The Kinda Secret Pineapple Island Swingers’ Resort

1. Chapter 1

I didn’t fuck the owner’s daughter. It was a blow job.

“Swain, get in my office.”

That phrase ranks near the bottom of things any man wants to hear, barely squeaking in above “We got your STD test results back. Please put on this gown and try not to touch anything.”

But this directive came from my hockey coach rather than my doctor, so my summoning today seems to be of the career variety rather than a medical one.

Ah, you’ll live to ride another day, I silently tell my cock as I run the soapy washcloth over him.

“Now, Swain!” Coach Belford bellows from the other side of the door, so I drop the cloth onto the black-and-white tiled floor with a wet plop. And like the smartass I am, I stroll from the shower room as naked as the day I was born, dripping water in my six foot, four inch wake.

“Fuck’s sake, Swain,” Coach groans, averting his gaze when I walk into the locker room. “Put some goddamn clothes on. Then come to my office.”

“Just doing as I was told, Coach,” I say amicably, earning me some much deserved grumbles as he stalks out the door and into the green-and-white bedecked hallway.

Pretty sure I hear the word cocky being bandied about, but I wisely refrain from making a cock joke.

I’ve done enough to amuse myself for today.

After returning to the shower and rinsing the soap from my body, I dry off and dress in a long-sleeved Raptors shirt and sweats, since this May is unseasonably cool, even for Denver .

“I’m here, Coach,” I say, settling onto one of the tiny wooden chairs across from his desk. I’m pretty sure he bought the damn things at an elementary school fire sale. It’s probably a power move on his part since he’s sitting in his very roomy leather chair with an indiscernible look on his face.

“Reno,” he sighs, and I’m instantly on high-alert at the use of my first name. He always calls me Swain . Or sometimes asshole , depending on the situation.

“What’s going on?” I ask, and he leans forward with his forearms on his beat up wooden desk, his eyes downcast for a long moment before lifting to mine. I see something there. Regret, maybe?

“Son, you’re being traded.”

A bomb explodes inside my head. At least, that’s what it feels like. I hear the boom and feel the painful shatter. My lips move, but I don’t speak.

“I’m sorry, Reno.”

At least I can still hear.

Noise finally makes its way up my throat and out of my mouth, a strained sound that I quickly wrangle into a question. A word, really.

“Why?”

“The official party line is that the new owner wants fresh blood.”

“B-but I’ve been the best goddamn defenseman in the league for six years running.”

“Actually, last season, you were second.” And that still chaps my ass.

“Barely, and only because I missed two weeks after having my knee scoped. But I rehabbed my ass off in physical therapy and returned four weeks ahead of schedule.” And played through the pain with a fucking smile on my face.

“I know that, Reno.”

Something he said clicks in my head like a light bulb. “Wait, you said the official party line is that the new owners want new blood. Is there an unofficial party line?”

Belford’s lips close into a tight slash before he emits a long sigh. “Word got back to Mr. Priestner that you fucked his daughter in a broom closet at the welcome party last week.”

Oh. That.

“I didn’t fuck the owner’s daughter,” I insist. “It was a blow job.”

Coach closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Swain…”

“And I didn’t know that was his daughter. She just told me her name was Tiffy and she wanted to have a little fun. I assumed she was a puck bunny. You know, one of the many that are always invited to our parties?” I say with more than a little indignation.

“Her name is Tiffy Priestner, and she is Roland Priestner’s daughter.”

“Well, I didn’t know that at the time,” I argue. “She grabbed my junk and literally led me down the hallway by the dick. I was…”

I pause, and Coach Belford arches an extremely bushy eyebrow. “You were what?”

My eyes drop to the floor, and I suddenly feel vulnerable. “I was trying to move on for the first time in months. Since the… thing last year.”

Coach’s mouth turns down, and I see the pity in his eyes at my mention of the thing . He sighs and runs a hand over his crew cut.

“It’s been a helluva year for you, Reno, so that makes this situation that much harder. I wish there was something I could do, but this came from the top.”

I feel a sudden stinging on the insides of my eyelids, like someone squirted pepper juice in my eyes. “I’ve been with the Raptors my entire career. This is my team.” My molars clamp down on the inside of my cheek before I ask the next question. “Where are they sending me?”

Detroit would be okay. They’re big hockey fans up there. Or maybe somewhere in the Northeast. Or Canada. Hockey is huge in Canada, so that wouldn’t be bad.

His answer was none of those.

“Dallas.”

“Fuuuck,” I groan, throwing my head back and immediately having to right myself when the chair attempts to tip over backward. “I don’t want to go to Dallas, Coach.”

Would I be required to wear cowboy boots? Learn to ride a horse?

“I know,” he sighed, “and I really hate to lose you, even though you can be a pain in my ass. You’re a damn good player, Reno Swain.”

He sounds so sincere, and my entire face compresses. Eyes closed. Lips clamped shut. Cheeks sucked in to control my emotions.

Finally, I open my eyes. “Who is the fresh blood I’m being traded for?” Even I can hear the bitterness dripping from each syllable.

“You’re being traded for a first round draft pick.”

My eyes bulge out so far I’m concerned I may go blind from the pressure. “I’m being traded for a goddamn rookie?”

Belford nods. “Mr. Priestner wants to get Fredrickson Mitchell. He was the best college defenseman in the country this past year.” My coach—er, former coach, I guess—didn’t look thrilled to be trading someone with over a decade of experience on the ice for a newbie in the pros.

I refrain from saying that Mitchell is an overrated, cocky little son of a bitch.

I have to admit he is a good player. A good college player, though there’s a huge difference between that level and the NHL.

Mitchell has been playing against good players, but every time he steps on the ice from now on, he’ll be playing against the best of the best. Men who are bigger, stronger, faster, and infinitely more determined to earn their exorbitant paychecks.

Placing my elbows on my knees, I cram my fingers into my curly, dark hair and stare at my size fifteen tennis shoes. My life was already a shit cake, and Coach just topped it with a drizzle of more poop.

My chest hurts, but I force myself back upright after a minute of silence, resting my palms on my knees. “Is this final? Is there anything I can do?”

The apologetic look on Belford’s face gives me the answer, but he speaks it aloud anyway. “I’m sorry, but it’s final. ”

The realization sinks in with a harsh thud.

The Raptors don’t want me. She doesn’t want me.

No one wants me.