Page 10 of Ice Wolf
My panties were damp.
The breaking news bulletin forced a full-blown laugh. A highly respected national news agency was doing a full report on the possibility the poor man was a werewolf.
What in God’s name had the world come to?
Even though I’d sworn off men forever, The Savage didn’t deserve such unfounded bullshit.
Everyone knew there was no such thing as werewolves.
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.
