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Well, I’m not about to give him that option. He wants to be an overbearing jerk? Fine. But Lily always said you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.
Duke
Thefirstdayoftraining camp is a disaster. Half our veterans huffed and puffed through it. These guys don’t seem to have done any cardio this summer beyond getting off the couch for a beer and sitting back down. The new guys—and there are a lot of them—are in better shape. They need to be. If they want to differentiate themselves as rookies, they need to come in as prepared as possible. Most of our young guys are on one-year contracts. They don’t have the time to slack off.
I call the entire group together in the meeting room before lunch. The coaches make themselves scarce.
Last year was a fiasco. We struggled from the start, plagued by bad morale, thanks to a few overpaid and entitled prima donnas. When Brandon McPhee, an up-and-coming center, started talking to the press about the locker-room infighting, most of which he caused, things deteriorated. Coach Hargreeves backed me at the end of the season, going to bat with the organization and management. At the end, I was the last man standing. During free agency, our team traded five of our veteran high-profile players, including McPhee, and replaced them with young, upcoming prospects. I could tell from management spending that they are rebuilding for the future, and my guess is they don’t have high hopes for a playoff run this year.
But I do. These guys will be here in the years to come, but I won’t. This is my time.
We’re in for an uphill battle. As I stare at my team, I try to come up with something inspiring. Except I’m not much of an orator. So, I drop my hands on my hips and lean in on my strengths—honesty and straight shooting.
I inhale, let my gaze pause on each of the guys in front of me, and I say, “Today was a fucking shit show.”
At one end of the room, Colt Carmichael snorts before he covers his mouth. This is his fourth year on the team, so he’s used to my pep talks. Besides, he doesn’t have much to worry about. Of all my veterans, he and his roommate, Rocco Barnett, are the most prepared. They’re good guys, serious about their careers. They might partake in the nightlife downtown, and I’ve heard rumors about their exploits with the ladies. But they show up, work hard, and keep their fucking traps shut. So, I ignore him, but stare down Charlie Haskins and Finn Kennedy. Last year, the two defensemen mostly stayed out of the team drama, and management didn’t target them for trades. But they certainly haven’t proved that they deserve to still be here yet.
“Seems like a bunch of you spent more time on the beach sipping margaritas when you should have been in the gym.” I get a few dirty looks, but they’re from guys who deserve my ire. To make sure the young guys who came in prepared don’t think I’m pissed at them, I catch a few gazes and soften my tone. “Those of you who took their off-season seriously, kudos. Mason,” I call out to Hunter Mason, a promising recent sign from Chesterboro University who got an invitation to training camp, “and Lancaster”—I point to Travis Lancaster, a defenseman we just called up from the minors—“you both particularly impressed me. Keep it up.”
I sigh. Starting the season by ripping them a new one probably isn’t setting the right tone, so I search for something better. Again, I opt for honesty. “Last year was a mess. Our team spent more time scoring space on sports gossip columns than scoring goals, and we ended with the worst record in the eastern conference. This is a new year, and we’re a new group. We get to decide how we move forward from here. I don’t want to spend another year caught up in all that shit. Let’s show our fans and ourselves we have what it takes to make a run for the Cup.” That’s met with some clapping and a few hoots.
“Starting tomorrow, I’ll be leading runs.” There are a few groans, but no one has the balls to do it loud enough to attract my direct attention. “Every morning. We’ll meet here before practice. Gentlemen, we have a month until our season opener. Until that time, you need to live, breathe, and eat hockey. No distractions. We need your complete focus. That starts at six tomorrow morning, assholes. I’ll see you all here then.” I motion around the room. “Check the board before you leave. There is a list of meetings.”
I adjourn my pep talk, and my teammates stand, gather their things, and chat for a few before they head out. I toss my personal stuff in my bag and check my phone. There are two texts from June earlier today asking about her car.
Frowning, I pull up a new message and text my mechanic. I had him pick her car up this morning. Last night, when June was talking about driving Tabby around, it made me anxious. I don’t even like Tabby’s grandmother driving her, and Nancy’s car is only a couple years old. If June is going to insist on using her own car, I want to make sure it’s in good shape. I told Mike, my mechanic, to run it through its paces, check tires, brakes, the works. I hoped he would have it back before she noticed it was missing.
I guess I was wrong.
I glance through the window next to the door. As if on cue, June Harlow appears, and Tabby’s wandering beside her, licking an ice cream cone. Today, June’s wearing a flowing red skirt and a sleeveless white blouse with flip-flops. It’s hot, so she pulled her long red hair up in a messy bun on top of her head. Even from here, I can tell she’s not wearing any makeup. Every single freckle is on display.
That’s right—I gave her my normal camp schedule. That would tell her conditioning is over, and we have an hour’s break. I’m still surprised to see her, though.
A low whistle draws my attention back to my teammates. “Who’s that?” Rocco Barnett leans forward, staring out the window. He must have noticed my distraction.
I glare at him. “Tabby’s nanny. Hands off.” I hold his eyes until he shows me his palms.
“Got it, Duke. Off-limits.” He winks at me. “She’s all yours.”
I cross my arms over my chest and scowl. “She’s not mine. I mean, she’s my nanny. Or Tabby’s nanny.” I inhale, regroup. “She’s my employee. Which means you all need to treat her with complete respect.” I don’t know the dating habits of the new guys, so I focus my irritation on Barnett and Colt Carmichael, my two known playboys. Colt chuckles, and Rocco tosses me a salute.
They head for the locker room door, still obviously amused by me. I glare at them. As I push through the door to calm down my new nanny, she makes eye contact. Her face splits into a bright grin. It takes almost superhuman power to ignore the way her smiles heat me up.
I need to take my own advice.
Hands off.
June
Duke’sstillwearingworkoutclothes. His hair is wet, falling in wavy tendrils around his face. Yesterday, I objectively considered him the best-looking man I’d ever met, when he was telling me we didn’t have to be friends, but today, covered in sweaty man muscles? He’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, men in movies and magazines included.
As he approaches me, I struggle to recall everything I planned to say to him. When he stops in front of me, all six feet a couple inches of just-worked-out flesh, I need to shake my head to clear it. Scrambling to recover, I paste a smile on my face. “Tabby wanted to see you. For your first day of camp.”
Next to me, Tabby stops licking her ice cream. “Nuh uh. You wanted ice cream.”
Traitor. “I did. And we brought you some yogurt. Tabby said you don’t eat ice cream during the season.” I hold out the to-go container to him.
He stares at it like it’s a snake. Or more like it could be a Trojan horse. His eyes narrow. “You brought me ice cream?”
