Chapter 1 Dominic #2
She drags her eyes back to mine, humor in their blue depths now.
“Dominic Lee, All-Star left defenseman for the Hawks last season, now for the Blizzard. Led all defensemen in the league in points last season with”—she pauses, her eyes slipping closed as she thinks—“ninety points.” She opens her eyes, pinning me with a triumphant look as her lips slowly tilt up. “Not bad for a defenseman.”
“Ninety-two actually,” I correct with a smile. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage . . .” I trail off, waiting for her to fill in her name.
“Briar.”
“Like a briar patch?”
She rolls her eyes like she’s heard that at least a million times in her life. “My mom said I was a thorn in her ass from the moment I was conceived.”
“You don’t seem that prickly to me,” I say, giving her a once-over.
“You don’t know me well enough to make that assumption.” Flipping her hair over her shoulder haughtily, she adds, “Nor will you.”
“Fair enough,” I say with a shrug, taking a sip of the fresh beer the bartender set in front of me. “You’re right. Maybe you’re a bitch. What do I know?”
Her mouth drops open, a little “uh” of shock escaping unbidden as she returns her full attention to me. I grin at her reaction. This woman doesn’t have a bitchy bone in her body. In fact, I’m pretty sure the yellow beaded bracelet on her wrist says “good vibes only.”
“Obviously not as much as you think if you’re over here flirting with me,” she murmurs as a hint of confusion flashes through her eyes, gone so fast I would’ve missed it if I wasn’t watching her as closely as I am.
But as though she’s remembered herself, she straightens her back and squares her shoulders.
“Especially given everyone in this place knows the team’s reputation. ”
“Not the champs? Which is better known as the league losers?” I suggest helpfully.
I can sense the laughter she’s trying to suppress, but what she says is, “I don’t think the other players would take too kindly to that label.”
“Not sure I give a fuck what they think,” I reply a bit too honestly. I look over my shoulder at Anderson, Sabine, and Pacholek, who are watching me with eager grins on their stupid faces. “Though I am curious about what you think.”
“Sure. I’ve heard that before,” Briar says, turning her whole body back to the bar. I can feel the dismissal in the move. “Nice meeting you, Dominic.”
My jaw tightens. I hate the way she says my name like she’s already written me off. No one’s ever written me off that easily, and I’m not sure I’m going to let her either.
“You’ll remember me, even if you don’t want to. My friends call me Dom.”
“Dominic,” she repeats emphatically, not even looking my way.
Never one to stay somewhere I’m not wanted, I pick up my beer and return to Tweedlefuck, Tweedlefucker, and Tweedlefuckest. They laugh and grin as they console me. “Don’t worry about it. Briar was never gonna give you the time of day.”
I don’t like her name on Anderson’s lips. It pisses me off for some reason I can’t explain. Except . . . “How did you know her name?”
They laugh harder. “That’s Coach Boothe’s daughter.”
These motherfuckers. They set me up. “You sent me over to talk to Coach’s daughter with zero warning? Real great welcome wagon you’ve got here. Fuck all of you.”
They try to sober up, mostly unsuccessfully, but Sabine manages to share, “No worries, man. We knew you weren’t gonna get anywhere with her. She’s anti-man, anti-player, and basically anti–anyone who isn’t her son. Truth be told, I don’t think she even likes Coach.”
“You still set me up,” I reiterate. “That’s some bullshit.” Even as I argue with them, I file away the information about Briar . . . no, about Coach’s daughter, I correct as I scold myself for getting caught in their tomfuckery.
“Just a little welcome-to-the-team fun. No harm, no foul,” Pacholek claims, seeming slightly more apologetic than his brethren. “Half of us have been through the same.”
I grit my teeth, not liking it but also well aware that guys do that sort of thing. Or at least some do. Apparently, the Blizzard being the some.
“She said something about the team’s reputation? What’s that about?”
The three guys look from one to another, but it’s Anderson that answers. “You don’t know?”
I shake my head. “Would I be asking if I did? I know what I saw on tape, and what I saw on the ice against you assholes, but I get the feeling that’s not what she meant.”
Anderson looks over both shoulders—which is never a good sign—and lowers his voice as he says, “Wanna know the one thing the Blizzard doesn’t have that all the other teams in the league do?” I stare at him, the answer obvious—of course I want to know, so spill it. “A WAG coordinator.”
I glance at Sabine and Pacholek in confusion, hoping they understand what the hell Anderson is talking about, but they don’t offer up any insight.
A WAG coordinator is the unlucky intern who shows up with stars in their eyes, thinking they’re going to get a behind-the-scenes look at sports for whatever their degree is in, but gets assigned to dealing with the players’ wives, girlfriends, and families.
It’s an often thankless job—making sure they have parking passes, travel arrangements, security escorts, and more, and all for the big result of zero gratitude.
Just an asterisked line item on their résumé they’re supposed to be grateful for.
“Who takes care of the WAGs then?” I ask. I shouldn’t be surprised, considering my lazy reception by the team.
“We don’t have any,” Anderson says. “Kipson’s wife was the closest thing anyone had, and now she’s gone. Thank fuck.” He lifts his eyes to the ceiling like that’s an answered prayer. “Right now every man on the Blizzard is single and unattached.”
“Clean house, baby!” Sabine brags, holding up his hand for a high five that Anderson returns, both of them grinning.
Pacholek takes pity on me and explains, “Our Blizzard motto is: ‘Women are a distraction. Keep your focus on the ice.’”
I look at the crowd of players, some of whom have women at their sides .
. . or on their laps, I realize, but it’s clear that they’re all Miss Right Now rather than Miss Right.
Well, ain’t that friendly. “You don’t date?
” I ask, wanting to clarify exactly what they’re saying.
After all, we’re all hockey players, not dating experts.
“Flowers and dinners? Nah. I don’t have time for that,” Anderson says with a laugh, as though the very idea is preposterous. “I stick with dicking around. Speaking of . . .” He trails off as he steps away, toward a passing woman with a margarita in her hand and a tight skirt around her hips.
Sabine basically does the same, a redhead instead of Anderson’s brunette, leaving me alone with Pacholek.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds.” I’m not sure if he’s trying to convince me or himself. “Sex is biological, but we need to stay focused. This is our year for the Cup.” Even as he says it, he glances toward Kipson, their supposed weak link.
“And everyone feels this way?” I question, sure there must be one man with some damn sense.
Pacholek shrugs. “Look at Coach,” he instructs, and I glance over my shoulder to find my new boss with a young brunette glued to his hip.
“He’s married to a woman half his age and she isn’t with him for his dick or for love.
It’s for the bank account and they both know it, even though she puts on a good show of being the queen at Coach’s side.
” As I watch, Coach leans into the waitress with a little too much familiarity to simply order a beer and his wife intentionally turns her head away as though she didn’t see it. “She’s wife number four, I think.”
I am not a man who’s looking for love and I don’t have time for some romantic fantasy story, but I’ve been in a relationship or two in my lifetime and I understand the value they hold.
Especially after seeing my parents, who are ridiculously, adorably in love after decades together.
And of course there’s Penny and Griffin, who, despite my early reservations about their relationship, prove one simple truth.
Love exists, it’s real, and it makes you better.
It doesn’t distract you from what matters, it brings it into sharper focus.
So the Blizzard being a whole team of dick slingers? No wonder they fell apart when it was put up or shut up time in the playoffs. And no wonder Kipson’s wife bailed on him. It must’ve been hell to withstand this type of constant barrage, for both Kipson and his ex.
I scan the room . . . from Coach and his sugar baby wife, to Anderson, who does in fact have a woman hanging on his every word like she’s ready to suck his dick in the bathroom, to all the other players in the bar, who are grinning, chatting, and mingling.
I look at every woman too. Of course, not all women are looking for love, either, certainly not in a bar and not with a professional athlete, but they deserve more than to be a hole on rotation for guys who probably won’t remember their names tomorrow.
I’ve never believed in so-called puck bunnies.
Yet this is my team now? The one I’m supposed to help?
A wave of nausea overtakes me, bile trying to rise up my throat. I need to get out of here. I knew this was going to be an awful year, but things just got so much worse. A whole season of locker room stories and one-upmanship? I can’t do it.
I slam my beer and leave the empty glass on the table, stepping away. Pacholek calls after me, “Dom? You good?”
I ignore him. I ignore all of them, heading for the door.
The only thing that stops me is . . . her.