Kramping His Style (Power Play Off The Ice: Snowed In For The Holidays)
Chapter 1
one
Ethan
T he door to coach’s office is closed but the indistinguishable words spoken in deep voices rumble into the hall. This could be a good thing. Or the end of my career. Good thing I’m not a betting man because the odds are even on which way this is going to go.
Leaning against the wall I attempt to ignore the rise and fall of the discussion taking place behind the door. Coach’s low, gravelly voice is easy to pick out. The other two? One, older and on the wavering side, belongs to the team owner. No clue on the last guy. Doesn’t really matter who they are, only that I’m sure they hold my future in their hands.
I enjoy playing on the semi-pro Linoma Lynx and life is damn good. Sharing an apartment with another defenseman increases our connection on the ice. Bruiser is a hulking six foot four. I’m considered small for a defensive skater but with my speed and ability to read an opponent’s shots, we’re a blueline to beat. And very few do.
The only thing that would break up our successful line would be if one of us is called up to the pros. We’ve both been close before.
From the angry voices, that upward move for me likely isn’t happening in the near future.
Which means I’m definitely in trouble.
Shit. A couple of my regular puck bunnies have been whiney lately. Did one of them complain? Some of those women are not above comments on social media or to management to keep themselves in a player’s bed. I close my eyes and try to picture the last bunny who wanted to take up permanent residence in my world. That was months ago and her demands soured me on the need for female companionship.
It wouldn’t be difficult to figure out how many days it’s been since I’ve fucked a beautiful woman. I’m good at everything I do, so the only complaint any of them could possibly have against me is for refusing their offers. I’ve been keeping up my ladies’ man image in public although not even my roomie has a clue I’ve been spending every night alone.
Sexual frustration could be why I’ve been in more fights lately, both on and off the ice. I’m not as imposing as most of my teammates but my lean speed serves me well. Acting as the team enforcer, maybe I have gotten in more fights than normal.
The door opens and coach waves me in.
Deep breath. Remain calm. I’ll deal whatever they throw at me and keep my place on the team.
Keep my place? The thought freezes me mid stride. The owner’s here. Fuck. Am I getting kicked off the team?
Coach jabs a finger toward the empty chair positioned so I’m facing him and the other two men. Feels like I’m in front of a firing squad. I sink onto the hard metal seat, curl my hands over my knees and attempt a confident expression. I nod to the owner and the other guy dressed in a full suit. Looks like an attorney to me. Not a good sign. “Gentlemen.”
Coach wastes no time. “Crunch, we gotta a problem.”
“Sir?”
The team owner leans forward to toss a paper-clipped pile of those colorful sticky notes toward me. “Your image needs work, Crunch.” He grins, increasing my confusion. What kind of trouble am I in?
He indicates the third guy. “Mr. Richstone here represents the Buffalo Blades hype team. Recruiting says you’re on the short list for a call up.”
No doubt waiting for my reaction, he pauses. I’m still focused on what they mean by my image, I barely manage a grin and what must sound like a half-hearted, “Thanks.”
I’ve faced down the toughest, snarling opponents who didn’t shake me as much as this man’s cold, long, and silent stare. At the bare twitch of his lips I know he didn’t find whatever the hell it was he was looking for in me. If I’m supposed to impress this guy, I’ve failed miserably.
He clears his throat. “The Blades insist on a certain community image from their players. On the ice behavior is one thing. How one deals with fans and the…” He makes a face. “Inevitable puck bunnies is another.”
Guy probably never had a good fuck in his life if that’s his reaction to the women who warm a player’s bed. That thought makes me smile and his brows drop even lower over his eyes. Oops.
“As I was saying. The Blades expect a broader community image from each member of the team. Volunteerism, community service of some sort, reaching out to fans in unexpected ways to shine favorable light on the team as a whole. This type of activity is sorely lacking from your resume, Mr. Carter.”
Squaring my shoulders, I sit straighter. “I do my part whenever the team?—”
One hand slashing through the air interrupts me. “Team efforts are fine. Expected. I’m talking about opportunities outside of the team experience. Reaching out to increase interest and our fan base without the team backing. We expect our players to create their own opportunities. You have not done that.”
With an ‘I dare you to prove me wrong’ expression, he leans back and crosses his arms.
Come up with my own ideas? That’s not my thing. I’m usually more than willing to help out as long as someone else makes the plan. I’m not a big idea guy. This sucks.
Richstone leans on the desk and stands. “I will leave you to consider your next steps. In order to remain on the Blade’s radar, you must complete an acceptable community event by the first of the year. Good day, gentlemen.”
“Let me talk to him,” the team owner says before rushing to follow him from the office. From Coach’s expression, I get the feeling that was more of an escape than wanting to talk to the cold fish.
“Close the door.” Coach motions at me and I follow his instructions. “Thoughts?”
Exactly what is he asking? Yeah, I make instant decisions on the ice. That’s easy. Thinking through options and making clear decisions, not so much. People would be surprised to know that sometimes I can’t even decide what to eat for dinner. Not the image I want to portray. “This blindsided me.”
“No shit. Listen, we both know pro teams are watching you. You won’t be on this farm team for long.”
“I like it here.” I do. Yeah, making a pro team is every hockey player’s goal. But I’m comfortable here and I’m not sure I’m ready to move up yet. The Lynx are a winning team. And the fans? They’re the best. I’m not sure a big city pro team’s fans would be any better. Maybe that’s why the Blades insist on so much community contact. To keep those fans happy.
“And the Lynx are proud to be your team. But we all know how it works. You spend your time local or on a farm team. Good players move up, the rest survive where we are. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. This is your shot, Crunch. Your first—and definitely not your last. Do good with the Blades, and before long you’ll be the one choosing your team. Not the other way around.”
Coach blows out a long breath. That speech must have been exhausting for him. And revealing. He’s always working me extra hard. Is it because this is how he sees my future? He’s prepping me for big ice?
“Thanks, Coach.” Don’t need to say anything more to embarrass either of us.
“So, any ideas?”
Its not easy slumping in a hard metal chair, but I find a way and stare into the far corner of the room looking for answers. “Uh, no.”
His chuckle brings my focus back to him. “When I got wind of this a couple days ago, I asked my wife for suggestions. Don’t know how she does it, but she keeps track of events in nearby towns, as well as here in Linoma. She’s still working on it. Found this a couple towns over. Timing is good. A one day community event with multiple opportunities for your participation.”
He hands me a flyer. “She’s been in contact with the organizer and they’d be delighted to have you join their celebration. Exactly what the Blades have in mind.”
I glance down at the tri-folded paper and the name of the event. What the fuck is this?
Krampusnacht.