Chapter 4
Saint
“What the fuck, Masters?” Coach Cavanaugh barked the moment I walked into his office.
That’s what I’d been asking for hours. I shoved my hands into my pockets and leaned against the wall.
The morning had been nothing but a fucking disaster.
Thirty-two phone calls, mostly from members of the press.
Over four hundred emails from super fans and puck bunnies, although the girls only wanted one thing.
A taste of my two dicks.
Pffftt. Then there were the threats. Those had been my favorites. Taking on the werewolf with their bare hands had been the main pattern weaving through the dramatic texts and phone calls from unknown sources. At first, I’d been pissed. Then amused.
Now I was just annoyed as hell.
I glanced at the assistant offense coach, Jonathan Edmonds.
He’d come up through the ranks, starting with a team in the American Hockey League before being drafted into the NHL.
When he landed the spot on the Wild Dogs, he’d become an instant celebrity.
But his career had been riddled with injuries and a sordid affair with the wife of one of the private equity investors.
The shitstorm had derailed his career even though he hadn’t known she was married.
Didn’t matter.
As my father always warned me. Perceptions were everything.
That didn’t mean I’d surrender like some lackey dog. No fucking way. I was a champion, scoring more goals in my career than anyone else in the league. Fuck the naysayers.
The third man in the room was Carmine Lombardi. If you asked me, the dude was mafia, but that was not a subject anyone wanted to hear. He eyed me like I was the prize dog in a dogfight, rubbing the scruff on his face as if the scraggly beard looked good on the fat man.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” the coach shot out when I didn’t offer up my sins on a silver platter.
“Not what it seems.” My answer was short and sweet, typical for me. However, I could tell immediately the statement wasn’t good enough.
“Did you beat that man to within an inch of his life?” Carmine asked.
Huffing, I shot him a nasty look. “No, but I should have.”
“Why is that?” he pressed.
“Because he assaulted a woman inside the bar. He deserved what he got.”
Coach Cavanaugh was in my face in a flash. “The man has a broken arm that likely will need surgery, a concussion, broken ribs, and the doctors are concerned about internal bleeding and all you can say is that he deserved what he got?”
Shrugging, I shifted my look away from him. “Sorry.”
“Goddamn it!” The coach took a step back and slammed his hand on his desk.
Papers went flying.
His precious mug handmade by his granddaughter shattered into a dozen pieces when it hit the floor.
His face turned bright red.
Jonathan muttered under his breath as the temperature in the room grew chilly. “Why don’t we start over. Saint, what you’re telling us is that you protected a woman from getting assaulted. Correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, we can work with that, spin it in the press,” he stated while looking at the coach who had his palms pressed against his desk, staring down at the broken pieces. “Now, what about this nonsense regarding you being some werewolf?”
Both Carmine and Jonathan laughed.
Coach Cavanaugh didn’t.
“Werewolves don’t exist.” At least I was being truthful.
Carmine snorted and pulled a mint from his pocket. It was what some people called a nervous tic. I knew the action was all about gaining leverage. A secret in handling his cases he’d mentioned the single time I’d seen him intoxicated.
“Maybe not, son, but the video tells otherwise. Have you seen it?”
“To be honest with you, I haven’t. Sounded pretty stupid to me.” I hadn’t watched it. Maybe I hadn’t wanted to see my more beastly side in action.
“Show him the goddamn video,” the coach snapped.
Jonathan shook his head while sliding his finger across the iPad he was holding. After a few seconds, he handed it to me.
The sound was bad enough. A single shriek by the girl I’d saved, a sharp cry of agony from the asshole who’d had his hands all over her, and a roar, or more like a deep-throated growl. That was maybe two seconds before the video went blurry. I narrowed my eyes, even holding my breath as I watched.
Either the videographer’s hands were shaking, or the movements were in hyper speed.
A little of both.
Before the video even ended, I handed Jonathan his iPad. “You can’t really tell what happened. Looks heavily edited.” What the hell did I know about editing some video? Nothing.
“He’s right. The video could easily have been edited,” Carmine said, although I heard the skepticism in his voice.
“That might not matter.” Coach Cavanaugh finally turned to face me. “Half the teams want you tossed off, let alone what other coaches have said during the barrage of phone calls I received this morning.”
“Why the hell do they want me off the team? I won the game for us two nights ago and two nights before that.”
“That’s the thing, Saint,” Jonathan said, concern in his eyes. “If there’s any truth to this, which is obviously a load of crap, they’re worried you have abnormal… capabilities.”
“Such as?” I snorted out.
“Strength. Agility. Endurance. That could help you win a game.”
And rip a man’s head off. I could tell what Jonathan was getting at. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“Perceptions, Masters,” the coach snarled. “There’s another thing. Your sponsors are nervous.”
“Why?”
“It’s called scandal and lawsuits. They’re threatening to pull out. I don’t need to tell you what that will mean not only to your career but to your bank account.”
“They can’t fucking do that!” Now I was angry. I’d worked hard to get every single sponsor. Reebok and Pepsi, Fan Duel and freaking Heinz ketchup. There was even talk about putting my face on a goddamn Wheaties box. The fucking pipsqueak from the bar wasn’t going to take it all away from me.
Rage tore through me and every muscle tensed. Oh, fuck, no. This couldn’t happen right now. I’d need to find a way to shift the aggression before it was too late. Fuck. Why had this happened twice in a couple of days? I’d always been able to control my mood and what occurred when I didn’t.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I closed my eyes, trying to think of something to say.
What the hell could be said? They certainly didn’t want to hear the truth any more than I wanted to toss it out into the public.
I was no fool. Only I hadn’t used some superhuman abilities to get where I was in my career.
That had been blood, sweat, tears, and two concussions.
I deserved to be where I was. No one was going to fucking take that away from me.
No one.
“We need a social media expert,” Jonathan suggested.
“Yeah, someone well equipped to handle the situation including possible scandal.” Coach Cavanaugh rubbed his chin, looking off into space.
“What happened to Trudy?” I interjected. Trudy Albright had been the social media manager for the team since I’d been drafted onto it. The coach offered a hateful look after my comment. Okay, so Trudy and I didn’t get along. That was putting it mildly.
As soon as the coach grinned while walking toward me, I grimaced. “Well, you see. Here’s the thing. Trudy quit this morning.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I pressed her about providing a detailed plan of attack. She obviously didn’t like what I had to say.
Her retort was… and I quote. ‘I’d rather be forced to live out of my car than to try and resurrect the pinhead’s career.
’ Then she told me I could take the job and shove it.
Her parting words were wishing me good luck in finding anyone who would deal with your blasphemous arrogance.
And she’s right. No one in their right mind can tolerate your arrogance.
You aren’t the only member of this team, but you certainly act like you are. ”
“We’ll have trouble hiring someone on short notice. We’ve got the playoffs to consider. If we make it there,” Jonathan added.
“We’ll beat the Devils. They’re a shit team,” I spouted off.
That wasn’t exactly true. The Denver Devils were neck and neck with the Wild Dogs about who was on top.
Mostly because of their goalie, Rocco Lorenzo, a huge brooding Italian.
The two of us had sparred from the beginning, even getting into a huge brawl the last time we’d competed against each other.
The man was a walking, talking asshole.
Coach Cavanaugh turned his head in my direction. “You’re not the only member of this team, Masters. We have a huge problem, one you’re not taking seriously. I’m tired of your playboy mentality and your lack of attention to detail.”
His gruff words hit me hard. What the hell was I supposed to say? I was the reason we’d started winning games instead of sucking down booze after yet another loss. Fuck this.
The three men started discussing the possibilities. Then the coach raised his voice, suggesting I’d need to go through some intense physical exam.
After that, the three men got into an argument.
Listening to the banter was doing little more than giving me a headache. They didn’t need me for this. Besides, it was much more important to get some time in on the ice. Maybe then I’d calm down.
I headed toward the door, stopping long enough to study their body language. Yeah, they were pissed off.
So was I.
As soon as I walked into the corridor, a crackle of electricity hit me hard. Not as hard as kissing the girl a couple of nights before. Why the stupid act popped into my mind was questionable other than that my brain needed a getaway from the insanity.
But sweet Jesus, she’d had the softest lips and had smelled like sunshine and strawberries.
I tried to concentrate on the beautiful moment in hopes of shedding some irritation as I headed into the locker room.