Jett (Arizona Vengeance 10)

“Fine,” I clip out. “But business only.”

“Business only,” he agrees.

CHAPTER 3

Jett

Coach Perron doesn’t believe in whistles while coaching. He has a booming voice he prefers to use if necessary, but mostly he just observes us while we do practice drills. The assistant coaches are more involved during practices and they carry out Perron’s coaching philosophies to perfection. If a comment is needed, Coach won’t hesitate to make it, but his most important words are usually reserved for strategy discussions while watching game film and pre-game pep talks.

But when he deems practice over—meaning we have sufficiently met his expectations for the day, he’ll call out, “That’s enough for today.”

As he did just now. We file off the ice, a few hanging back to get some extra practice in or just goof off with some extra drills.

I’m gassed, however, as I got in a workout before practice, and I want to get home to relax a bit before my “date” tonight with Emory.

In the locker room, I shower and change into fresh clothes at my cubby, while intermittently chatting with various teammates. The locker room is a place where many of us take the time to get caught up on the day-to-day lives of our teammates, and it’s been affectionately dubbed The Euchre Club by our captain, Bishop Scott. He told us his parents belonged to a neighborhood social club where their purpose was to play the card game of euchre, but really it was a way to get together with friends to have some drinks, chat, and sometimes even gossip.

Outside of the drinks, our locker room often resembles just such a social event.

“Mollie is being such a hippie,” Kane says as he stretches out on one of the benches, hands clasped behind his head, eyes on the ceiling.

I cut a glance to Bain, who smirks back at me. We both recognize Kane’s tone. He’s getting ready to wax poetic about his fiancée and wedding planning.

While deep down, I’d never begrudge my friend if planning a wedding was bringing him joy, as a man, I simply can’t do so without giving him a little bit of shit in return.

Kane’s eyes move from the ceiling to me. “Do you know what she wants now?”

I withhold a laugh, because although Kane’s words alone sound as if he might be complaining, his tone says that he finds whatever Mollie is doing utterly fucking adorable.

I take the bait. “What’s that?”

Kane curls up from his supine position, planting his feet on either side of the bench, and crosses his arms. He shakes his head, all bemused like. “Here I am… incredibly wealthy and can pretty much afford anything she wants as she marries the love of her life—that being me, of course—and she wants roadside wildflowers.”

I glance at Bain, who shrugs, and then back to Kane. “What does that even mean… roadside wildflowers?”

Kane gives an airy wave of his hand. “You know… like daisies and shit.”

“She wants to cut wildflowers,” Bain drawls slowly for affirmation. “Like daisies and shit… for the wedding?”

“For her bouquet,” he clarifies. “I mean… I thought roses or something more expensive—not that I know what that would be, as I don’t know flowers—but I sure as hell know I can afford more than wildflowers off the side of the road.”

Once again, Bain and I exchange bewildered looks.

“Or,” a deep voice drawls from behind us and we turn to see Aaron standing there. Our first-line defenseman only just recently found himself falling hard for a woman, so maybe he’s got a more qualified opinion. “I expect daisies and other such wildflowers are hard to come by in the desert of Arizona. Flowers such as that might have to be imported, which means, they’ll probably cost you an arm and a leg. I’m expecting Mollie’s not quite the free-spirited hippie you think she is, and merely a woman of particular taste who will end up spending a pretty penny on your wedding.”

Everyone can see this reasoning makes sense and moreover, that Kane really likes the thought of importing expensive roadside wildflowers for his bride-to-be.

But before he can prattle on about it—because a man can only take so much wedding talk, especially when he’s firmly opposed to settling down—I bring The Euchre Club to the next level.

“I’ve got a date with Emory Holland tonight,” I say smugly.

“You’re full of shit” another voice pipes in and a head pops around the corner of the row of cubbies, followed by his body. It belongs to Dax Monahan, first-line left-winger, and he’s wearing nothing but a shower towel around his waist.

His eyes are wide with surprise and he is one of the handful of teammates who have been giving me hell for pursuing Emory. They all saw me crash and burn the day she was introduced to the team. They also know she rebuffed my attempts to wrangle a date during our social media meeting.