Chapter 3
Chapter Three
RHETT
“Took you long enough.” Kane heckles Timber the moment he walks into the warm-up room. Timber rolls his eyes. Ares cuts him off before he can take up a place along the back wall like he always does during these pre-practice meetings.
“She’s fine, Ares,” Timber says, surprisingly restrained. “Just on the phone dealing with something for her shop.”
Paxton walks through the door just behind Timber, carefully stepping around them and heading straight for me. He lifts his chin in silent greeting, and I nudge his shoulder as he stands beside me, dropping his bag at his feet.
“We doing film first?” he asks.
Kane grunts from my other side, leaning around Ashton. “Yeah, should be. We haven’t gone up against Seattle yet, so they’re going to want us to watch the last few games of theirs at least. That new captain of theirs is nasty as shit.”
Paxton nods and then stretches his neck.
“All right. Everyone shut up,” Miles says in that dark way that means we’re in for a rough practice. Even his eyes are mean today. I roll my shoulders and hold back a sigh.
Fuck, now I wish I hadn’t gone for that second breakfast burrito this morning. I silently mourn the next two weeks I won’t be able to eat jalapenos while my body tries to forget how they taste when I’m throwing up into a bin on the side of the ice.
“One second, Miles.” The no-nonsense feminine voice cuts through the low chatter of us all.
Someone groans behind me. I’d echo the sentiment, but I don’t have a death wish.
Marilyn levels a glare at the guys behind me, and it’s enough to have even my balls shriveling a bit.
Or maybe it’s the folder clutched in her hand.
She’s certainly dressed like she’s ready to fuck one of us up, the dark pencil skirt and white blouse the picture of corporate elite.
She could be gearing up to prance one of us in front of a damn press room this very minute with that set up.
“She better not be trying for me,” Ashton mutters into my ear, leaning over so Ares and Miles can’t read his lips. “I don’t care what they said in preseason. No way am I going on a date.”
I snort. “Better you than me. Can you imagine what all those damn fan sites would start saying if they caught me out with someone?”
Paxton frowns. “What’s PR got on everyone that they’re freaking out?”
God bless the ignorance of my brother that he hasn’t had the last two months of dealing with the bullshit that is our upper management. LA might not be the powerhouse they once were, but they’re not scraping the bottom of the metaphorical barrel, either.
Before I can explain the entire mess, Ares asks, “Marilyn, who do you need?”
His calm demeanor diffuses some of the building tension, just the way Betas are spouted as being able to do. It doesn’t touch my growing nerves, though.
Not me. Not me. Not me.
Marilyn looks over the lot of us, her mouth pinching at the corners, before her eyes settle on me.
“James, please.”
Fuck.
Paxton grunts. “Which one?” he asks, nothing but calm politeness.
It’s who he is, even if he didn’t have to worry about Marilyn’s fucking antics.
Which, of course, he doesn’t. He’s the star that’s just been traded, and he’s engaged to a beautiful Beta, too.
No image to clean up, no press to sway. Just his presence is enough to have news articles moving a hairsbreadth away from our disaster of a season so far.
I give it until about twelve hours after this game with Seattle for them to change their tunes on my brother, but we’ll take the breather while we have it.
Marilyn frowns. “Right. I forgot we have both of you now. I need Rhett, please.”
Kane claps his hand on my shoulder. “Nice knowing you, man.”
Ashton fucking cackles, and I shove them both as I break away from the rest of the guys and head toward our PR manager. That envelope in her hand feels like a damn death sentence right about now. Is it not enough Kane and I have cleaned up our antics over the last couple months? Apparently not.
Marilyn doesn’t say a word as I approach her.
She simply turns on that too-thin heel and heads deeper into the practice arena.
As I follow her down the long hallway, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking toward my death.
She opens a door I’ve never bothered to look behind and then turns on the singular overhead light before gesturing me inside the small room.
It’s a bare bones office, no decorations on the walls. A small table sits across from an even more lackluster desk with nothing atop it.
“Nice place,” I mutter.
Marilyn scowls. “It’s not mine, fool. It’s for the junior teams that use this rink during the evenings and on the weekends. Their coaches are mostly volunteers.”
I drop into one of the rickety chairs at the table without another comment, hardly daring to breathe while Marilyn gets herself situated across from me. She pulls out a sheet of paper from the file that’s just got my last name on it.
“So which games am I going to be helping coach?” I ask as she grabs a pen from behind her ear.
Her look is even icier than before. “Please. We both know coaching some six year olds won’t be enough to sweeten the press toward you. Not with your long history of partying and reckless hook-ups.”
I roll my eyes, a faint edge of my lemongrass scent coming out to play. Marilyn isn’t swayed, though.
“You know that football player that has like ten different kids? It doesn’t matter if he donates the rest of his ridiculous salary to the poorest people on this earth, all the media will ever talk about is all those kids.
” She clicks the pen and then raises an eyebrow.
“You’re going to go on a date with a respectable Omega with a good pedigree.
Now, fill this out so I don’t waste my time in selecting the wrong one for you. ”
She turns the paper and pen to me, moving them until they’re directly in front of me. It’s only then I realize it’s a damn dating profile. Heights, scents, hair colors. Hell, even—
“I’m not filling that part out,” I tell her.
She doesn’t even look down at the part I’m pointing to.
“Yes, you are. We all know that Alphas are the most particular about sexual partners. Fill it out and get it back to me before the game tomorrow, James, or I’ll have Miles put you as a healthy scratch.”
She scoops up the folder and leaves the office before I can mutter another word.
It takes me a good five minutes before I trust myself to stand and head toward the rink.
The profile burns like a damn lit cigarette as I fold it and shove it unceremoniously in the back pocket of my jeans.
Who in the hell does Marilyn think she is that she can just require I tell her exactly how much anal sex I prefer to have with a partner?
I mean, the answer is however much they’re willing to have, but the fucking PR manager of my damn hockey team doesn’t need to know that, for fuck’s sake.
And the worst part is that missing a game isn’t an option, and she damn well knows it.
I’m not hunting down any big records this season—our last year of games has made it impossible to have hope for any singular season record breaking—but there’s still the cumulative numbers to shoot for.
Literally, most of the time. Especially with Paxton now here, too.
We haven’t played on the same team since college over seven years ago, but I’ve heard the chatter the think pieces have been putting out: James Reign of Terror version 2.
0. No opponent wanted us on the ice at the same time and for damn good reason.
His wicked shots from the slot and my ability to keep the puck in play at the blue line were hell on the opposing team.
The last two practices since he’s been here in Nashville have been showing off that dynamic to the rest of the Scorpions, too.
And now if I want to actually put the fear of the James brothers into the Seattle team, I have to admit to Marilyn I’m more than happy to have a partner that’s comfortable with DVP. Because that’s a perfectly normal thing to be worrying about before a damn home game.
The thoughts have me so distracted as I cross the main lobby of the arena, I don’t see the woman until I walk right into her.
“Oh, sorry!” she says. She stumbles as she tries to step back. It’s reflex to grab her waist and steady her.
“My bad,” I say as she tries to apologize again. “I wasn’t paying attention. You all right?”
And then I really get a glimpse of her: blonde hair that’s curled into loose waves nearly to her waist, a frilly white shirt and brown checkered skirt that hits just above her knees, and eyes such a bright green they feel like a living embodiment of springtime.
She’s like something out of my fantasies, honestly.
What the hell is a bombshell like her doing at our practice arena in the middle of the day? Jesus, did Marilyn get someone in the upper management to approve bringing on an intern or something to help with her scheming?
Her cheeks flush a dark red, and the faint smell of orchids emanates from her.
The scent nearly has me groaning. A hundred scenarios flash through my mind with the floral perfume.
Her on her knees in front of me, her cheeks hollowed out as her eyes water.
Her back arched and her hands flat on the glass of the practice rink as I kneel behind her.
Her straddling me in my Supra as I shove my knot into her.
My dick’s hard in an instant, and I have to swallow a groan. God, of course she’s a fucking Omega, too. As if the dating profile isn’t enough to make the next two hours of practice an effective torture. No, now I’ll have the faint smell of orchids to haunt me, too, along with a damn hard-on.
Lemongrass surges around us, thick with my sudden desire.
Her eyes widen even as her blush darkens another shade.
I carefully take a step away and drop my hand from her waist, shoving it into my jeans instead.
Before I can remember how to be anything but a bumbling moron, the main doors open and another woman walks into the building.
Despite not having seen her in nearly three months, I recognize my brother’s fiancée easily.
Billie’s dressed to the nines for an afternoon out, a slip dress that hits mid-thigh and knee high brown boots.
She has her hair back for once, showing off diamond stud earrings that only serve to highlight the gigantic rock she calls her engagement ring.
She looks every inch the hockey WAG that she is.
The woman in front of me glances over her shoulder, and her tension drops a fraction.
“Hi! You must be Billie,” she says. She turns entirely away from me and approaches the newcomer. “I’m Carys. Sorry I’m a bit late to meeting up with you.”
Carys.
Holy Jesus Christ, today is shaping up to be an absolute clusterfuck.
I shove down every thought I just had about her, trying to bleach them from my mind.
There’s no possible universe where I can walk back into the film room and look Ares in the eye with thoughts of Carys naked and panting running through my mind unchecked.
Hooking up with the assistant coach’s daughter is just asking for a nightmare of a problem, and I don’t need Marilyn hounding me any more than she already is.
I should have realized who she must be, but the stunning woman in front of me is a far cry from the shy teenager I’d seen in the periphery when I’d first joined the Scorpions five years ago.
Billie waves away the apology, her lips curling at one corner into a small half smile. Her gaze then flicks to me.
“I thought you had practice?” she asks me.
Carys looks between us with a frown.
“Yeah, just had a meeting. We should be done by three.”
“Did Paxton ask you about dinner tonight?” Billie crosses her arms over her stomach, that bit of smile disappearing.
She rarely smiles, though, so I’m not worried.
When I shake my head, she sighs. “Of course not. Well, we’re going to a steakhouse I saw mentioned on a food vlog in downtown tonight if you want to join us. ”
“Of course.” I wrap my arms around her shoulder for a quick hug. “I’ll have Paxton give me the details while we’re cleaning up after practice.”
I don’t dare look at Carys again before heading back toward the rink and the rest of my team.