5. Zane

5

ZANE

I step into the hall in time to watch the porn version of Wednesday Addams disappear through the back door and almost trip over the perv who had her cornered in the bathroom.

I would have killed him if she hadn't stopped me. I still could. That rage is just under the surface. One flip of the switch and it could be back.

But he didn't deserve her mercy, and he doesn't deserve my time. He doesn't even deserve the heel of my boot.

"I'm not here for you," I growl, kicking him in the stomach one last time for good measure. "Count yourself lucky."

If he's smart, he'll slither out the same back exit she took. With the way she was moving, there's no way she's still nearby. There's no chance of the two of them crossing paths again.

She's safe.

I have no fucking idea why I care, or why, for one second, I felt like I was here for her.

She felt it, too. She leaned in closer. Her wild green eyes shifted down to my lips, and she considered it.

What exactly she considered, I'm not entirely sure. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins the same way it does when I first skate out onto the ice. That anticipation is the closest thing I get to a high anymore. And Bratz Doll Barista had me riding that same wave with nothing more than a look…

And a hell of a lot of exposed skin.

Then she ran out of this bathroom like a cat with her tail on fire. Which is exactly why I should forget the way the black lace hugged her ass and focus on why I'm here.

When I walk out of the back, Carson sees me first. He waves me over like he has some say in who gets to sit down. I should shoulder-check him through the double-paned window just to remind him what I'm capable of.

"We were starting to think you weren't going to show up." He arches a brow at my empty hands. "You wanna order something? We can wait."

"I ordered a drink." Which is currently going cold on the paper towel dispenser in the men's bathroom. "But it's fine. I don't need it."

"Come on, Whitaker." Carson nudges his elbow in my direction, but he doesn't touch me. He wouldn't dare. "You can handle a little caffeine. We all know you've handled worse."

My fist tightens under the table. If Carson keeps it up, the unconscious asshole in the hallway is going to have a friend.

I give him a tight grimace. "That was in the past. According to Coach, we're here to talk about the future."

Coach Popov raps his knuckles on the table. "That's right. I have some news. For both of you."

Popov doesn't deal with interpersonal drama. It's one of the first things he tells every new player on the team: If it doesn't affect your gameplay, I don't fucking care.

That is exactly why he sat me down four years ago and told me to clean up my act or clean out my locker. Showing up to games high out of my mind wasn't a winning recipe. It's hard to balance on a pair of blades when you can barely walk flat-footed across the locker room.

But Carson's smart mouth off the ice will only affect the team if someone finally kills him for taking it too far. I'd volunteer for the executioner's job.

With pleasure.

"I wanted to let you both know the stakes heading into this season." He folds his hands in front of him. "This is going to be Jace's last season with the Angels. He's retiring and we're going to be looking for a new captain next year."

Carson whips his head in my direction, studying me to see if I knew.

My only thought: I'm going to kill Jace.

What the fuck is the point of the team captain being my mentor if he's not going to shoot me a text when he decides to end his damn career? We went out for drinks two nights ago and he didn't breathe a word about this shit.

Popov dips his chin. "I told Jace not to tell you, Zane. I wanted to tell you both at the same time."

Fine. I'm still going to kill him.

"Who's making the decision?" Carson doesn't bother to hide the hunger in his voice. "Will it be a team vote or management or…?"

"Doug in the front office and I will make the final call, but we'll take other voices into consideration. You two are here in front of me because your names came up when we talked to the rest of the team."

"So, what?" I ask. "This season is an audition?"

I'd say I'm above dancing for my supper, but fuck me, I want this . After Paige blew into my life and things fell apart, this team was all I had. The thought of early morning practices kept me out of the bottom of a bottle more times than I can count. The Angels saved my life, and I've given everything I have to the team in return.

I deserve this.

"This season is your chance to prove that you have what it takes to be a leader." He hits me with a look that lets me know he's having the same flashback I am.

You could be a great leader, Zane. But you're no good to anyone when you're strung out like this.

I've worked hard to stay on the straight and narrow, but that doesn't mean shit if Coach looks at me and sees the addict I once was lurking just under the surface.

Carson practically lunges across the table to grab Coach's hand for a shake. "Thanks for the opportunity, Coach. I know I have what it takes. I look forward to proving it to you."

Popov's lip curls for a second before he pulls his hand away, regarding us both with a carefully schooled expression. "I'm going to be watching you both. I need someone who is going to be a leader. Someone who loves the game and this team. This isn't a popularity contest; it'll be a testament to the kind of men you are, on and off the ice."

A man like Jace Cannon. A husband, a father, a driven captain, loyal teammate, and the best center the Phoenix Angels have ever had.

Not exactly small shoes to fill.

I wonder where saving a naked woman from a bathroom pervert falls on the spectrum of admirable qualities.

Popov drops a ten-dollar bill on the table. "The coffee is on me. I'll see you both at training."

"Well," Carson finally says when Popov is out the door, "you heard him. The position is mine."

I choke on a laugh. "Oh, I heard him. He said this isn't a popularity contest. Your little band of punk-ass rookies may worship you for getting them into nightclubs, but they aren't going to be able to help you out here."

"I don't need anyone's help. Sure as shit not yours, you fucking junkie." He swipes the ten-dollar bill from the center of the table and tosses it at me. "Here, buy yourself something nice. How much does a gram of blow go for these days? Is that what you were doing in the bathroom?"

Carson saunters away before I can say anything.

Not that I have anything to say to him.

This is my chance. After four years of piecing my life back together and clawing my way back to something meaningful, this is my chance.

I'm going to be captain of the Phoenix Angels—and even Carson fucking Deluth can't bring me down.