As the captain, I can’t very well have the newest player on the team pushing me around, even if backing down is smarter. “You don’t want to start a fight with me, Butterson. Especially over something you know nothing about.”
His jaw tics. It’s obvious he wants to punch me. His fist slowly unclenches from my shirt. “Stay the fuck away from her.”
Coach stomps down the aisle, yelling for us to cool it. He sends Butterson to his seat and I follow him to the front so he can serve me a lecture. I deserve it, so I keep my mouth shut and take it.
“You’re the captain, not some rookie dickhead. How do you think it impacts the team if you go fucking around with your teammates’ damn sisters?
“I didn’t—”
“Save it, Waters.” Coach holds out his phone. A picture of me with my tongue in Violet’s mouth takes up the screen.
“Fuck.” I palm my face and lower my voice. “Has Butterson seen these?”
“I haven’t shown him, but it’s only a matter of time before he does. What if one of these dipshits did this with your sister?”
Coach makes a good point. If anyone touched Sunny, I’d rip his dick off and shove it down his throat with a ball-sac chaser. It’s something I should’ve considered prior to the wick dip with Violet. “I’m sorry, Coach.”
“I don’t want apologies. I want you to keep your head in the game.” He taps his temple. “We’re halfway through the season, and we’re only behind two teams. If we keep going like we are, we’ll make the playoffs again this year. This is an important series, Waters. Don’t fuck it up with your dick.”
“It won’t happen again. I’ll talk to Butterson and clear the air.”
“You better. He’s a solid player. I need him on point for the next game, not fixed on revenge because you’re getting fresh with his sister.”
“Stepsister.”
Coach gives me a disapproving look. “Like it matters.”
“I got it, Coach. I’ll get a handle on my handle.”
He waves me off, shaking his head. I ignore Butterson's glare as I take my seat a few rows in front of him. Any conversation will have to take place without witnesses present, and I need time to figure out what to say.
The lecture from Coach and Butterson’s outburst put last night into perspective. Clarity can be a bitch. I already had the impression Violet wasn’t really a one-night stand kind of girl. Not because she said as much—it’s what they all say before they get on their knees or their back—but because she truly didn’t seem the type. Even though she practically jumped me both times.
She was nervous from the beginning—and hilarious. While I didn’t force her to come to my room or have sex—twice—if she hadn’t gotten locked out of hers, I might not have convinced her to come to mine. Regardless, I’d do it again if given the chance. It’s hard not to be into a girl who tells you she loves your cock repeatedly as she comes. This situation makes me the kind of jerk I never want to be.
By the time we get to Tampa, everyone is bagged, so the first order of business is checking into the hotel, getting settled, and resting up for tomorrow’s practice.
Darren and I share a room. Our accommodations are standard: two double beds, a couch, flat screen, and a minibar stocked with water and energy drinks. Darren tosses his bag on the closest bed and gives me a look. I’m waiting for the questions. He’s never been part of the puck bunny scene. I envy his ability to say fuck it and fuck the guys. I wish I’d had a similar mindset at the beginning of my NHL career.
Darren grabs two bottles of water from the minibar and tosses me one. “So what happened?”
I crack the lid and drain half of it in two gulps. I’m dehydrated from last night’s activities. “Nothing.”
“Right. A giant hickey magically appeared on your neck.”
“Like I said, I met a girl in the elevator.” Normally, I’d be upfront with Darren, but the situation is complicated.
Darren shakes his head. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
He disappears into the bathroom. I’m not sure if he actually knows what I did or if he’s playing mind games. The shower turns on. His questions will wait; Darren takes long ass showers.
I check my phone for the tenth time today. I have twelve emails from my agent, Dick. He lives up to his name, but he gets the job done. I’m inclined to ignore his emails until I see one titled: ENDORSEMENT OFFER MUTHAFCUKA! I open it and scan the email. It’s not an actual offer, but it’s close. I’m a top contender for the Sports Pro Elite campaign. This is huge. It’s what I’ve been waiting my entire goddamned career for. This kind of endorsement could set me up for years, and it could bring more endorsements with it.