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“Coach.” Carter sticks his head around from the shower room. Steam flows out from the door. I turn away from the diagram I’ve been drawing to show the team what formation I want us to start with tomorrow night.
“Yes?”
“We have a problem.”
I try not to sigh. The closer we get to the opening game the more high strung the team is getting. I’m not exactly chill as a pill myself, but I’m the coach and they need me to stay strong.
“What is it?” I ask, walking over to where he’s standing.
“These towels. They’re crap. They’re not soaking up anything.”
Max pulls the door open wider. “They don’t even wrap around our waists.” He demonstrates and yeah, the coverage leaves a lot to be desired.
Alot.I’m going to have to wash my eyes out with bleach tonight.Again.
“Just dry off as best you can,” I tell them. This is the thing about being a coach. You end up dealing with all the little shitty complaints, no matter how unimportant they are. But at this stage of the season preparations, anything that rocks the delicate ecosystem of the team is unwanted.
And unnecessary.
And those towels definitely aren’t our usual ones. I grab a spare one that hasn’t been near any of the team’s balls and look at the label. It’s a different service. Somebody’s switched up the contracts. I have a good idea who that is.
It’s a minor irritant but I’m irritated all the same.
So once we’ve finished talking about our strategy and the team has left, I head upstairs to the office block and knock on Mackenzie Hunter’s door. I don’t want to have this conversation. I shouldn’t have to have it.
But I’m the coach and I’ll do it. Lucky me.
“Come in.”
When I open the door she’s by the filing cabinet, bent down, her gray skirt tight across her behind. She has her hair pulled back and she’s wearing glasses again. She’s every schoolboy’s librarian fantasy.
If you like that sort of thing. Which I don’t but my body seems to. One reason I’ve been deliberately avoiding her all week.
“Is everything okay?” she asks, turning to look at me. The smile that’s pulling at her lips melts away when she sees my expression.
“Did you change the towels?” I ask her, my voice more irritated than I’d planned for.
She blinks. “Yes. The service we were using was extortionate. I found another one for seventy percent of the price.” She looks so damn pleased with herself.
“Can you stand up please?” Her ass is distracting me. I need to stop looking at it. And turning away to look at the wall while we’re having a conversation isn’t exactly going to help.
She runs her tongue along her bottom lip – not helping either –then stands. She’s wearing a red blouse today. It has a v-neck and I can see the beginning of her cleavage.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not Goran, I don’t pant like a puppy at the sight of a woman. And yet here I am, wondering how soft her skin would feel if I ran my finger down that perfect line between the swell of her breasts.
Fuck.
This is what happens when you don’t get laid for way too long. I blame my experience with Cassie. My ex. When she found out I was leaving the NHL, she took me aside and told me that she was sorry, but she just wasn’t down with the AHL.
I wasn’t exactly attached to her – it was more of a friendship with mutual benefits – but it still stung. But I understood it, too. She’s an actress and is trying to get noticed. A boyfriend in the NHL helps.
Last I heard she’d been flirting with the guy who caused the injury that ended my career. Hart and I were rivals ever since we both joined as Rookies and it grates me that he was the one to finish my knee off.
Okay, more than grates. It pisses me off. And is one more reason why I’m going to make this team into a winning one, even if it kills me.
“You promised me you’d run anything that affects the team by me first.” I say to her.
“They’re just towels,” she points out. “Nobody cares about those.”
