12. Weston
I’m not staring at Renee’s ass. Nuh-uh. Definitely not.
And I’m not being defensive about the fact that I’m not staring at her ass, either. I’m not even thinking about her ass. Practice is going great and her ass is the last thing on my mind.
“Stop staring at her ass.” Orion Beckstrom skates over, rolls across the boards, and hits the bench beside me.
“I’m not, motherfucker,” I grumble. I slug him in the arm just to make it clear how much I’m not.
“Sure you’re not.” He laughs as I grimace. “In your defense, it’s a pretty nice ass. I might be staring at it. Might even see if I can talk my way into grabbing a handful later on.”
I see red instantly. If he touches her…
“Maybe I’ll sweet talk her into letting me see it up close and personal.” He wags his eyebrows and, before it occurs to me that this is exactly what he was trying to goad me into doing, I jab my fist into his chest hard.
“You aren’t sweet talking her into anything.”
“You doubt me?”
“No, dumb fuck, I forbid you.”
He laughs again, loud and free like he always does. The son of a bitch brays like a horse, I swear. Everyone in the damn practice arena can hear him.
Across the ice, we see Renee bending low to take a picture of—well, I’m not exactly sure. It looks to me like she’s taking a picture of just blank ice, but then again, I’m not so focused on that end of the camera.
When I glance over, I see Orion ogling. “Shouldn’t you be on the ice?” I grumble.
“I suppose I should,” he sighs as he grabs his stick and stands. “But is that a note of jealousy I detect? Is superstar Weston Scott staking his claim? Afraid she might want to choose the belle of the ball instead of the… instead of you?”
My teeth squeeze tight. In all the years we’ve known each other, I’ve never wanted to kick his ass more than I do right now. “I?—”
“Who’s the chick with the tight ass?” Jonah Martingale leans in and asks from the far end of the bench. He’s about twenty. Rookie to the league, probably just started shaving. I’m not sure his voice has even changed yet.
“You’re too young for this conversation, kid,” I snort. “Come back when you’re old enough to buy her a drink.”
He shoots me the bird and hauls himself over the boards to get back into the shooting drill unfolding before us.
“Testy, testy,” Orion tuts from where he’s still standing, leaning on the shaft of his stick. “That was a little rude.”
“The rookie is practically a fetus. He needs to stay in his lane.”
As I watch, Jonah lines up a shot and rifles one so hard that the net over our goalie Paul Gilmore’s left shoulder sizzles from the impact force. I grimace again.
For all I know, Jonah is exactly the kind of guy that Princess Polyester goes for. He’s a rookie, yeah, but he’s got game, he’s clean-cut and handsome, the kind of Mr. All-America vibe that some of these puck bunnies froth at the mouth for.
Orion nods. “Or you’re worried that the kid isn’t just coming for your job—that he’s coming for your girl, too.”
He stops talking and looks at me meaningfully. I can only hope that the look I’m returning in his direction contains enough visible violence for him to realize he should be clamming up and getting back on the ice.
It doesn’t.
He stays.
“No one is fucking coming for my job,” I snarl. “And she isn’t my girl.”
“Sure she’s not,” Orion sighs as he finally, mercifully gets ready to re-enter practice. “And I’m a monkey’s uncle.”
When we finally hit the showers, I’m the last one in. Jonah is talking to Orion as I trudge through the locker room. I overhear the end of his sentence, but it’s enough to push me right up to the edge.
“… time I’m done, she isn’t going to know what hit her.” As I watch, he palms his dick through his towel.
Don’t say it, motherfucker, I think to myself. If you say one more fucking word?—
“All I know is, she’s making me breakfast in the morning.”
Boom.That does it. My blood was hot at two-hundred-eleven degrees before, but that little comment puts me at two-twelve. Boiling.
I lunge for him, grab him by the throat, and slam him into the closed locker at his back. It’s one of the old ones that was installed before the arena remodel, so the wood splinters on impact.
“Don’t you dare fucking talk about her like that,” I spit, my breath hot in his face.
“Jesus Christ, West, you’re out of your?—”
I rear back a fist to teach the lesson that my words are apparently failing to convey. But before I can unleash it on Jonah’s face, Orion is dragging me off of him.
“Enough!” he hisses in my face. “You’re gonna your dumb ass get benched if you keep this shit up.” He shoves me away and steps between me and Jonah, who’s still standing where I threw him. He points a finger at the showers behind me. “Get out of here, Scott. Hit the showers and cool off.”
Everyone else is watching as I spit on the tiled floor, then march off. I can feel their bewildered gazes. Every single one of them waits until I’m showered and dressed before they finally come in to take their turns.
I’m standing at the mirrors shaving when Orion comes in. He stares at me for way too long.
“What?” I bark.
”What do you mean, ‘what’?”
“Go play innocent with someone else, man. I’m not in the mood. Take the look elsewhere.”
He leans against the wall and folds his arms over his chest. “This is my ‘I know what you”re thinking’ look. Because I know what you”re thinking and I think you should stop thinking it.”
“And I think you should guzzle the sweat from my jockstrap.”
Orion just laughs and slaps me on the back. “Alright then, Scott. Keep your secrets.”
“There’s no fucking secret.”
“We took a vote. Me and all the boys. We think you want the new PR babe.”
I pfft, shake my head, and roll my eyes all in one motion. Just to be extra convincing, I guess. “Fuck no, I don’t.” Yes, you do, you liar. I ignore the pesky voice in my head and continue. “I just think there’s a way to treat women. And ogling her, talking about her making him breakfast, playing grab ass—that shit ain’t it.” My voice sounds like I chewed a few pieces of gravel and they’re stuck in my throat.
“Since when is that your stance about women? You’re the king of ‘love ‘em and leave ‘em.’”
As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. It sounds ridiculous for me to be preaching respect, given the things I’ve said and done in my past.
I shrug as I trash the razor and go to finish getting dressed. “I saw a guru,” I joke dryly. “It’s part of the change-my-life plan.”
“Oh, definitely,” he laughs. “You should take this act on the road, West. It’s comedic gold.”
“Shut up, O.”
He holds up his hands in innocent self-defense. But that all-knowing smirk stays on his face. “Don’t worry. We all got the message: she’s off-limits.” He drops his hands to his sides and adds, “On a wholly unrelated subject, the stats are up for what Hud expects out of everyone.”
“I heard my name.” Coach Hud walks in right then.
He’s a former left winger who made a name for himself as a sharpshooter. Every year he made it to the All-Star game, he won the hardest shot contest and he’s deadly accurate with that thing even now. If he could still skate with any kind of speed, even at forty-five, some team would sure as hell make room for him on their roster.
But the midnight mugging that ruined his knee ruined his career, too. And if the stories are to be believed, what happened to his wife right afterward was just the cherry on top of a shit sundae.
He wears it well, though. He’s a proud son of a bitch. There’s bottomless grief in his eyes, but he keeps his chest out and his chin up tall.
“I was just telling West that you put the targets for the season on the board,” Orion offers up.
Hud nods. He still works out with the team, so he’s built like a hockey player, but it’s his analytical coaching that has made me into the superstar I am.
“So what are the goals for the season, other than bring the Cup to L.A.?”
Hud and Orion both chuckle. “Just that, mostly,” Hud says. “And making sure you’re healthy enough to play the ice time we need from you.” He rubs his five-day-beard. “So did I hear a scuffle in here?”
Orion looks at me and I look at the floor. “Nothing big,” I mumble in the direction of my feet. “Just letting the kid know who’s in charge.” I shrug like it isn’t a big deal, like the locker I destroyed with Jonah’s skull isn’t going to need a full refresh.
Hud shakes his head and sighs. I know that look—it means I’m about to get a talking-to. “Look, Weston, you have so much skill. Raw talent just oozing from your pores. But you gotta get your head straight if you’re going to be one of the great ones. You have to let the off-ice shit go. You?—”
I nod hurriedly to cut him off. In part because he’s probably right and in part because I’ve heard it all before, but mostly because I’m not in the mood to hear it again. “You got it, Coach,” I say before his lecture can really get going. “I’ll work on that.”
I hitch my bag onto my shoulder and walk out of the locker room as my phone tings with a new message.
LAUREN: Hey, I’m in town for the night. Wanna get together?
Lauren is a flight attendant who hails from a teeny tiny town in Ohio and decided to fly the friendly skies to get the hell out of there. She comes to Los Angeles just often enough to be fun and not too often to wear out her welcome. For the last year or so, that’s been perfect.
But as much as I might want to bury myself in a little Lauren today, I’m just not in the right headspace. I have too much shit on my mind.
Well, that isn’t technically true. I only have Renee on my mind—but I have a lot of her there.
I type back a polite decline, then slide the phone back in my bag. I let my fingers stroke over the soft cotton of the cherry panties, just once, before I zip up that secret pocket and pull myself together.
Then I head home. But even as I go, part of me is wondering if I might be able to run into Renee on my way into the building.