“So which games am I going to be helping coach?” I ask as she grabs a pen from behind her ear.
Her look is even icier than before. “Please. We both know coaching some six year olds won’t be enough to sweeten the press toward you. Not with your long history of partying and reckless hook-ups.”
I roll my eyes, a faint edge of my lemongrass scent coming out to play. Marilyn isn’t swayed, though.
“You know that football player that has like ten different kids? It doesn’t matter if he donates the rest of his ridiculous salary to the poorest people on this earth, all the media will ever talk about is all those kids.” She clicks the pen and then raises an eyebrow. “You’re going to go on a date with a respectable Omega with a good pedigree. Now, fill this out so I don’t waste my time in selecting the wrong one for you.”
She turns the paper and pen to me, moving them until they’re directly in front of me. It’s only then I realize it’s a damn dating profile. Heights, scents, hair colors. Hell, even?—
“I’m not filling that part out,” I tell her.
She doesn’t even look down at the part I’m pointing to.
“Yes, you are. We all know that Alphas are the most particular about sexual partners. Fill it out and get it back to me before the game tomorrow, James, or I’ll have Miles put you as a healthy scratch.”
She scoops up the folder and leaves the office before I can mutter another word.
It takes me a good five minutes before I trust myself to stand and head toward the rink. The profile burns like a damn lit cigarette as I fold it and shove it unceremoniously in the back pocket of my jeans. Who in the hell does Marilyn think she is that she can just require I tell her exactly how much anal sex I prefer to have with a partner?
I mean, the answer is however much they’re willing to have, but the fucking PR manager of my damn hockey team doesn’t need to know that, for fuck’s sake. And the worst part is that missing a game isn’t an option, and she damn well knows it. I’m not hunting down any big records this season—our last year of games has made it impossible to have hope for any singular season record breaking—but there’s still the cumulative numbers to shoot for. Literally, most of the time. Especially with Paxton now here, too. We haven’t played on the same team since college over seven years ago, but I’ve heard the chatter the think pieces have been putting out: James Reign of Terror version 2.0. No opponent wanted us on the ice at the same time and for damn good reason. His wicked shots from the slot and my ability to keep the puck in play at the blue line were hell on the opposing team. The last two practices since he’s been here in Nashville have been showing off that dynamic to the rest of the Scorpions, too.
And now if I want to actually put the fear of the James brothers into the Seattle team, I have to admit to Marilyn I’m more than happy to have a partner that’s comfortable with DVP. Because that’s a perfectly normal thing to be worrying about before a damn home game.
The thoughts have me so distracted as I cross the main lobby of the arena, I don’t see the woman until I walk right into her.
“Oh, sorry!” she says. She stumbles as she tries to step back. It’s reflex to grab her waist and steady her.
“My bad,” I say as she tries to apologize again. “I wasn’t paying attention. You all right?”
And then I really get a glimpse of her: blonde hair that’s curled into loose waves nearly to her waist, a frilly white shirt and brown checkered skirt that hits just above her knees, and eyes such a bright green they feel like a living embodiment of springtime. She’s like something out of my fantasies, honestly.
What the hell is a bombshell like her doing at our practice arena in the middle of the day? Jesus, did Marilyn get someone in the upper management to approve bringing on an intern or something to help with her scheming?
Her cheeks flush a dark red, and the faint smell of orchids emanates from her. The scent nearly has me groaning. A hundred scenarios flash through my mind with the floral perfume. Her on her knees in front of me, her cheeks hollowed out as her eyes water. Her back arched and her hands flat on the glass of the practice rink as I kneel behind her. Her straddling me in my Supra as I shove my knot into her.
My dick’s hard in an instant, and I have to swallow a groan. God, of course she’s a fucking Omega, too. As if the dating profile isn’t enough to make the next two hours of practice an effective torture. No, now I’ll have the faint smell of orchids to haunt me, too, along with a damn hard-on.
Lemongrass surges around us, thick with my sudden desire. Her eyes widen even as her blush darkens another shade. I carefully take a step away and drop my hand from her waist, shoving it into my jeans instead. Before I can remember how to be anything but a bumbling moron, the main doors open and another woman walks into the building.
Despite not having seen her in nearly three months, I recognize my brother’s fiancée easily. Billie’s dressed to the nines for an afternoon out, a slip dress that hits mid-thigh and knee high brown boots. She has her hair back for once,showing off diamond stud earrings that only serve to highlight the gigantic rock she calls her engagement ring. She looks every inch the hockey WAG that she is.
The woman in front of me glances over her shoulder, and her tension drops a fraction.
“Hi! You must be Billie,” she says. She turns entirely away from me and approaches the newcomer. “I’m Carys. Sorry I’m a bit late to meeting up with you.”
Carys.
Holy Jesus Christ, today is shaping up to be an absolute clusterfuck.
I shove down every thought I just had about her, trying to bleach them from my mind. There’s no possible universe where I can walk back into the film room and look Ares in the eye with thoughts of Carys naked and panting running through my mind unchecked. Hooking up with the assistant coach’s daughter is just asking for a nightmare of a problem, and I don’t need Marilyn hounding me any more than she already is.
I should have realized who she must be, but the stunning woman in front of me is a far cry from the shy teenager I’d seen in the periphery when I’d first joined the Scorpions five years ago.
Billie waves away the apology, her lips curling at one corner into a small half smile. Her gaze then flicks to me.
“I thought you had practice?” she asks me.
Carys looks between us with a frown.
