Dirty Pucker (Denver Bashers #2)

1. Del

Chapter 1

Del

I stand outside of the Bashers locker room, my heart hammering in my chest.

A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. What the fuck am I doing?

Every muscle in my body twitches with the urge to turn around and run away. I don’t belong here. I vowed I’d never, ever come back to Denver.

But that was before last month when my mom called me in a panic…

And that’s when I knew. I had to move back.

My stomach twists into a knot when I remember how her voice shook, how scared she sounded.

I thought we were finally okay. It had been more than a decade since we heard from that asshole. I thought he finally got the message and would stay away from her for good.

I was wrong.

For a fleeting second, I feel like I’m going to vomit.

But then I breathe. I clench my jaw. That sick feeling passes.

Another breath and I manage to hold it together. Like I always do.

I’m here because I need to be. It’s the only way to keep Mom and Dakota safe.

I roll my shoulders and focus my gaze on the locker room door. Muffled sounds of talking and shouting and laughing filter through the door. Some hip-hop song booms in the background as they get ready for practice.

Every guy in the locker room is aching to kick the shit out of me. I can’t blame them. I’ve brawled with almost all of them. And I’ve hit nearly all the guys in this room with a cheap shot on the ice more times than I can count.

I couldn’t have picked a worse team in the league to get traded to. The worst fights of my career have been with the Bashers. Playing with these guys is gonna be hell.

But I don’t care. It’s what I have to do to keep my mom and my sister safe.

It’s always been like this. I’m the oldest kid and the big brother. I take care of everything—all the stress, all the problems. Always, no matter what. And I don’t let it faze me. I don’t let the worry and fear show in my expression, in my actions, in my mood, in my words.

I hold it all in. And then I take it out on the ice.

That’s why I’m known as the dirtiest brawler in the NHL. I’ve got the most penalty time out of any player in the league. I’ve been in more fights than anyone else.

When I was younger, that was something I was proud of. Never afraid to back down from a fight. I’d thrown down with anyone.

Fans even gave me a nickname for it: Dirty Del.

A knot settles in my gut. That proud feeling is nowhere to be found anymore. And I’m trying to figure out why.

“Hey there, Del!”

I turn and see an early-thirties guy in a suit walking up to me, smiling wide. I assume he’s the PR guy. I try to smile, but my face muscles ache, I’m so nervous.

Instead, I nod once at him as he sticks his hand out for me to shake.

“I’m Skyler, Alanna’s assistant. It’s great to finally meet you.”

I shake his hand. “Good to meet you too.”

“Alanna’s in a meeting with the Bashers owner, so I’ll be introducing you to the team today,” Skyler says.

I tell him no problem and try to keep my expression neutral. I’ve been told I have resting psycho face. Probably from all the years of trying to look intimidating on the ice.

Skyler’s cheery smile remains, so I’ll take that as a sign that I don’t look like a serial killer.

“We’re all thrilled to have you join the team,” he says.

I almost laugh. That’s textbook public relations speak, which makes sense because he’s the assistant to Alanna, the head of the Bashers PR department. He has to say shit like that. But I am one thousand percent certain that none of the players are happy I’m here.

But I was a good trade prospect and was flexible in my contract negotiation, and that made me an appealing player to take on.

Skyler looks at me, that megawatt smile still in place. “Shall we?”

He pushes open the door and I follow him inside. All the guys are in the middle of throwing on their gear while talking and laughing. They’re not even looking at us.

“Hey, fellas! Can I get your attention for a moment?” Skyler hollers.

The entire room turns to look at Skyler and me standing there. Their gazes focus on me. A half-second later, every player on the Bashers roster is glaring at me.

“I’d like you all to welcome Del Richards. He’s come all the way from Nashville to join us as the new center for the team.”

Skyler pats my shoulder, smiling at me, then back at the team. I’d laugh if this weren’t so fucking uncomfortable. This guy’s oblivious optimism is impressive.

All the muscles in my neck and shoulders tighten. This is exactly what I thought would happen, but still. It sucks to know that everyone on my new team fucking hates me…even though I deserve it.

I nod once as I glance at everyone. They all look like they want to kick the shit out of me.

“Let’s give Del a warm Denver welcome, okay?” Skyler says in a cheery voice. No one says a word. They just keep silently death-glaring me.

Skyler leads me across the room to an empty locker…right next to Xander Williams, the star center of the Bashers.

Fuck.

He’s the guy I’m certain hates me the most out of everyone on the team. And for good reason.

I think back to just a couple of months ago when our teams played each other. We got into a fight after I taunted him about a sex tape of him and my ex that some hacker leaked without their permission.

My stomach churns. I’ve done my fair share of fucked-up things on the ice. I’ve said a lot of shitty stuff. That was the worst though.

Shame heats me under the hoodie I’m wearing when I think about what I said…and how Xander accused me of leaking the sex tape.

A familiar sick feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. It’s the same sick feeling I felt that day when he assumed that I did it. He actually thought I was capable of doing something so gross, so low.

And that’s when I realized what an utter piece of shit I was—I am.

That sick feeling burrows deeper. I don’t want to be like that anymore.

Skyler leaves me and heads across the room. “Have a good practice, guys!” he says in that upbeat tone before walking out the door.

No one says a word. They just continue putting on their gear.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Xander peering over at me.

It feels like a million tiny knives are stabbing into my skin. Fuck, this is uncomfortable. I’d honestly rather he just punch me. That’s better than this unspoken tension that’s as thick as smoke in the air.

When I finish putting on my skates, I look up at him standing over me, scowling.

“Welcome to the team, asshole,” he mutters before walking off.

Everyone else glares at me and follows him to the ice. I wait a few seconds before I join them for practice.

That sick feeling is gone, replaced by an empty feeling I’ve felt almost my whole life.

I take a deep breath in, then exhale. I’ll take it out on the ice, like I always do.

Coach Porter blows his whistle. “Nice work, gentlemen. Hit the showers.”

My chest is on fire as I head toward the edge of the ice, I’m panting so hard. I worked my ass off this practice, sprinting as hard as I could through the drills. Every time I shot the puck at the net, I managed to score, which I hope Coach Porter noticed.

I want him to see that I’m a solid two-way center. I want to show him that despite the trouble I cause on the ice with all the fights I get into, I play hard, and I score points. I want to show him I was worth the trouble of trading for at the last minute, right before playoffs.

I need him to see that I’m worth keeping around, because I need to be here in Denver. I need to be near my mom and my sister so I can look after them. I can’t have him be disappointed with me and want to get rid of me.

“Richards, hang back for a sec,” Porter says.

I skate over to where he’s standing at the edge of the ice as everyone leaves.

“How are you settling in?” he asks.

“Fine.”

He frowns like he doesn’t believe me. “Skyler told me that you had a quiet welcome from the team.” He studies my face.

I instantly tense. Porter is well-known in the league for his no-nonsense demeanor. I’ve played for all sorts of coaches in my career. Ones that lost their shit over the smallest things, ones that yelled until they lost their voice, ones that got into it with the refs and would get tossed out mid-game.

But Porter’s different. When I’ve seen him coach the Bashers during the times that I’ve played them, he’s hardly ever lost his cool, on his players or the opposing team or the officials. And something about that unnerves me. I can’t read him. I can’t tell if he’s pissed at me or unimpressed with me or just lost in thought.

I clear my throat. “I don’t know if the team is thrilled to have me.”

“You can’t blame them. You’re a polarizing player.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“You had a strong showing today.” He juts his chin at the ice. “Nice work.”

“Thank you.”

He looks me in the eye. “But I want to make something clear: I’m not a fan of your behavior on the ice. I never have been.”

I tense. “Right.”

“It’s not the fighting. This is hockey, after all. Fights happen. I understand that. What I am against is all those cheap shots you’re known for. Late hits, dropping the gloves for every little thing. That doesn’t fly with me. So if you’re interested in playing for this team long-term, you need to clean up your act. Understand?”

I nod, that unnerved feeling within me intensifying. “I understand.”

That pointed look in his gaze remains. “Step one is getting along with your teammates. It’s up to you to change their minds.”

I tell him I will, even though I have no idea if I’ll be able to do that.

I head for the locker room.

“One more thing,” Porter hollers.

I turn back around to him.

“You need to meet with our head of social media tomorrow morning to film some content,” he says.

I hold back a groan and nod, even though the thought of doing that makes me want to smash my head into a wall.

God, I fucking hate that social media is such a huge part of the sport now. I signed up to play hockey, not make TikToks about dancing or singing or whatever the fuck is trending nowadays.

“Ingrid will get you all set up when you meet with her,” Coach Porter says.

“Sounds good. I’ll be there.” I turn away and head to the locker room. I roll my eyes. This is gonna suck.