Clusterpuck (Vegas Crush #9)

2. It’s Just Biology

2 /

it’s just biology

Tripp

Lila Marchmont-Terry has grown up hotter than a metal seat in a Nevada summer. Like, she has always been cute, and she’s always caught my eye, but now? I can’t look away. Five-seven, maybe five-eight? All filled out with curves in allll the right places. Long, dark brown hair. Big brown eyes. A body meant to be worshipped. If I wasn’t in the presence of her grandfather, who just gave me a killer contract, I might have to adjust myself.

She’s thirteen years younger than me, too. I need to remember that most of all. It was way weirder to notice her when she was underage, but that restraint is harder to manage, knowing she’s definitely not underage anymore. Still, she’s way too young for me. Too close to my family. Too much for me to handle I think. She was always smart and quiet when she was younger. Now she’s smart and a lot less quiet, ready to blaze her way into her grandfather’s business like she was born for it.

Imagine that.

And maybe she was born for it. Certainly if she’d been born a male. Professional hockey is a predominantly male sport, and it’s predominantly managed by men for a reason. Men know how to think about the realities of playing the physically and mentally challenging sport of professional hockey. I’m not trying to be a sexist asshole, either. It’s just biology. Somehow though, I think Lila will be the exception to the norm. She’s always been way into hockey, a true fan of the sport. And with her connections, I can see her going all the way into the highest tier of management.

I park it on Max’s snooty-looking, white leather sofa, tossing my duffel bag onto his pristine carpet. This is the shit I grew up with. My rich family is friends with his rich family. And look, it’s fine. I’ve got nothing against money. I have plenty of it myself. But most of it is invested, and I wouldn’t even try decorating my home to look like a magazine picture. I just don’t care about shit like that.

Still, I’m thirty-six, and I should be retired. I was retired. But then Max Terry, old family friend, offered me three million dollars to show up for a year. Three million for one year of work? Sunset my career with a championship team? A team with a probable deep playoff run? The elusive Cup in the realm of possibility? It sure felt like a deal I could not refuse.

“So, Max” —I lean forward, elbows on knees, chin on the top of my hands— “why am I really here?”

Max’s expression reads somewhere in between surprised and amused. “You’re welcome for the opportunity to play a final season on a cup-winning team when you could be celebrating retirement after an entire career without a championship ring.”

“Not saying I’m not happy to be here, Max, but I’ve spent the past week trying to figure out why the hell a smart guy like you would want an old guy like me here right now when I know you’ve spent the whole last year building your bench out. Every line you have runs like a machine now. Why toss three million in the toilet with a guy who was ready to head—what Lila just said a minute ago—out to pasture.”

Max laughs. “She does have a way with words, doesn’t she?”

“She’s certainly found her voice. She used to be so quiet.”

Max lifts a shoulder. “We don’t raise wallflowers in the Terry family.”

“Guess not.” Lila Marchmont-Terry is certainly no shy, quiet, little mouse anymore. “Still, I’m curious about your thought process here.”

“Look, you’ve been a heck of a solid player throughout your career. Consistent. Mature on the ice. You’re not dicking around with the parties and women. You’re not in the gossip pages. You’ve had a successful, strong career, and some of these guys are still really young, full of piss and vinegar and not much else. They need some mentoring.”

“But I’m no role model, Max. I’m not out and about because I don’t like people. You know that.” He knows this.

“That seems a bit overdramatic, don’t you think? There are some people you like.”

“Well, I like you, but you’re paying me three million bucks this year, so…”

“You are a crusty old bastard, you know that? I’m over twice your age, and I’m not as crusty as you. Does your father know what a cranky ass you’ve become?”

I snort. This is the real Max Terry. He’s polished and perfect for the public, but he’s got a sense of humor. He’s all about family, and he’s very loyal to those in his inner circle. He’s also got a bit of a mouth—when he loosens up his tie a bit.

He looks me straight in the eye and sells it like the master he is. “So, Tripp, as you’ve noted, we’ve been working on bench strength, but I also want longevity. I don’t want guys burning out. I don’t want them washing out. I need them focused and balanced and strong, right? You’ve had a long career. I want you to help them see that future for themselves and to see what it takes to have it.”

“So, I’m a life coach now.” Right. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised really. I asked him why I was here. He just gave me the answer. “Will I get any playing time?”

“Everyone plays. That’s the way it goes here, but obviously, the number of minutes still depends on how you show up. This is a good chunk of money I’m throwing your way, and I’ll expect you to contribute on and off the ice.”

I stop myself from the eye-rolling that threatens. I stand by my statement: I’m no role model. But whatever, this is a great offer, and it’s only a one-year contract. “Okay, boss. It’s your nickel. I will offer my insight to the younglings.”

“Good man.” He gives me a nod from across his desk. “Now head on down to Coach Brown and check in.”

I heave myself up off the couch, sling my bag back over my shoulder, and give the man a salute. He shakes his head and refocuses on his laptop.

I wander the halls, unsure where exactly Coach Brown is to be found, only to see Lila sitting at a desk in the hallway, just outside the suite of managers’ offices.

“Hey, you. How’s it going?”

“It’s fine,” she says evenly, not looking up from whatever she’s reading.

“Crazy, we both ended up here thanks to the patronage of the great Max Terry.”

Cue the orchestra of crickets.

She still won’t look at me, instead focused on a manual of some sort, flipping pages so aggressively she can’t possibly be reading them. “Yeah, crazy.”

Okay, so that’s how it’s going to be?

Huh.

“What did I do to piss you off already?” Letting out a laugh, I try to keep it light, but I am truly confused.

She snaps a dark gaze up to me, eyes narrowed. “I heard what you said about hiring a woman into management.”

“And so?”

“And so, I, for one, appreciate working in an environment that values the input of women.”

“Because you’re a woman.” Yes, indeed, she certainly is, I think to myself while getting a closer look than when we were in Max’s office. Lila is a truly gorgeous woman now. No longer the skinny teenager sporting braces and quietly shy, she’s all filled out in all the right places, and the shy, quiet routine she used to rock has hit the road.

“Every organization should represent all kinds of people and voices and thoughts and ideas.” Her eyes flare as she gathers steam for her rant. “Women have been a part of the workforce for a long time. Welcome to the twenty-first century since you obviously just crawled out of your cave, walking on your knuckles.”

“Don’t go all fem-bot on me, Liles?—”

“Don’t call me Liles,” she snaps. “That’s for family.”

It is for family. And I’ve always called her that. But whatever. “I made a comment. You don’t have to chop my head off.”

“Yeah, I did, because the comment you made was stupid. As usual.”

“My God,” I growl, blowing out a frustrated breath. “I wish I could say it was a great pleasure to see you or that I looked forward to spending the season here in Las Vegas with us both working for the Crush, but I’d be lying, Liles .” I add that little zinger on the end just to rile her up a bit more.

“Oh, go cry in the pile of millions you’re making just for showing up.” She goes back to focusing on her manual as if it contains the secrets of the JFK assassination, the location of Jimmy Hoffa’s corpse, or the truth behind Area 51.

My nostrils flare as I hold back what I want to say next. I could reference the pile of millions she’s sitting on, what with her Marchmont-Terry trust fund, but I won’t. Instead, I stare down at her for a long moment, watching her cheeks light up with color at each passing second. Only when I’m sure it’s thoroughly and positively uncomfortable for her do I say, “Oh-kay then. Message received.”

And then I stomp myself on down the hallway.

I want to look back to see if she’s watching me walk away. I want to find a good last word to say. I irrationally want to kiss her. Even more irrationally, I want to pick her up and set her lovely tight ass down on her stupid little desk and show her what a man can do that a woman cannot.

It’s that thought that calms and focuses me.

Because I should not be thinking like this.

Not about Lila Marchmont-Terry.

Not about a woman who just turned twenty-fucking-three.

Not about Max Terry’s only granddaughter.

Not about a coworker, because yes, we are coworkers now.

And I am not a beast. I will never be that guy.