21
Reid was about to lose his shit.
Big time.
The target of his brewing fury was his teammate Gill Krugman, one of the Rebels’ six defensemen. He’d had a bad game last night, losing one too many puck battles and getting crushed in the corners by Philadelphia’s hard-charging forwards. During his postgame interview, when asked about his shoddy performance, he’d deflected any personal responsibility by making some bitch ass comment about not receiving enough playing time to get into a rhythm. When pressed to elaborate, he’d complained about Reid’s ice time, then went a step further and criticized the media and fans for behaving as though Reid was the only defenseman on the roster.
After the sour-grapes interview, Coach Bohler had reprimanded Krugman for his divisive remarks, which only made him more surly and resentful. To add insult to injury, Coach had instructed him to run drills with Reid instead of his regular defense partner so he could “learn a thing or two.”
Krugman hadn’t taken the coach’s suggestion very well. During practice that morning, he’d been muttering and grumbling under his breath while glaring daggers at Reid.
Reid was ignoring the prick and trying to stay on task. But it wasn’t easy. Since losing Nadia, he’d been in a fucked-up state of mind. His emotions were raw and in turmoil. Guilt, grief and anger seethed through him until he felt as though he were balancing on a knife-edge, an edge upon which the slightest provocation would have him exploding in fury.
Krugman apparently didn’t recognize the danger signs, because he kept goading Reid as they ran through puck-passing drills with Hunter and Logan. At one point Krugman skated past Reid and gave him a hard shoulder check.
“Watch it,” Hunter warned sharply as Krugman smirked and skated away.
Reid narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw, holding on to control by a thread.
The whistle blew, signaling the end of practice. As the players began filing off the ice, they were intercepted by reporters. Nadia’s brother was one of them.
As he was approaching Viggo for a quote, he suddenly glanced across the practice rink and met Reid’s eyes. They stared each other down for a long, tense moment.
Then Nelson tightened his jaw and turned away.
Reid gritted his teeth against the fresh surge of anger that stormed through him. Pulling off his helmet, he skated up to Krugman and snarled, “You wanna take my spot? Work harder.”
Krugman’s face reddened. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’ve been busting my ass out here just like everyone else.”
“Not today you weren’t. Today you were so busy trying to rattle my cage that you couldn’t even focus on what you were supposed to be doing. And after the way you played last night, you clearly need all the practice you can get.”
Krugman scowled. “Fuck you, Holden. I’m sick of you acting like the whole damn world revolves around you.”
Reid threw down his helmet. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Hey,” a stern voice called nearby. “What the hell’s going on over there?”
Reid spat onto the ice near Krugman’s feet, then got up in his face and shoved him in the chest. “You got something to say to me, asshole? Say it to my face, not a bunch of fucking reporters.”
Krugman sneered maliciously. “You think I don’t work hard? You think I’m not pulling my weight? Tell you what. Just to show you what a team player I am, how about I go over there and have a little chat with your ex-girlfriend’s brother? How about I explain to him that you weren’t being a poon hound just for the hell of it when you cheated on his sister. You were just following the number one rule of the road: ‘If you can’t be with the one you love, fuck the one you’re with.’”
A red haze of fury settled over Reid’s vision.
Krugman had no time to react before Reid drew back his fist and slugged him in the jaw. The big defenseman grunted in pain as his head snapped to the side.
Reid hit him hard in the stomach, then threw another uppercut into his face. Krugman cried out and staggered backward on his skates, flailing his arms before he lost his balance and fell flat on his ass.
He was down, but Reid wanted him out for the count. So he lunged again, landing another brutal punch that leveled the motherfucker on the ice.
“Hey, hey!” Coach yelled. “Knock it off!”
As Reid went for Krugman’s jugular, Hunter grabbed him and yanked him backward. “Chill out, man. Chill the fuck out.”
Chest heaving, fists balled at his sides, Reid glared furiously as an assistant coach skated over to check on Krugman, then helped him carefully to his feet. His nose was bleeding and he was grimacing in pain while holding his jaw. Reid hoped it was broken.
“Holden,” Coach barked sharply. “My office. Now.”
Scowling, Reid shook off Hunter’s hands and shoved past Krugman, knocking him aside with a hard shoulder.
He headed off the ice and stomped his way down the tunnel, ignoring the questions shouted at him by reporters. His teammates stared at him, giving him a wide berth as he stormed through the locker room. He felt violent, out of control. He wanted to kick the shit out of everyone and everything.
Coach Bohler sat behind the desk in his small office. “Shut the door.”
As soon as Reid did, the head coach lit into him.
“What the hell has gotten into you? Huh? What the hell was that all about?”
Reid didn’t want to sound like a whiny little bitch by insisting that Krugman had started the beef. So he just clenched his jaw, crossed his arms over his chest and said absolutely nothing.
Coach frowned. “Look, I know Krugman’s got it in for you. And I’m dealing with him, believe me. But you’re not some goddamn journeyman or rookie, Holden. You’re a leader on this team, so I expect better from you. When you’re out there going up against other teams, you can be a one-man wrecking crew all day long. But when you start turning on your own teammates like a rabid dog, it’s time to put you down.”
Reid stood in sullen silence, sweat cooling on his skin beneath the heavy padding he wore.
Coach wasn’t finished. “Have you been listening to the news lately? They’re all saying we’re the team to beat because we’ve got what it takes to go all the way. And they’re right. We are the team to beat this year. But you know what? We’re only a good team when we play like a team. I’ll be damned if I let you or anyone else fuck up our shot at hoisting the Cup in June.” Coach jabbed a finger at Reid. “I don’t know what the hell crawled up your ass and set up shop these past few weeks, but you’d better deal with it. You hear me, Holden? Get your shit together before I ship your ornery ass off to Anaheim or something.”
It was an empty threat. They both knew a trade was out of the question. But Reid got the message loud and clear.
Coach dismissed him with an impatient wave of his hand. “Go hit the showers and get out of my sight.”
Seething with frustration, Reid pivoted on his heel and slammed out of the office. Instead of heading to the showers, he changed into sweats and marched down to the team weight room. He was angry and disgusted with himself for losing his temper with Krugman, even though the asshole got what was coming to him. Reid had always gotten along well with his teammates, so it bothered him that he’d allowed Krugman’s cheap shot to get under his skin. He was mad as hell about Nadia breaking up with him, but that was no excuse for using his teammates as his own personal punching bag. He needed to find another way to work the anger and aggression out of his system.
Stalking into the state-of-the-art weight room, he pulled out his phone, shoved in some earbuds and put on some grungy rock music. He then proceeded to push himself through the most grueling workout his body could withstand. As the Foo Fighters blasted into his eardrums, he warmed up with a pounding session on the treadmill and then the rowing machine. When he’d finished, he grabbed a pair of dumbbells and did three sets of curls, triceps extensions and military presses.
When an image of Nadia flashed through his mind, he swore under his breath and put down the dumbbells, then stalked over to the weight bench.
One of the team’s trainers followed him, watching as he slammed more weights onto each end of the barbell. He lay back on the bench, gripped the barbell above him and lifted it off the rack without waiting for the trainer to spot him.
He began bench-pressing like a maniac, bouncing the weight off his chest while exhaling in short, angry bursts.
“Take it easy, Holden,” the trainer warned, raising his voice to be heard over Reid’s blasting music. “You don’t wanna mess around and separate your cartilage.”
Reid ignored him, adrenaline pumping hard and fast through his bloodstream. He pushed himself through a punishing set of reps until sweat poured off his body and he could feel the vicious burn in his biceps.
Suddenly “The Pretender” came on, taunting him with the memory of Nadia laughing and whipping her hair around as she rocked out to the song.
Gritting his teeth, he pressed out two more reps before placing the barbell back on the rack. Then he yanked out his earbuds and closed his eyes, heart pounding, chest heaving, muscles quivering with exertion.
“Blowing off steam or trying to kill yourself?” a deep voice drawled.
Reid opened his eyes to see Viggo and Hunter standing over him with grimly amused expressions.
He scowled. “Fuck off.”
Hunter raised an eyebrow. “Is that any way to talk to your captain?”
“Or your best bro?” Viggo added.
Ignoring them, Reid sat up on the bench and swiped the back of his arm across his forehead. The trainer tossed him a towel before walking off with a shake of his head.
As Reid mopped up the sweat on his face and arms, Hunter prodded, “Seriously though. What’s your game plan here? To get yourself injured?”
“Sure as hell looks that way.” Viggo scowled at Reid. “If you get hurt pumping iron like a maniac, there goes our fucking season. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not,” Reid grumbled.
“Then act like it,” Hunter growled. “Abort the suicide mission you’ve been on for the past three weeks and get your damn head on straight.”
Reid shot him a dark smirk. “Last I checked, we’re still winning games.”
“For now. But how long before you implode out there?” Hunter challenged.
“Exactly. We’ve had a stretch of easier games,” Viggo pointed out. “But if our chemistry’s off, what’s gonna happen when we play the Hawks? Or the Predators? We’re gonna get our asses handed to us, that’s what.”
Before Reid could respond—not that he planned to—Logan sauntered into the weight room. He had a lollipop in his mouth, the stick hanging out the corner.
“Am I late for the intervention?” he called out.
Reid scowled. “I don’t need a fucking intervention.”
“The hell you don’t,” Viggo and Hunter retorted.
“I don’t,” Reid snapped. “Coach already chewed my ass out for fighting Krug—”
“Fighting?” Logan snorted. “Dude, that wasn’t no fight. You cold-cocked him and laid his ass out on the ice. When I left the locker room, the trainer was still examining him. I think you broke his damn jaw.”
“Great,” Hunter muttered in exasperation. “Just what we need.”
Viggo snickered. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy though.”
Logan laughed. “Agreed.”
Hunter wasn’t amused. “We all know Krugman’s an asshole. But we need everyone on this team healthy, including him.”
Logan chuckled. “Guess he shoulda thought about that before he mouthed off to Holden, who’s barely sane on a good day—let alone when he’s heartbroken.”
“Fuck off, Brassard,” Reid grumbled, leaning forward on the bench with his hands dangling between his legs and sweat dripping off his jaw.
“For the sake of the team,” Hunter said wryly, “you need to find a less violent outlet for all that pent-up frustration and rage. Something that doesn’t involve breaking people’s jaws and bench-pressing yourself into a coma.”
Logan’s dark eyes glinted. “Getting laid would be a good start.”
Reid frowned. The thought of hooking up with some puck bunny left a seriously bad taste in his mouth. He didn’t want any other woman. Only Nadia would do.
He must have looked pathetic because Viggo, Hunter and Logan exchanged pitying glances.
“Why don’t you try contacting her again?” Hunter suggested.
“I have.” Reid clenched his jaw hard. “She blocked my number, and she won’t see me or talk to me.”
And he couldn’t really blame her. He’d hurt her badly, betrayed her trust and publicly humiliated her. And for what? Some broad in a bar, a hot but forgettable chick he’d had no interest in banging.
One careless mistake, that’s all it had taken. One stupid lapse in judgment. And it had cost him everything.
His sisters were majorly disappointed in him. When they found out that he’d been photographed with another woman sitting on his lap, they gave him a blistering earful on Skype, complete with finger wagging and head shaking.
Although his mother hadn’t come right out and said, “I told you so,” he’d heard the recrimination in her voice the next time they spoke on the phone.
He’d been angered by the things she’d said about him during their previous conversation. She’d predicted that he would hurt Nadia because he just couldn’t help himself. So what had he done? He’d gone out and proved her right.
He was so angry and disgusted with himself that he could barely stand the sight of his reflection in the mirror.
Ever since the breakup, he’d been tortured by images of Nadia—a constant stream of images that bombarded his mind day and night, even during games. He saw her dark eyes sparkling with laughter, her plump lips parting for his kiss, her head thrown back in the throes of ecstasy.
He could still smell her in his bed, could feel her soft hair brushing his face and feel her warm skin pressed against his. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. Couldn’t stop reliving the times they’d spent together, hanging out and laughing, making love and just bonding.
He missed her so much. Too much.
All the fucking time.
Logan heaved a lamenting sigh. “Don’t you long for the days when you could cheat without some nosy douchebag taking a picture on their cell phone and sending it to gossip bloggers?”
Reid glared at him. “You’re not helping.”
Logan grinned. “Sorry.”
Viggo shook his head, arms folded across his chest. “It’s not cool seeing you all heartbroken over Nadia. I know how much she means to you, so I really hope you guys can work through this.” He paused, rubbing his whiskered chin. “At the risk of sounding like a selfish asshole, the sooner you and Nadia kiss and make up, the sooner I can meet her cousin Scarlett. No offense, bro, but your screw up has been a serious cockblock.”
Reid shot him a murderous glare. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Viggo shrugged, looking sheepish. “Just sayin’.”
Logan and Hunter laughed.
Reid scowled and gave his face one last angry swipe with the towel before tossing it down on the weight bench.
Logan gestured to him with his lollipop. “If Nadia ever talks to you again, can you ask her something for me?”
Reid eyed him suspiciously. “What?”
“Ask her why more black women aren’t into hockey.”
Viggo gave an amused snort. “Is she supposed to speak for all black women?”
“Of course not.” Logan shrugged, kicking the base of the bench with his boot. “It’s just something I’ve always been curious about.”
Hunter threw him a wry look. “How many black people are into hockey period?”
“Good point,” Logan conceded.
“Let me guess,” Viggo said teasingly. “Your first crush was a pretty black girl who thought hockey was lame?”
“Nah,” Logan murmured. But something in his expression gave him away.
Viggo exchanged a surprised glance with Hunter and Reid, then burst out laughing and slung an arm around Logan’s neck. “Aww, who broke your little heart, Brassard? Who’s the one that got away? Want us to track her down for you?”
“Shut up, asshole,” Logan grumbled, pushing him off. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Hunter grinned. “It seems he does. Something you wanna share?”
“Nah, man. I just posed a simple question. No need to turn it into a federal fucking probe.”
“So defensive.” Hunter’s grin widened. “The plot thickens.”
“There’s no damn plot. All I was trying to say is that I wouldn’t mind having more diverse crowds at our games.” Logan grinned crookedly around his lollipop. “That said, if I ever look up into the stands and see Meagan Good or Sanaa Lathan, you fellas are on your own the rest of the game.”
Viggo and Hunter laughed.
“Idiot,” Reid muttered. But he could feel the tug of a smile for the first time in…forever.
“I must say,” Hunter drawled, his green eyes twinkling, “it’s good to see you boys broadening your horizons. You make Papa proud.”
With his affinity for vodka martinis, fine wine and intellectual reading, Hunter was by far the most culturally sophisticated member of their hockey team. As a self-professed international lover, his taste in women ranged from the palest Scandinavian supermodel to the darkest beauty from Sudan.
“Now if I could just get you boys to read Sun Tzu,” he said humorously, “I’d really be impressed.”
Viggo and Logan laughed. Even Reid managed to chuckle.
It didn’t go unnoticed by the others.
“Good to see you smiling again, bro,” Viggo said, clapping him warmly on the shoulder. “It’s been a while.”
Reid merely grunted.
“Hey, listen, man,” Logan said, “we can go talk to Nadia if you want. Even though that night is a blur and most of us were totally wasted, we have no problem telling Nadia that nothing happened between you and that Canadian broad.”
“Thanks for the offer,” Reid said grimly, “but she probably wouldn’t believe you. Trust me, I already thought of that.”
Viggo frowned. “So what’re you gonna do? You have to do something to get her back.”
“Seriously, Reid.” Hunter gripped his shoulder, fixing him with a somber gaze. “How much longer do you think you can go on like this?”
Pain tightened Reid’s chest.
Faced with the unbearable reality that he may have lost Nadia for good, all he could say was, “I don’t know, man. I honestly don’t know.”