He’s two inches shorter than me and around thirty pounds lighter. I know because I’ve memorized the stats for each of my teammates. Hardly difficult when you’re gifted with numbers like I am.
“Why the scowl, Jones?” Tristan asks me on his approach.
Most of the guys here use each other’s first names because Coach prefers it between players, but Tristan makes an exception where I’m concerned. Probably because he knows it will wind the hell out of me, and getting beneath my skin is his only realistic play at getting the better of me this season.
He’s an average player at best, but he shines on a subpar roster.
“Because you piss me off,” I bluntly reply.
Mom and Dad never minced their words, and neither do I or my sister.
To my surprise, Tristan seems to appreciate the directness. Aside from his stats and dickhead nature, I actually know very little about this guy. Unlike me, he rarely uses social media, and when he does post, it’s always hockey-related and thanking the fans.
Kiss-ass.
Drew would be impressed, and for some reason, that makes me despise the guy even more.
“I’m sorry for any inconvenience I might have caused you, Jones. I merely pointed out that making lead goalscorer in your rookie season is madness, and I’m advising that you adjust your expectations.”
I step toward him, a silent reminder of our physical differences. “Did my record in the NCAA pass you by?”
I know it didn’t—I can tell by the sour look on his face. He probably thinks that collegiate hockey is a waste of time, given he went straight into the pros after a year on the farm team, but he’d be wrong. College hockey is the best prep for any future pro, and I’m glad I listened to my parents’ advice to hold out on the NHL.
“Can we save the face-offs for the opposition?” Coach enters the conversation from nowhere, coming to stand between me and Tristan.
I’m the one who breaks eye contact first, setting my attention on Coach.
“Just getting to know each other,” I reply.
Coach sounds less than convinced when he says, “Sure,” patting Tristan on the shoulder. “Vaughn, I need you in my officeASAP. I have your medical reports back from Candice, and I wanted to go over the good news with you.”
The elbow injury my teammate picked up on the back end of last season is not the reason why I blush, and Tristan’s smirk makes me regret my hookup with Candice even more.
When Coach heads toward the doors and Silas makes for the treadmills, I’m already thinking up excuses to cut my gym session short.
Something I never do.
“Can I offer you some more advice, Jones?” Tristan whispers.
Swallowing down the temptation to tell him to fuck off, I somehow manage a friendly smile. “I have a feeling I’m going to get it anyway, so go ahead and say whatever helps boost your ego.”
He swipes a hand across his jaw. “Banging the team PT doesn’t count toward your goal tally. In fact, I wouldn’t classify it as scoring at all.”
If I punch him, then I’ll effectively confirm his suspicions because that’s all he has right now. There’s no way Candice would breathe a word to anyone, let alone to the team’s biggest asshole.
My breathing is steady, expression stoic, as I quietly reply, “And spreading shitty rumors about your new teammate isn’t going to help you out either. You need my assists as much as this team needs my goals. And whether you want to admit that or not makes no difference to me. I’ll be the crowd favorite by the end of the season.”
The tendons in Tristan’s jaw flex. Being the golden boy means everything to this guy. Only the weak require validation from others.
Still, I’m curious as to how he guessed about Candice. Surely, a brief flush of my cheeks wasn’t enough to spike his suspicions. The guy isn’t smart enough for that.
“Word is, you struggle to keep it in your pants, Jones.” Tristan’s voice adopts a darker edge. “Next, you’ll be fucking Drew because you just can’t help yourself. What a conquest that would be.”
I square up to him, not giving a shit who witnesses it. “Say what you want about me, Tristan, but nevereverspeak about Drew in that way again.” My warning is more of a hiss.
He lifts a single shoulder and looks off to the side before focusing his attention back on me again. “It’s funny how you have such a visceral reaction to the women you’ve either fucked or would like to fuck in the future.”
I shake my head at him, perplexed over his behavior. Sure, we don’t get along, but this feels like he’s trying to sabotage my pro career before it’s even gotten started.
