What's Next
SO THIS IS WAR
PROLOGUE
LEVI
“I want him off my fucking team. Now!”
My testicles shrivel into dust as Coach Wood screams at Andie Lintour, the general manager for the Vancouver Agitators.
Spittle flies off his lip.
Eyebrows are slanted like knives, ready to strike.
And the veins in his neck protrude, making me question if it will be his hands that choke me or the scary, pulsing veins.
“Will, we can’t—”
“He was fucking my daughter! We can do whatever the hell I say.”
Did you wince? Because I did.
I know what you’re thinking. Posey, you’re about to lose your life at the hands of your fuming, spitting, hulking-out coach. And your assessment of the situation is a fair and accurate one.
Because yes, I’ve never felt closer to death than at this moment right now.
To bring you up to speed, yes, I was fucking his daughter.
Yes, it was in the locker room.
Yes, it was out in the open where anyone could walk in.
Was it stupid? Absolutely.
Have I lost my mind? One hundred percent.
Do I have any defense? Not one.
Nope, this was pure stupidity. This was a move by a desperate man brought to his knees.
A weak man.
A man with no morals.
A man infatuated with a woman he can’t control himself around.
“I understand the circumstances,” Andie says in her calming voice, “but we can’t get rid of a player because he was having relations with your daughter. Posey is one of the best defensemen in the entire league.” If I wasn’t so terrified, I’d puff my chest. “He’s under a no-trade clause. Even if we wanted to get rid of him, we couldn’t.”
I’m not sure if I should be grateful for that clause because, at the moment, it wouldn’t hurt to at least escape the darkness of death clouding Coach Wood’s expression.
“Then he’s benched,” Wood says as he looks me in the eyes, nostrils flaring. “Did you hear that, you bologna-loving motherfucker? You’re benched.”
I swallow deeply as I dig my fingertips into the armrests of my chair. Not sure why he had to drag the bologna into this, but I don’t bother asking as the vein in his bald head looks like it’s maxed out on stress. “I, uh, yes, I heard you the first time,” I say, causing him to grow angrier.
“Once again, Will, I don’t believe we can do that. We pay him a lot of money—”
“We do.” Will paces his office, and every time he goes near me, my ass clenches in anticipation of a ninja knife hand right to my trachea. “We pay him plenty of money, so why don’t we just put him on the injured list, say he has a sore toe, and then he can figure out with his agent what he’s doing for next year because he sure as fuck won’t be playing on my ice.”
Now, is Coach Wood being a touch extreme? Some might say yes without any context because who really wants to bench their starting defenseman? It’s not the smartest move as a coach, but the man has a good reason.
And sure, I shouldn’t be taking his side. I should be defending myself and the ability to have sexual relations with anyone I damn well please, but here’s the thing . . . the situation runs a little deeper than what you see on the surface.
It’s more complicated.
I didn’t just fuck some random girl on an arbitrary day in our locker room.
The coach’s daughter was riding me, completely naked, in the middle of the locker room after he struck a deal with me to hire his daughter as my assistant to teach her a lesson.
And before you even ask, no, the lesson was not on the science of how the penis meets the vagina.
It was a tough lesson about life.
So yeah, this really is on me.
**Raises hand** Yup, I take the blame.
Guilty.
The only question is, how the hell am I going to get around this? From the way he spoke so cruelly of my precious bologna, I don’t think offering him a daily sandwich—made by yours truly—is going to mend the severed ties we’ve created.
Nope, this will take a monumental, epic proposal of apologies, especially if I want to stay on this team. Which I do. My boys are here. My life is here.
She’s here . . .
Which means I need a plan.
But I swore I wouldn’t get them involved.
I said over and over again that I wouldn’t use their idiotic advice or poorly constructed ideas, but I think desperate times call for desperate measures.
It’s time to call on the Frozen Fellas.
