Riggs seems entirely nonplussed by the dressing down in front of a room full of people. He merely stands there, staring at the coach and waiting for instructions.
Coach growls, pointing to the chairs. “Sit down, but plan on meeting with me later.”
Riggs shrugs, shuffling up the outer aisle to the back row, which is empty. All eyes follow him, players twisting in their seats to watch his ascent. When he slumps into a seat, I turn around and look down the row to my teammates. Jim shakes his head in disappointment while Jett makes a motion with his index finger slicing across his throat to indicate Riggs just killed his chances on this team.
Me… I’m not so sure. He’s a talented player, and I expect Coach will give him so many extra drills after practice he’ll have to crawl home, but I doubt he’ll get cut just for being late. At least this one time. Happens again, that’s another story.
Coach finishes the rest of the introductions before turning the meeting over to Dominik.
Even though he’s the owner of this team, one of the richest men in America, and is practically hockey royalty, he insists everyone on the team calls him by his first name. He’s just that genuine of a person. He walks up to the podium, and for the next fifteen minutes, he pumps us up. It’s clear his eye is on a repeat championship, and he’ll accept nothing less.
As he finishes, he pointedly looks across the room, a slow roving gaze landing on each player. He focuses the longest on Riggs in the back row before saying, “If any one of you here don’t feel like you have the heart to give me two hundred percent effort in this coming year, you’re not welcome here. I’ll find you a decent trade, and we’ll put someone in your spot we can count on. Otherwise, I expect in about nine months, we’ll be hoisting that Cup above our shoulders once more. Are we in agreement?”
The players and staff erupt in cheers, claps, and stomps. I twist in my seat to glance back at Riggs, who is giving a slow, insolent clap with defiant eyes leveled directly at Dominik.
Yeah… he’s pissed he was called out, but he’ll get over it.
After the meeting, we all head to the locker room as we’re going to run drills for the rest of the morning. We each have our own open-faced cubby where our practice gear is already neatly hung and waiting. We’re separated in rows by the line we play on, which means Riggs is nearby, just two cubbies down from mine.
I move over, tap him on the shoulder, and stick my hand out. “Riggs… I’m Kane Bellan. I’m fairly new to the team, too. Welcome.”
To my surprise, he takes my hand and gives it a firm shake but doesn’t give a reply greeting. I introduce him to Jim, Jett, and Bain, and handshakes are exchanged, but again, Riggs remains silent as he turns to his cubby and starts to get dressed in his gear.
I shrug and move back to my area, making small talk with my other linemates to dispel the awkwardness Riggs is creating. I don’t know what’s up his ass, but I’ll figure it out later.
Before I take my clothes off, because having a serious talk while naked is not an option, I move over to Jett, who is just starting to pull his t-shirt over his head.
I give him a light punch on his arm to get his attention, and he turns to face me with a smile. “What’s up?” he asks.
“Mollie’s off-limits to you,” I say.
His eyebrows raise slightly in surprise, but a smirk immediately transforms his face. “Oh, yeah. Says who?”
“Me,” I growl and step in toward him, lowering my voice. “Off. Limits.”
Expecting a bit of a fight from him, because, after all… Mollie is all kinds of gorgeous and amazing. I don’t expect him to just give up.
Instead, he tips his head back and laughs, giving me a condescending pat on my shoulder. “Yeah, I kind of already knew that.”
I blink in surprise. “You did?”
“Yeah, dude,” he chuckles. “At dinner, all she did was talk about you. How great you were… She went on and on. I sort of got the clue then.”
“But… we’re just friends,” I mutter, wondering why Mollie would do that during her date. At that point, we were just friends.
“Are you?” he replies slyly.
“Are we what?”
“Just friends?”
Images of just how much we’ve moved past friendship flood my mind. We spent most of the weekend in bed, raging hot and carnal through my memories.
“Don’t answer that question.” Jett snickers. “I can see the answer written all over your face.”
It embarrasses me how transparent I’m being because I’ve never been befuddled by a woman before. Before I can come up with something semi-coherent that might restore my cool factor, Jim slaps my shoulder from behind, apparently eavesdropping.
“So, you and Mollie are an item now?” he asks.
“Um…” I manage to mumble.
“That’s awesome, man,” Bain says, joining the group conversation I had no intention of having with these boneheads. “She’s a great girl.”
“Thanks,” I say. I move back to my cubby, wanting to disengage from this discourse.
“So… Kane Bellan is now a kept man.” Jett eggs me on, his voice dropping low and sexy. “I bet the two of you—”
“Don’t even go there, dude,” I warn, but it’s done with a slight smile. They want to give me shit, and there’s nothing wrong with a little ribbing. But I’m sure as hell not going to share the details of what changed our relationship.
That’s for Mollie and me alone.
“Let’s go,” Bishop Scott bellows from the front of the locker room. “You ladies have better things to do than gossip. Get dressed, then get on the ice.”
His comments weren’t necessarily directed to my second linemates and me since everyone has been chattering away as we suit up, but it snaps me into focus.
While not all conversation stops, it dulls, and we move quickly to put our gear on. I put Mollie out of my mind, for the moment, anyway. I’m eager to get my blades back on the ice to start working toward that championship Coach and Dominik have demanded we bring home again.
CHAPTER 10
Mollie
The smell of spices permeates the air. Samson lays in the middle of the kitchen floor, nose raised to sniff.
My phone is tucked between my ear and my shoulder while I measure out just a teaspoon of cumin.
“Are you sure only a teaspoon?” I ask my mom.
She’s been on the phone with me for fifteen minutes, patiently walking me through her spicy chicken recipe she created years ago, which has become my favorite meal she makes when I visit.
But tonight, I wanted to make something homemade for Kane for dinner, and I didn’t know what to do. When I think of home and comfort, I think of my mom’s spicy chicken, so I knew that’s what I wanted to make.
“Trust me,” my mom replies with a laugh. “There are enough other spices in the dish. You only need a teaspoon of cumin.”
“Got it.” I tip the measuring spoon over the bowl of cut-up chicken breasts, officially making it the seventh spice I’ve added.
“And that’s it,” she says. “Just stir it up well, then let it sit for about thirty minutes before sautéing it. And don’t use oil. Use butter. Trust me on that.”