“He’s my physical therapist. I had no idea he coached hockey. He never mentioned it.” Damon winced. “Although, after a few of my choice words, I have a feeling he might not be so pleasant Monday when I go in to see him again.”
“Not smart, doofus.” Marlie huffed. “Next time you need help talking to someone, ask me. I’ll set the person straight while you sit back looking pretty.”
He smirked. “I knew you thought I was hot.”
Jeff laughed.
“You, go back to our seats.” To Damon, she said, “And you, shut up and coach. And don’t be too long. I’m hungry.”
“Me too.” He gave her a thorough onceover that had Jeff hooting. Then he turned to the players. “Hey, Mavericks. On me.”
To Marlie’s discomfort, Damon walked out onto the ice. With his bum knee.
But who was she to tell him what not to do? Certainly not his girlfriend.
Marlie forced herself to ignore Damon’s lack of sense and dragged Jeff with her back to their seats. Then she noticed the crowding stands. “There aren’t normally this many people when they practice, are there?”
“No. Huh. Someone must have let slip that Demon Sinclair was in the house.”
She studied him. “Someone, hmm?”
“Hey, it wasn’t me. I’m just here to be with you.” He leaned closer once they sat. “Now I want details. And they’d better be good.”
She gave them while they watched Damon cajole the players on the ice. Though he’d started out by barking orders, he introduced himself and generously encouraged questions. He had a great temperament for helping others, it seemed. Despite the ferocious appearance and tendency to yell, he had patience.
Watching the team play, observing without commenting for a bit, Damon followed with sound advice on correcting form and stickwork. She didn’t play hockey, but Marlie understood him well enough. He was patient and didn’t cringe too much at the team’s attempts at playing.
Her brothers weren’t bad, but Toby, one of the nurses, looked like a dying bear on the ice.
“He’s not so good, is he?”
They watched Toby nearly trip himself coming off the defense line.
Then Will tried to check one of the guys wearing a yellow pinny, playing defense to his offense.
“No, no, no.” Damon yelled, “Will, come here.”
Will, who normally acted as coach and player, seemed more than happy to have Damon taking over. He skated to Damon, who stood on the red line watching. “If you’re going to check the guy, you need to do it right. Steve, come here.”
He showed them how to move under an opponent, not pushing down on the guy’s lower back to move him, but lifting him off his skates to send him into the boards.
Will nodded. “Oh, I see. Makes sense.”
“Get off the ice, you big idiot,” someone yelled from the stands.
Marlie, about to rain hell on whoever thought to insult her date, paused to see Morgan Asby, Damon’s physical therapist, sitting with a few familiar faces. What looked like the entire team of the Sharks, dressed in their Sharks jerseys.
Damon glanced over, his expression going from fierce to neutral. He walked slowly, carefully, out of the rink. Over his shoulder, he said, “Will, run it again.” He crossed toward Morgan, pausing below at the bottom of the stands. “What did I tell you? This is a closed practice.”
Whispers of Demon Sinclair and the Ice Raptors circled the growing crowd, mostly filled with hockey fans, though more than a few “fans” seemed dressed to impress, as if hoping to get more than Damon’s attention.
She wished that didn’t bother her, yet it kind of did. But he hadn’t done anything to encourage anyone. In fact, he didn’t seem aware of the attention directed at him. That or he ignored it.
“Don’t make me come down there and take you away,” Morgan argued as he stood. Smaller than Damon but no less aggressive, the blond guy looked beyond angry. “What did I tell you about taking it easy? About going slow?”
“Hey, I’m not playing or anything.” Damon smiled, but as usual, he looked more like a serial killer than a Good Samaritan. “Oh, hey, Deacon.”
One of the large men with Morgan waved. Ah yes, the infamous Flashman brothers. Grant Weston sat with them as well.
