I should probably do us both a favor and request to be reassigned.
“Things are fine,” I reply, briefly glancing at my captain.
His blue eyes move to mine, and then I look away. The last thing I need is for him to see my discomfort over the memories of Candice’s bra hanging off my floor lamp.
The details of that Saturday night can never get out.
He scratches at the back of his neck. “I approached Drew to ask if she’d take me on as a client.”
My attention darts to him. I’m aware that representing my captain would be amazing for her career, but I don’t like the thought of Drew working with another hockey player. For starters, she wouldn’t have the time to manage us both.
“What did she say?”
He just smiles like he’s having a private joke with himself. “She sent me a very professional reply, but declined the opportunity, explaining that I was assigned to Lydia and her portfolio was currently full.”
The satisfaction I feel is definitely unjustified. Regardless, it slides through my veins.
Changing the subject, Silas thumbs over his shoulder to where Tristan and another one of my teammates, Mason James, are talking by the spin bikes. “I see you and my winger were just hitting it off,” he sarcastically points out.
Given Mason is a defenseman, I know he can only be referring to Tristan, and it would be pointless for me to deny the disdain I feel toward him. I barely know the guy, and I already hate him.
“He’s a prick.”
Silas chokes out his next words. “Don’t hold back, rook. Go ahead and tell us all how you feel.”
My attention zeroes in on a mass of loose black curls as Tristan throws his head back and barks a laugh toward the gym ceiling in response to something Mason said.
“He likes to think he’s the popular guy around here and acts like everyone loves him when even his laugh annoys the shit out of me.”
Silas’s eyes grow wide, and I can tell that he likes the guy. Fuck knows why.
He shrugs a single shoulder, and I turn and set my dumbbell back on the rack.
“He’s confident and not afraid to say what he thinks.”
With my back to Silas, I scoff, recalling the brief conversation I just had with Tristan, where he told me that leading scorer in my rookie season could only happen in my dreams.
Clearly, the guy has never watched me play or refuses to acknowledge that now that I’ve signed with the Rogues, he’s no longer the best forward on the team.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t hate on him too much. You guys have way more in common than you think.”
“We both wear a green-and-gold hockey jersey,” I retort, picking up my white gym towel from the floor and wrapping it around the back of my neck. “That’s where our similarities start and end.”
I reach out and tap a finger against my captain’s temple. “And if you can’t see how full of himself he is, then that isn’t my issue.”
He folds his arms across his chest. Down the length of his right forearm is a word scribed in black ink that I can’t decipher. I want to ask him about it, but he speaks first.
“You need to get along with Tristan. He’s a fan favorite because he scores a lot of goals, and it won’t go down well if you come in and rock the boat.”
Biting my lip, I nod at Mason James. He looks the total opposite of Tristan. With his mass of dirty-blond hair and bright green eyes, I can see why he’s popular with the fans for a whole different reason from Tristan, even if his looks aren’t the only thing that he brings to the ice. He’s a damn good defenseman, although with the goals the team leaks, he’s fighting a losing battle. Our current goalie, Denver Smith, has the worst shutout record in the entire league and, to be honest, belongs on the farm team.
Trouble is, the alternate goalie is even worse than Denver, and trying to convince a decent goalie to transfer to a team where shutouts are nearly impossible is like trying to stop the tide from rolling in.
“Tristan isn’t a team player. He’s not interested in assists, only in how many times he can light the lamp,” I tell Silas, although it seems to fall on deaf ears.
“You’re both cocky as hell, and I’ll be really honest …” He puffs out a despondent breath. “I was worried that you guys wouldn’t get along even if I hoped that you’d show some maturity.”
Right as Silas finishes up his sentence, Tristan turns and makes a beeline for us, sharp gray eyes full of mirth when they lock on me.
