Power Play (Nashville Assassins: Next Generation Book 2) Read online

  “There are,” he says simply. “You don’t like me, and I don’t get it. I know I’m an asshole sometimes, but I feel like you’ve had it out for me since you got here.”

  “That’s untrue,” I say, looking up at him. “I’m treating all of you the same. I’m even hard on my future brother-in-law. I will not kiss your ass, Hoenes.”

  “Not saying you have to, but you’re holding me to a standard I may not be able to rise to and—”

  “That’s bullshit,” I say, and I lean toward him. “The standard I am holding you to is one you’re already at. You just have to believe in yourself, in your play, and in your team. I can’t make you do that. It’s all on you.”

  “I do believe in myself,” he snaps, and he’s wearing his frustration like armor.

  “Then show me.”

  “Maybe if you didn’t ride me so hard—”

  “I wouldn’t ride you so hard if I didn’t care.” His eyes widen a bit. I don’t know why I said that. Not only did I say I cared, but now I’m thinking of riding him. His hands on my hips and him so fucking deep inside me. I’ve never felt the sensation, but I’m sure it’s fantastic. Problem is, this is a serious moment, and my mind is all over the place. He makes me feel funny. Makes my skin tingle and my pussy throb. He’s just so big, and he wants this so badly. I know he does. I can feel it, see it, and I want him to make it. I take in a deep breath, shaking my head as the heat courses through me. “I know there is more in you. I want it.”

  When I meet his gaze, his eyes are intense, staring down at me. “I will work and get to where you want me to be.”

  I wasn’t expecting that. I nod. “Thank you.” He nods too, and I wait for him to skate off, but he stands there. His eyes haven’t left mine, and I’m starting to feel self-conscious. “Something else you want to say?”

  I swear his eyes drop to my lips, but surely not. “Yeah, but I don’t know how it will be perceived.”

  I cock a brow as my heart races. “What do you mean?”

  He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

  “Well, it has to be something.”

  He swallows hard and then says, “You’re really passionate about hockey.”

  I blink. My heart is still pounding in my chest. “Yeah, I am.”

  “Then why did you quit playing?”

  “Because I wanted to coach.”

  “Why?”

  “I feel I have a talent when it comes to play-making. I love scoring and working for the win, but I love helping others chase that feeling more. It makes me feel good.”

  Silence stretches between us, and the way he is looking at me has my body burning. It seems as if his eyes are saying so much, but I don’t know what. I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but I feel like he’s undressing me with them. It wouldn’t make sense, though. It’s obvious he thinks I’m a bitch. Hell, I might be one, but I don’t want to be. I want to be a good coach; I want to be like my dad was, hard but uplifting. “I am aware of my faults as a coach. They have been brought to my attention, and I promise I’ll work on them. I am sorry if you felt disrespected or that I don’t like you or anything like that. That’s not the case at all.”

  His eyes soften as our gazes stay locked. “I didn’t see you being apologetic.”

  “It’s actually quite hard, so know I care if I am.”

  Boon looks away, fighting a grin. “So you do feel one way or another.”

  His gaze moves back to mine, and I have to swallow. “Sure.”

  “Okay, I’ll continue working on what you’re asking for,” he says then, and heat rolls over us like a tide.

  “That’s all I can ask.”

  He runs his tongue along his lips, and my heart flutters in my chest. Am I hard on him because I want him? Is this one of those playground things, where if you’re mean to the opposite sex, it means you like them? If so, that’s pathetic. But I wouldn’t be surprised. I don’t know how to be a normal girl. A flirtatious one who is confident that a guy could want me. I want to reach out, cup his jaw, and tell him that I think he is a fantastic player. That I do care, and please God, take me right here. But I’m sure he wouldn’t want me. How could he when he is so gorgeous, so big, and so strong. Between his scar and his beard, he’s just so damn rugged.

  “How did you get that scar?”

  Well, damn. Talk about out of left field, Posey.

  For the love of God.

  Even Boon is taken aback by my question. “What?”

  I stumble over my words. “Your scar? You have a scar. How did you get that?”

  His lips curve ever so slightly, sending jolts straight to my center. He looks down bashfully. “I got into a fight when I was younger, and this guy sliced my face with a beer bottle.”

  I take in a sharp breath. “Why?”

  His eyes meet mine once more. “Maybe I’ll tell you the story over some nachos and beer.”

  I just blink. “Sorry, what?”

  Boon looks away once more. “Man, you’re hard to read.”

  His words confuse me. “Huh?”

  When his gaze meets mine, he grins. “Have a good day, Coach.”

  I watch as he skates toward the locker room, and I really have no clue what just happened here.

  But I think he might have been trying to ask me out…

  Laughter bubbles at the base of my throat, and I slap my hand over my mouth.

  Surely not.

  Or did he?

  Oh.

  Oh my.

  Chapter Nine

  Boon

  The top of my beer rests against my lips as I “watch” the Lakers game. Wes sits beside me, eating a steak. I want to say the game has my attention, but just as they’ve been for the last week or so, my thoughts are solely on Posey. I honestly don’t know what is wrong with me. It’s obvious she doesn’t want a damn thing to do with me, but I want her. Oh fuck, I want her. Bad. When she yells at me, not only does it piss me off, it turns me on like no other. I love how she skates, how she directs plays, and I am obsessed with her lips. They’re basically weapons of torture. She uses her words to slice me up, and all I can think is, damn, wouldn’t it be great to be on the receiving end of those lips?

  Our talk this afternoon was much needed. I haven’t felt confident about my play lately, and it’s mostly because no one has ever picked it apart the way she does. After that stint where she blocked every pass I made—which, by the way, if it hadn’t stung my pride, I would have been amazed by her—I needed her to look me in the eyes and tell me it wasn’t personal. I know it’s not. I want it to be, though. I want her to want me. To want me to be better. To see me as more than a player who isn’t doing what she wants. Which I feel is a whole bunch of horseshit—I am doing it, and I’m doing it well; she just wants more.

  And I do too—like her, downright naked.

  She’s a damn distraction.

  I run my lips along the top of my beer as Wes yells at the TV. “That’s a bullshit call, totally charging.”

  I nod, even though I have no clue what’s going on. I hadn’t planned on coming out. It’s a Thursday night. I’m tired and I want to sleep, but we have no food and I’m not buying any. Not when we are about to go on a road trip. So free food at Brooks House it is. If I were eating. I’m too busy being lost in my own thoughts.

  From across the bar, I hear, “You’re crazy. He was faking.”

  I look over the bar to see her. Posey is sitting with another girl, a glass of wine in her hand and a plate of nachos in front of her. She’s wearing the sweats from earlier, all Assassins gear. Her hair is in a high ponytail, while her face is free of makeup. Her eyes settle on me as her lips curve. “You know it’s true.”

  Wes scoffs beside me. “Please don’t tell me you’re an expert in basketball too.”

  Her face lights up. “What can I say? I love sports.”

  “Why aren’t you married? Or scooped up?” he asks, and I think that’s a wonderful question.

  “Who says I’m not?” sh