9. Maddox

Chapter 9

Maddox

After our run-in outside the executive floor bathroom, Bristol kept her distance. She was present for all press conferences but never asked any questions. I had to assume she was using my responses to her colleagues' questions for her daily articles as training camp rolled on.

As much as I hated it, I had to respect that she wanted to set clear professional boundaries. Bristol was serious about her job, and I felt like an ass for suggesting otherwise.

But damn, if I didn't make it a habit to scan her delectable body each time we crossed paths. A smile curved on my lips, noting she still kept her neck covered, holding the secret knowledge of my mark on her skin.

I still wanted her, but I knew she needed her job. You didn't break down in the bathroom if you weren't desperate to hold onto something. I only wished I knew why.

There was a heightened awareness when she was near. My skin buzzed with electricity beneath the surface, and my heart raced, only calming when she came into view .

I craved her presence. It was the damnedest thing. I'd never reacted to a woman like this before.

Of course, this had to happen with a woman I shouldn't want—for so many reasons.

We worked together.

She was far too young—in my research, I'd uncovered that she was twenty-three, twelve years my junior.

She was still hung up on her ex, or at the very least, dealing with the emotional fallout he'd caused.

All signs told me to stay far, far away from Bristol Cooper, but my traitorous mind couldn't stop thinking about her. And my body was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

By the last day of our first full week of training camp, I'd reached my breaking point.

Watching from the end of the hallway as she laughed it up with Braxton Slate, I saw red. Her hand came to rest on his bicep as they spoke, and he acted like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Braxton was a good kid. He was a great player and an exceptional leader. But what was it about the redheaded stunner that made him forget that he was also a devoted boyfriend? His girl, Dakota, was a sweetheart, and they were a perfect match. I'd had a front-row seat to their lovefest for over a year now as he assisted Jenner in getting me back onto my feet after the injury. So, why, all of a sudden, was he flirting with my girl?

Sleeping with her once doesn't make her your girl, dipshit. By that logic, you've got a massive harem waiting for you.

Telling my conscience to fuck off, I stared at the interaction between Bristol and Braxton with my fists clenched, my teeth grinding so hard I was positive I would need dental work. As a former player, I was no stranger to the dentist's chair. Out of habit, my tongue traced over the four teeth that weren't real, but only I could tell.

The third time Bristol's head dropped back in laughter, I snapped.

"Miss Cooper, a word?" My voice boomed, echoing against the concrete walls beneath the arena.

Braxton's head turned in my direction first, and that little fucker smirked at me. I made a mental note to ride his ass hard the next time the team took the ice. A little reminder of who was in charge and that I was not to be fucked with.

When Bristol turned, her blue eyes narrowed. I didn't give a shit that she was pissed; I was right there with her. Did she really think she could give me a spiel about needing this job and how sleeping with me could jeopardize her position, and then turn around and flirt with my players? Not on my watch.

Jealous prick.

Braxton gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder, urging her forward. It took every ounce of energy I possessed not to march down the hall and break that hand for touching her.

Heels clacked on the polished concrete floors as Bristol made her way to where I stood. Today, she was dressed in a navy blue sleeveless turtleneck sweater dress that clung to her form, shifting as she stepped closer. A thin gold chain acted as a belt, matching the gold bangles along her wrists. Before I could stop myself, I was picturing her naked, wearing only those bangles, and me finding a way to link them together so her wrists were bound as I pounded into her soft flesh.

Annoyance laced her tone when she stopped before me. "What can I do for you, Coach Sterling?"

God, my hands itched to spank her ass for being a little brat .

I made sure that my irritation was unmistakable when I spoke. "So, you'll give him the time of day?" I tilted my head in Braxton's direction. He was watching our interaction from where she'd left him.

Glancing over her shoulder briefly, Bristol turned back to me and rolled her eyes. Fingering the badge at her waist, she drew my attention to it. "You see this here? This means I'm with the press. And part of my job is talking to the players. Or have you been out of it so long that you've forgotten?"

She was goading me, and she knew it.

Mindful of our audience, I resisted the urge to pin her to the wall to show her who was really in charge.

"Yeah, that's what it looked like. ‘Doing your job'." Sarcasm dripped from every word. "Just so you know, he's attached."

An unladylike snort flew from her nose. "I'm well aware."

That got my attention. "I didn't realize in-depth knowledge of the players' personal lives was part of your job description."

Bristol glared at me, stepping closer like she might intimidate me. I would have thought it was cute if I wasn't so damn aggravated.

"It's not," she replied.

"So, you admit it, then? That you're interested in Braxton beyond the game?" I challenged.

"Jesus," she huffed out. "Is this what it will be like every time I have a conversation with your players? If so, it's going to get old fast."

"It won't be a problem so long as you remember your place," I practically growled.

Both hands flew to her hips, and her voice turned lethal. "And what place is that, exactly? In your bed? Jealous, Coach?"

Fuck. She had me nailed, but I wasn't willing to give her the satisfaction, even as my nostrils flared .

"That's what I thought," she taunted. "How about this? You do your job, and I do mine. Sound good?"

When I didn't answer, she spun on her heel and sauntered away, throwing a little extra sway into her hips for effect.

God, if I ever got my hands on her again . . .

Keep dreaming, pal.

At the start of week two, the management team met to discuss the first round of cuts.

Some guys had been invited to training camp on a professional tryout to see if they meshed with our permanent roster and had the skills to compete. Others were on a two-way contract and could move between the Speed and our minor league affiliate in Cincinnati when we needed them.

Most of our up-and-coming talent had been on the Cincinnati roster last year and would be headed back there soon to continue developing.

I had been fortunate to spend a few years in college before earning a one-way contract, meaning I couldn't be sent down to the minors. I couldn't imagine how much of a mindfuck it was for some of these guys, especially the older ones still trying to break onto that bigger stage, to be sent back year after year.

Hockey was a mental game as much as it was a physical one. You could have all the skills in the world, but if you lacked confidence, it impacted your game. You couldn't afford to second-guess your choices; you had to act on instinct and believe you had the ability to make every play successful .

That brought us to the player we'd been deliberating over for an hour—Sasha Gusev, or Goose, as the guys called him.

Sasha was a Russian-born, American-raised goalie who had played in Cincinnati for a few years. The Speed had drafted him in the third round, and he had gone the college route before signing his entry-level contract. Those three years were spent entirely with our minor league team. Over the summer, we'd signed him to a slightly larger contract as a restricted free agent, and after that one expired, he could explore his options with other teams.

At twenty-five, he was entering his prime, and I liked what I had seen from him during camp. Jared, along with his assistant GM, Randy Calvert, and the President of Hockey Operations, Paul Davenport, disagreed with my assessment that it was time to pull him up to the Speed.

"Maddox, I get that you like him and that he's young and eager, but his stats are almost identical to Fox's." Jared referenced our current backup goalie, Zander Fox.

Randy chimed in. "It doesn't make sense to replace a goalie who has experience playing the back-up role with a goalie who doesn't. Especially when, on paper, they're similar. It would be an even swap."

I shook my head. "Screw the stats. I've been on the ice with Fox in net. He gets frustrated when he lets in a few goals, leading to more. Goose is different. Both from what I've seen this week in camp and from studying film of him playing for the Crawlers, he lets it roll off his back. It's mildly unsettling how nothing bothers the guy, but it's a hell of a temperament for a goaltender. He's an asset to this team, even in a backup capacity."

Jared sighed, starting to waver. "His contract is two million less on the salary cap than Fox's . . ."

"Come on," I begged. "Give him a chance. He's got the makings of a great goalie. Just needs an opportunity to showcase his skills. "

Paul grumbled but agreed. "I think we have to listen to Maddox on this one. We brought him in to coach because he knew the players so well. Plus, that extra couple of million could snag us a decent fourth liner."

Adrenaline surged in my veins. It wasn't the same kind of battle as skating beside them on the ice, but I was fighting for my boys just the same.

Tapping his pen on the desk, Jared finally gave in. "Okay. Goose is in; Fox goes down to Cincinnati. Maddox, you let both men know and then make the announcement to the press the next time you speak with them."

I wanted to fist pump the air but kept my cool. Damn, if that first victory didn't feel good.

Nodding, I said, "I've got it handled."

Jared closed his tablet and stood, as did the other men attending our small meeting. "Next week, after the first couple of preseason games, we'll meet again to make the last round of cuts and finalize the roster for the season. Lots of work to do if we plan on making it back to the Finals."

We all made noises of agreement, and the meeting was adjourned.

I couldn't wait to see Goose's face when I told him he was getting to stay in Indy. However, it would be up to him to keep his spot. If he faltered, I couldn't stop management from switching him out with Fox.

I blew out a heavy breath.

Being the Speed's captain was one thing. In that position, I wore many hats—welcome wagon, cheerleader, drinking buddy, emotional support. But at the end of the day, my primary focus was on strengthening my game.

As their coach, I had to worry about everyone's game. And it was enough to keep me awake most nights.

I headed off to crush one man's dreams while making another's come true, quickly reminded that my new job wasn't for the faint of heart.

My whistle was trapped between my teeth as I blew it at regular intervals, indicating for the next group of players to proceed through the drill. I should have been focused on my team, making mental notes about their play and cataloging what critiques I would share with them later. But instead, I couldn't tear my eyes away from Braxton making hand motions through the glass at a blushing Bristol in the stands.

When she waved back and playfully mouthed "stop," I lost it.

Spitting out my whistle, knowing the attached lanyard would keep it around my neck, I screamed, "Slate! Over here now!"

Braxton spun around, eyes wide, but skated over without delay. Coming to a hard hockey stop before me, he asked, "What's up, Coach?"

I tried to rein in my temper but lost that battle. "How about you spend more time focused on practice instead of flirting with the pretty reporter?" I snarled.

Confusion filtered across Braxton's face for a split second before he burst out laughing. He was so loud that several of his teammates cast curious glances in our direction, but my stern glare had them turning away quickly.

Braxton sucked in huge gulps of air between bursts of laughter, gripping his side with the free hand not holding his hockey stick. "You think." More laughter. "Me and Bristol?" He practically howled at the idea.

Every muscle in my body was coiled tight, ready to snap. "Care to enlighten me on what's so hilarious?"

He calmed down just enough that I could see the mirth dancing in his eyes. "Bristol is Dakota's best friend. "

I stared at him, stunned. Then the pieces fell into place, and the idea of it being a coincidence that Bristol and I both ended up at Pipes that night was shattered.

"She"—I let out a disbelieving huff—" she's the friend?"

"Yup." Braxton's head bobbed up and down, a wide grin on his face.

I groaned. "You have got to be fucking kidding me."

Tilting his head, Braxton assessed me. "Why do you care so much about who Bristol flirts with? Not that what she and I were doing was flirting. She's practically Dakota's sister."

"No reason."

I was a shit liar, and Braxton's eyes widened. "Wait a minute." He shook his head. "No. You ghosted our invitation that night, right?" He paused. "But we left Bristol there." His free fist clenched, and anger hardened his features before he screamed, "Fuck!" so loud it echoed across the ice.

This whole situation was quickly spiraling out of control.

"Keep your voice down," I gritted out through a clenched jaw.

"No." He poked me hard in the chest.

I hoped he would understand when I made him skate suicides later to set an example of his behavior. We'd been friends and teammates before I became his coach, but I would have to assert my authority or risk losing control over my bench.

"Do you have any fucking idea what that girl has been through? She's been to hell and back, and you waltz in and put her career in jeopardy? And for what? To prove to yourself that you've still got it? Tell me, Maddox. How drunk was she when you took her home, huh? Because she's got a history of blacking out to the point where Dakota used to affix a tracking tag to her clothing so she could locate her in the morning after partying too hard."

Even though I felt like a total ass, I couldn't bite back my retort. "Actually, she took me home."

Braxton pressed his chest to mine, his eyes filled with murderous intent. "Leave. Her. Alone."

I gave him a non-committal grunt because that was one promise I couldn't make.

Raising my voice, I shouted so everyone on the ice could hear, "Slate! Give me ten suicides, then hit the showers!" Ten was a bit harsh, but you didn't disrespect your coach. Ever.

Growling low beneath his breath, he skated away, lining up at the goal line. I stood along the bench with my arms crossed as he made a hard stop at the blue line before returning to the goal line, then to the red line and back, the opposite blue line and back, then finally, the opposite goal line and back.

"One!" I barked, calling out his first completed suicide.

The rest of the team got the message, returning to the drills they'd previously been running before my and Braxton's argument.

I might have been one of them not that long ago, but I was in charge now. The sooner they learned that, the better.