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"Wait. What?" Kristján spins to look at Coach. He looks traumatized. Kris doesn't handle puck bunnies any better than I do. He's our captain, so they're always chasing after him. He can't stand it. I used to empathize. Now his pain is my pleasure. He's given me as much hell as anyone else. "He's fucking with us, isn't he?"
Coach shoots him a long-suffering look. He's perfected those over the years. MacAthie is like an uncle to most of us. He pushes us hard and isn't afraid to tell us to get our heads out of our asses. He's also not afraid to drop wisdom on us when we need it. He's one of the best coaches I've ever had. Alexander Briggs ranked right up there with him.
"Isn't he?" Kristján asks again. The horror in his voice is worth all the shit he's been sending my way tonight. Serves the fucker right. "Coach, c'mon. Tell me he's fucking with us."
"Nope," Coach says.
"Coach!"
I duck out of the locker room, leaving a roar of protests in my wake.
Kelsey, our publicist, smacks me in the chest with a bouquet of roses without even looking up from her tablet. "Here," she says, not wasting any time. She never wastes time. She's five-foot, three-inches of ball-busting terror. When she's not finding new and inventive ways to torture me, she's actually kind of decent. Like an annoying little sister. "We'll announce the winner and put a spotlight on her seat. You stand on the ice and ask her to be your Valentine."
"What if she says no?"
Kelsey looks at me this time. She blinks, eyeing me like I'm an idiot…which is a fair assumption after the shit I said to Laney, but still.
"Why would she turn you down? It's not like she actuallyknowsyou."
Coach barks laughter.
I scowl at Kelsey. "I thought you were our publicist, not a merciless savage."
"You pay me to be your publicist. You get the merciless savage for free." She bats her lashes at me and then her expression drops into a threatening glare. "Don't fuck this up, Wes. I'll murder you in your sleep if you do."
"I won't."
She and Coach share a dubious look.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter. "I'm not that big of a jackass."
Kelsey snorts.
I growl, taking the bouquet from her when she smacks me with it again. There's no way I'm going to fuck this up. I have an angel to woo, which means I need her to agree to be my date. Which means I have to be less like my surly ass and more like Theo or Gray. That should be easy, right?
"You're sure they picked the right girl?" I ask, suddenly worried I will fuck this up. Laney wasn't exactly impressed with me earlier. I don't know if it was the puck to the head talking or if standing in front of her did it, but I said a lot of stupid shit. I don't have a concussion though. Coach made sure our doctor checked me out before the game.
"Does it matter?" Kelsey asks, exasperated with me.
"Yes," I growl, trying to straighten my hair as best I can. Sweating in a helmet isn't a good look for anyone.
Kelsey opens her mouth to respond and then freezes. "Holy shit," she whispers, her green eyes wide. "You really like this girl."
"She's going to marry me," I say and then eye the roses critically. There aren't very many of them. We should have bought more. Laney deserves more than a dozen roses.
"Holy shit," Kelsey whispers.
I ignore her.
"Let's get this over with," Coach mutters, shaking his head.
I guess a dozen roses will have to do then.
Jesus. Why am I so nervous? I may not know shit about dating or women, but I know a hell of a lot about winning. All I have to do is go out there and win her. I've won the Stanley Cup four times. Winning Laney Briggs can't be much harder than that, right?
Fuck.
"I need more roses," I growl.
