Page 1 of Dirty Puck

CHAPTER

ONE

REECE

“Bishop!” Coach shouted, running his hand over his bald scalp, apparently so irritated that he knocked the Copperheads cap right off his head. “Why the fuck is your wife here again? You two joined at the hip?”

“It’s for morale. The men love her treats. They love talking to her and I figured today they could use a dose of good.”

“She doesn’t need to constantly feed them treats. They’ll lose their edge.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jones said around a mouthful of lemon square. I had to admit, the woman made a damn good lemon square.

“HaveIlost my edge?” Bishop argued at the same time. “They’re high in protein, low in carbs, and taste great. The macros are excellent for a workout. And honestly, telling Jayce not to bake is like telling the sun not to shine.”

“Whatever,” Coach mumbled. “Take a seat.”

I got he was pissed, but taking it out on Bishop’s wife made him look like an ass. She was one of the good ones, and yeah, we all enjoyed her baked goods. Way too much. She’d trained in France I thought, but not my monkey, not my circus.

Bonner dropped into the seat to the left of Bishop. Those two were tight. I dropped down in the seat to his right with Antonov next to me.

The four men down the line from Bishop, Antonov, Winstead, Bonner, and Dallas all looked torn up with Bonner being the worst of them. The smell of bad decisions wafted off our starting wing. He’d been making a lot of bad decisions in recent months, but he hadn’t started it this time. Still, it served them right for not walking away.

“Shut it,” Coach shouted. “I don’t have time to listen to your excuses. This is a team. You live by the team and die by the team—that means, one of you fucks up, then youallface the consequences.” There were some groans from the others in the room, but not as many as I bet Coach wanted. The man got off on being a major asshole on a good day, so having to bring us in here today, I figured he was about to go Hulk smash on the lot of us.

“The other dude started it,” Bonner called out.

“Does my face say I give a shit? You’re on thin ice enough as it is, Bonner. Yesterday was the last time I get a call about a goddamn bar brawl. TMZ has paps stalking every move you make. Your extracurriculars play out like a spectator sport for the masses. It’s making the team look bad. You know who cares if the team looks bad? Logue.” Logue, the team owner. “The man who pays your salaries. You know who he’s taking it out on?” Coach jutted his thumb at his chest. “Me. I will not take the blame for the shit you do outside the rink.”

A few of our teammates shot daggers at me, Bishop, and Jones. We were just sitting here. Bishop and Jones were family men and me, I never fought. Not anymore. I liked to lose myself in a sweet, tight pussy. Bonus points if she let me take her ass.

Coach went on. “You get paid to play hockey, not to fuck and fight. You want to fight, turn to boxing. You want to fuck,make porn—but you won’t be doing it while employed as a Copperhead.”

What the fuck did he mean by that? Fight orfuck? We were allowed to let off steam. It was essential to keep focused.

“A new rule is going into effect today. No more picking up women in bars. The one-night stands are done for the time being, and no more drunken episodes. Clubbing is out. You violate these rules and you’re looking at suspension.”

Wait a goddamn second—this just became my monkeyandmy circus. “You can’t threaten our jobs because of consensual sex,” I shouted.

“One-night stands talk. They give interviews. I’m not saying don’t fuck, but get yourself a steady piece of ass. That’s it. Get to the ice.”

After taking a moment to calm down and not break Bonner’s neck, I ran my hand down my face, taking in a few slow breaths and then when I felt in control, I joined my teammates in the locker room.

A few stragglers stayed behind, including me so I could finish dressing, when there was a knock on the door and Bree, the chick who cleaned the locker room, stuck her head in.

“Everyone decent?” she called into the room.

“Well, we’re dressed,” Dallas, our backup goalie, said, laughing as Bree pushed her cleaning cart inside. “But I’m willing to rectify that if you are,” he finished.

“Did your mother name you Wi-Fi?” she quipped.

“What?” He laughed. “No.”

“Must be why there’s no connection.”

I coughed out a, “Loser.”

Good for him having the balls to try. Even in an ugly uniform, she was still one of the hottest pieces to grace this city. If I had to guess, I’d say she might have been early twenties—maybe eight or nine years younger than me. That long, curly hair I longed to run my fingers through at least once, not to mention her curves. Those curves got herdancing at a local strip club called “Slits.” This always seemed like a pretty good job, so who knew why she chose to dance there.

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