Page 4 of Puck, Marry, Kill
She drags her eyes back to mine, humor in their blue depths now. “Dominic Lee, All-Star left defenseman for the Hawks last season, now for the Blizzard. Led all defensemen in the league in points last season with”—she pauses, her eyes slipping closed as she thinks—“ninety points.” She opens her eyes, pinning me with a triumphant look as her lips slowly tilt up. “Not bad for a defenseman.”
“Ninety-two actually,” I correct with a smile. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage ...” I trail off, waiting for her to fill in her name.
“Briar.”
“Like a briar patch?”
She rolls her eyes like she’s heard that at least a million times in her life. “My mom said I was a thorn in her ass from the moment I was conceived.”
“You don’t seem that prickly to me,” I say, giving her a once-over.
“You don’t know me well enough to make that assumption.” Flipping her hair over her shoulder haughtily, she adds, “Nor will you.”
“Fair enough,” I say with a shrug, taking a sip of the fresh beer the bartender set in front of me. “You’re right. Maybe you’re a bitch. What do I know?”
Her mouth drops open, a little “uh” of shock escaping unbidden as she returns her full attention to me. I grin at her reaction. This womandoesn’t have a bitchy bone in her body. In fact, I’m pretty sure the yellow beaded bracelet on her wrist says “good vibes only.”
“Obviously not as much as you think if you’re over here flirting with me,” she murmurs as a hint of confusion flashes through her eyes, gone so fast I would’ve missed it if I wasn’t watching her as closely as I am. But as though she’s remembered herself, she straightens her back and squares her shoulders. “Especially given everyone in this place knows the team’s reputation.”
“Not the champs? Which is better known as the league losers?” I suggest helpfully.
I can sense the laughter she’s trying to suppress, but what she says is, “I don’t think the other players would take too kindly to that label.”
“Not sure I give a fuck what they think,” I reply a bit too honestly. I look over my shoulder at Anderson, Sabine, and Pacholek, who are watching me with eager grins on their stupid faces. “Though I am curious about what you think.”
“Sure. I’ve heard that before,” Briar says, turning her whole body back to the bar. I can feel the dismissal in the move. “Nice meeting you, Dominic.”
My jaw tightens. I hate the way she says my name like she’s already written me off. No one’s ever written me off that easily, and I’m not sure I’m going to let her either.
“You’ll remember me, even if you don’t want to. My friends call me Dom.”
“Dominic,” she repeats emphatically, not even looking my way.
Never one to stay somewhere I’m not wanted, I pick up my beer and return to Tweedlefuck, Tweedlefucker, and Tweedlefuckest. They laugh and grin as they console me. “Don’t worry about it. Briar was never gonna give you the time of day.”
I don’t like her name on Anderson’s lips. It pisses me off for some reason I can’t explain. Except ... “How did you know her name?”
They laugh harder. “That’s Coach Boothe’s daughter.”
These motherfuckers. They set me up. “You sent me over to talk to Coach’s daughter with zero warning? Real great welcome wagon you’ve got here. Fuck all of you.”
They try to sober up, mostly unsuccessfully, but Sabine manages to share, “No worries, man. We knew you weren’t gonna get anywhere with her. She’s anti-man, anti-player, and basically anti–anyone who isn’t her son. Truth be told, I don’t think she even likes Coach.”
“You still set me up,” I reiterate. “That’s some bullshit.” Even as I argue with them, I file away the information about Briar ... no, aboutCoach’s daughter, I correct as I scold myself for getting caught in their tomfuckery.
“Just a little welcome-to-the-team fun. No harm, no foul,” Pacholek claims, seeming slightly more apologetic than his brethren. “Half of us have been through the same.”
I grit my teeth, not liking it but also well aware that guys do that sort of thing. Or at least some do. Apparently, the Blizzard being thesome.
“She said something about the team’s reputation? What’s that about?”
The three guys look from one to another, but it’s Anderson that answers. “You don’t know?”
I shake my head. “Would I be asking if I did? I know what I saw on tape, and what I saw on the ice against you assholes, but I get the feeling that’s not what she meant.”
Anderson looks over both shoulders—which is never a good sign—and lowers his voice as he says, “Wanna know the one thing the Blizzard doesn’t have that all the other teams in the league do?” I stare at him, the answer obvious—of course I want to know, so spill it. “A WAG coordinator.”
I glance at Sabine and Pacholek in confusion, hoping they understand what the hell Anderson is talking about, but they don’t offer up any insight.
