went on strike.”
“I’m gonna make you eat those words.” Hawk punctuates the vow with a sip of his beer.
“See that you do,” our alternate captain says, proving again why Ehrhoff has an A on his jersey.
I add myself to Nik’s contacts and hand him the phone. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it. For this morning, too.”
The reference to the hit he laid on me during practice earns me an approving look. Like I’ve just earned some respect. Which feels pretty damn good.
“You can thank me by getting us to the playoffs.”
“That’s the plan.”
And it’s a good reminder. Good enough that I ignored the urge to look over my shoulder to find her again. It’s time to man up and keep my focus on hockey. On my team. On winning.
“Is Fletch here?” I ask. I haven’t seen the team captain since dinner ended, and I should probably check in, put his mind at ease that I’m here to play, not cause more drama.
“Nah.” Decker shakes his head. “They let him ditch early ‘cause his kid has some school thing tonight that he couldn’t miss.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I reach in to check it. The sight of my ex-wife’s number—I might have deleted her from my contacts, but the digits are still tattooed on my brain—makes me frown, even as I decline the call.
What the hell is that about? Janelle hasn’t said a word to me since our divorce was finalized. If she wants money, she can go through my lawyer. Like always.
I shove the phone away.
“Incoming. Bossman at six o’clock.” Hawk’s warning lands with enough advance notice that I have time to smooth my tie and plaster a smile on my face before I turn to face the owner and GM of the Wolfpack. The rest of the guys offer greetings before dissipating, leaving me alone with the boss.
And when Craig London shakes my hand, the hand that so recently mauled his daughter’s hair into a sexy, tangled mess, I manage to cross-check the memory into submission and keep the discussion on topic.
“Sillinger. Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Of course. It’s a great party, sir.” This interaction is stiffer than the one we’d shared earlier that evening.
“Not too much, I hope.” Craig London gestures to a passing waitress, grabbing a flute of champagne from her tray. He raises it in offering, but I wave it off.
“Sorry?”
London takes a sip of bubbly. “I mean that I hope you’re not enjoying yourself too much. This is a work function, after all.”
My shoulders stiffen, and I try my damnedest to ignore the sexy echo of Chelsea’s voice in my head.
I just molested you in an alcove during a work function.
Now is definitely not the time. I scratch my shoulder to erase the phantom press of her forehead against it.
“I just like to know the people I’ve hired are keeping their focus where it belongs. I know you’ve had some issues in your past. Hell, the whole league knows it. And I hate to think what your prospects of getting picked up next season would be if the Wolfpack decided not to renew your contract.”
Anger pulses in my chest at the warning, and I shove my fists in my pockets.
Do not screw this up. This is only a test.
The man doesn’t know what happened between me and Chelsea, or his threats would be a hell of a lot more anatomically precise. But he suspects something, and I’m not about to validate this little fishing expedition.
“Well, it would be a real shame if you decided to cut me loose after I get your team into the postseason for the first time in franchise history.”
London’s smile is cold. “That’s the kind of eye-on-the-prize mentality I like to hear from my employees. For a moment there, I thought we might have a problem.”
“No problem I can think of,” I say, and then add, “sir,” even though it kills me to do it.
London reaches out and squeezes my shoulder a little too tight. “I’m glad we’re on the same page here, Brett,” he says, before turning and walking away.
Sonofabitch.
My entire hockey career is in jeopardy and all because I’m still thinking with my dick. I shake my head, disgusted with myself. This is exactly the kind of stupidity that landed me in Missoula in the first place. I need to get my shit together.
I’m going to prove to London, to Ehrhoff, to every single guy on the team, that taking this chance on me is not a mistake. And I’m going to back that up on Tuesday night during my first game with the Wolfpack.
Because I’m a goddamn professional.