Page 29 of Playing Dirty
"Especially the sock." He snorts. "So, come on. Spill. I've never seen you this twisted over a girl. Are you actually thinking of giving up the bachelor life and pursuing a real relationship? Youdoknow those usually last longer than a week, right?"
"I am aware," I say dryly. "And it doesn't matter anyway. She doesn't like me, I don't want to be the kind of asshole who can't take a hint, and she has a flat-out rule against dating athletes. So it's a non-starter."
Jonesy nods, thoughtful. "Why the no-athletes thing? Bad history?"
"Some pathetic excuse for a husband who treated her like absolute shit," I say, a fresh wave of rage hitting my gut.
I've played the field, sure, but I've never been a cheat. There's nothing more cowardly. If you want someone else, just walk. And what kind of loser thinks he can do better than Margot?
"Shit. That's a steep hill to climb," Jonesy says, sounding actually sympathetic. "Think you can break the streak?"
"Hey!" Betts bellows from across the aisle. "You two finished with the therapy session? Get some fucking music on!"
"Yeah, fuck off, Betts." Jonesy tosses a towel at his head.
Betts snags it mid-air with a dramatic flourish that gets the lads hooting, takes a bow for the room, and hooks his phone up to the speaker. Enya comes blasting out, which seems like a strange choice unless you know Betts. Several of the guys start groaning loudly in protest.
Jonesy shakes his head, then looks back at me. "Well, you'll just have to lock in tonight. It's better for the squad, and maybe the performance will win her over."
"Can we please move on to a different topic? I'm begging you," I mutter, keeping my attention fixed on my laces.
"Alright, fine." Jonesy lets out a short laugh and tilts his chin toward the lineup card pinned above my stall. "Anderson's dressing for them tonight, by the way. Even with the state of his shoulder."
"Of course he is," I say, continuing to work the tape around my blade. "The man's a fucking martyr; he'd crawl out of a hospital bed if it meant a playoff game."
"He's going to come for you, Cillian. You've got to be ready for that."
"Obviously."
"I'm not just being an ass. Just... don't lose your head out there."
I look at him deadpan. "Aye, cheers for the advice. Why haven't I thought of that?"
Jonesy snorts. "Relax, you're still a better talent than half the guys in this league on your worst day. You've just been acting aggressively reckless since you returned to the ice. You need to lock in. Find your center."
I chuckle. "Aye, I'll get right on that. Are you actually trying to settle me down or just wind me up?"
"Wind you up," he says, that familiar grin widening.
I shake my head at him, half laughing, because the bastard is not wrong about that either. He gives my knee a final slap before rising and heading back toward his own stall to finish with his gear.
I stay where I am for a minute, forearms on my knees, letting the weight of the evening settle. The arena above is a rising wall of noise, the playoffs are days away, and the air in here finally feels electric again, the way it hasn't in months.
This is the run for the Cup. I take a breath and reach for that icy focus, the kind that used to roll in like fog the second the pressure peaked. It's been harder to find lately.
Then there's Margot, somewhere up in the crowd. The thought of her is a strange anchor and a spark of adrenaline all at once. I'm desperate to impress her tonight, though I should probably keep the unnecessary recreational violence to a minimum. Ease her into the barbarism, as it were.
I finish lacing my left skate, grab my helmet from the shelf, and push up off the bench.
"Right," I mutter, barely audible over the Enya. "Time to go to work."
8
Margot
From our VIP seats above the glass, the rink is a blinding white stage. The arena is filling up and the building hums with anticipation as music pulses overhead. The players are out for warm-ups, both teams sharing the ice for now, skating in loose loops on their own halves. My eyes keep drifting to Cillian as he glides effortlessly across the ice.
Apparently this is the final game of the regular season, and since the team has already locked up their playoff spot, I've been told tonight is "basically one giant party." The entire arena appears to be a sea of black and gold, making my blazer and heels feel like I took a wrong turn on the way to a board meeting.
