My brows arch. “A dance lesson?” My gaze drops to his feet. “On skates?”
“It's a choreographyrehearsal,”Lawson says.
“That’s what I said.” Beckett shrugs.
“It’s not dance class,” Lawson says, turning toward Beckett. “We also have a couple of fightschoreographed. A couple of you have choreography for how you come onto the ice. There’s intermission stuff.”
Beckett also turns to face Lawson more fully. “It’s all set to music. Like a dance.”
“Does your sister know that you’re referring to her choreography as dancing?”
Beckett frowns. “How about you don’t worry about my sister?”
“Well,” I jump in as the tension between the men climbs quickly. “Clearly, I’m here at the wrong time. Sorry to interrupt.”
Lawson looks back to me. “They didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?” I ask. Trepidation slithers down my spine. Fuck, I don’t like trepidation either.
Lawson’s scowl eases, almost as if he’s now entertained. “Thisiswhat you’re here for.”
I shake my head. “No one said anything about choreography or…dancing.” I shake my head harder as they all start to smile. “I don’t dance.”
Someone chuckles. “Oh, you think you’re here for real hockey.”
Beckett shakes his head. “This is real hockey. It’s just got… embellishments.” He grins at me. “It’s fun. Seriously.”
The trepidation definitely grows. What are they talking about? “Embellishments?” I don’t want to know. I’m not sure how I know that, but I do.
Beckett nods, and he actually seems enthusiastic about it. “Yeah. It’s hockey. I swear. There’s just a little more to it. Morefunto it.”
“Oh yeah, you’re gonna love it,” Lawson says, sarcasm dripping. “A professional hockey player who’s given his life to the game and made it his career is totally going to think doing skits and playing with fan-voted rules is agreatidea.”
Skits? Fan-voted rules?
What the fuck…
“You’ve got the worst attitude,” Beckett says, turning back to Lawson. “What’s wrong with having a good time? Making it more fan-friendly? Wanting people to be involved?”
“We’re not all working on ‘branding ourselves’,” Lawson says, making air quotes with his fingers. “As the feel-good, good-time hockey goofball, so that some team will pick us up because our social media following is huge. Some of us actually want to play serious hockey.”
“I take having fun and interacting with the fans seriously,” Beckett says, moving closer to Lawson. “There’s nothing wrongwith that. Marketing and PR are a part of professional sports, and social media is a serious part of professional sports. Everyone knows that. If I can put butts in the seats, that will matter.”
“Uh huh. Well, some people make it based on skill and talent.” Lawson glides closer to Beckett. Everyone else parts to let the men face off.
But I note that Zeke and a couple of other guys stay close. Within arm’s length at least. Which makes me wonder how often these two have gotten into it.
That doesn’t bode well for the team.
Astrid and Nora didn’t mention dancing and skits, and they didn’t tell me that I’ve got two teammates who clearly are polar opposites—the dark cloud and the sunshine—who let their differences spill onto the ice.
“And some people make a name because they’ve got a huge fucking chip on their shoulders and can’t control their temper and end up in the headlines when they getcut, rather than because of anything positive,” Beckett says, nearly on top of Lawson now. He’s got the other man by a couple of inches, but Lawson is wider and more muscular and was one of the toughest defenders in the league when he played.
I move in. “Okay, guys.”
They don’t care about me—or anyone else—right now, though.
“You don’t know anything about me getting cut, Moore,” Lawson says through clenched teeth. “Back off.”
