Uncivilized (Uncivilized 1)

I rap my knuckles softly on the coach's door, and he immediately calls out for me to enter. I don't close the door behind me, only because I could care less if anyone hears my ass-reaming. Taking a seat across from his desk, I casually prop an ankle over my knee and look around his office with no real interest. It's a mess . . . piles of papers, binders and fast-food wrappers litter his desk. He has several framed awards, but they're all sitting on his floor, leaning up against the wall. I've been with the Carolina Cold Fury for almost six years now, and his office looks the same now as it did when I had my first meeting with him those many years ago.

"Great game tonight," he says, looking up from the iPhone that he had been texting on when I entered. "Your plus-minus went to forty-seven. I believe that means you're leading the league right now."

I stare at him, offering no "thank you" for the praise. I don't need it or want it and statistics never meant much to me. Kind of like all those awards Coach has on his floor . . . don't mean shit to me. I respect his coaching skills for what they are, not what other people say about them.

He waits for me to say something . . . an acknowledgment, an eye flicker, an I could give a flying fuck. He gets nothing, so he sighs and continues on.

"That little stunt at the end of the game was uncalled for," he tells me.

He's referring to the fact that I was named the game's most valuable player--or most valuable prick if you go by what some fans say--which is an honor commemorated at the end of the game by having the player skate out on the ice for acknowledgment. At the time they were calling my name, I was halfway back to the locker room, refusing to come out for my stupid fucking lap around the ice. The fans' boos followed me all the way back.

"Sorry . . . had an upset stomach . . . diarrhea. Had to hit the can," I tell him, my face a study of genuine truth even though he knows I'm lying through my teeth.

Pretore leans forward across his desk, flashing his teeth at me in a snarl. "Do you think I'm fucking stupid, Crossman? You thumbed your nose at the crowd and this team because you're an asshole and no other reason. I'm fining you a thousand dollars for that stunt."

I pick an imaginary piece of lint off my slacks and look at him blandly. "Fine. Anything else?"

Leaning back in his chair, Pretore studies me for a moment. Steepling his hands in front of his face, he regards me with interest. "You know . . . I don't get you. You were the best player in the Quebec Juniors by the time you were sixteen, the number one NHL draft pick six years ago, and you have the potential to win the Art Ross Trophy every fucking year if you actually decide to start caring about this game. Instead, you do the bare minimum to get by, which, lucky for you and your career, still makes you pretty fucking good. You have the talent and ability to captain this team, yet you have the emotional maturity of the arena's janitor. You're a fuck-up by most standards, yet you'll continue to get your pay and bonuses because you have more talent in your pinky than most players have in their entire body. I guess what I don't understand is . . . how do you look at yourself in the mirror every day knowing that you're wasting your life?"

I know where the coach is coming from. I get it . . . his little speech is supposed to be a slap-down plus a build-up. He knows I don't respond well to ass-kissing and lofty praise, but rather I respond to the challenge of proving myself. Unfortunately, his words tonight are absolutely wasted lung capacity on me, because I've heard this speech a dozen times already from my dad.

"I look in the mirror same way you do, Coach . . . every day to shave or brush my teeth. I'm comfortable with the guy staring back at me."

Pretore snorts at my response and although he's pissed at me, I also know that answer amuses him somewhat, because he too is a smart-ass by nature.

"Yeah, well, you may be comfortable with that reflection but the suits upstairs aren't. They're mandating an immediate cleanup of your attitude."

Boring! Had this conversation too . . . many times before.

"I see the look on your face," Pretore says with a sigh. "They're not joking this time."

"Let me guess . . . they're going to demand I go to the children's ward of Raleigh Community Hospital and sign autographs or something. Show that I'm really a teddy bear inside."

"That's not a bad idea, but no. They want you a little more involved."

For the first time in this conversation, I feel a tiny thread of apprehension move through me, and only because Pretore's voice has gone from tired and frustrated with me to actually a bit fearful. Whatever the suits want me to do, Pretore doesn't think I'll agree to do it, so I'm guessing he's getting ready for there to be a big fight on his hands.

"Spill it," I say quietly.

"They want you to be the team spokesman for an anti-drug-abuse campaign."

"I can do that," I say cautiously, because I can. I have no problem with supporting worthy causes and even though I'm an asshole, I know how to put a smile on my face when I want to . . . for the greater good, you know.

"Specifically, they want you to work closely with the Wake County Drug Crisis Center and implement a program to talk to at-risk youth throughout the state."

"That's fine," I say, but the apprehension increases because this is sounding a little too easy.

"They have very specific requirements," Pretore says firmly.

I just cock an eyebrow at him, urging him to just lay it the fuck out. He's killing me here.

Taking a piece of paper from a folder on his desk, he hands it over to me. I take it and scan it, noting an itemized list of stuff, but I just look back up at him.

"Essentially, they want you committing at least five hours a week during the season, on non-game days, of course. Off-season, twenty hours a week."

"Jesus fucking Christ," I curse, because I just became the equivalent of a felon who came out on parole.

"That's not all. They are going to have your liaison report to them weekly on your progress and your attitude. They'll give him or her a list of criteria you must meet."

"No fucking way," I snarl but Pretore ignores me.

"If you don't agree, I've been told that you are to be benched indefinitely and all bonuses forfeit."

"Do I have to wear an ankle monitor too?" I growl.

"Finally," he says, his voice even stronger, "at any time they deem you to have made an ass of yourself to the public or to our fans--and the 'ass' is their word, not mine--they are going to fine you five thousand dollars per infraction."

I open my mouth to curse again, but nothing comes out. Coldness washes through me as I realize my employer has just drawn a pretty deep line in the sand. I have two choices--do what they tell me or kiss my career goodbye.

And the fucked-up thing about it--the kissing my career goodbye seems like the better choice for me at this very moment.

***

Walking up the stairs to my apartment, I pull my keys out of my pocket, eager to strip out of my monkey suit and drink a cold beer. When I hit the top step, I stop as I recognize who is standing at my door.

"What are you doing here?" I ask tiredly.

Cassie cocks a perfectly shaped eyebrow at me, pursing her full lips as she smirks at me. "You had a great game tonight--which means you're probably in the pissiest of moods. I thought I'd come over and help you blow off some steam . . . 'blow' being the key word."

Yeah, Cassie Gates gives the best head and I'm probably not going to turn her down, but it pisses me off that she came over without me asking her to. She's been my casual hookup for the past year, ever since moving to Raleigh with her sister, Allie, whose husband, Kyle Steppernech, is a defenseman for the Cold Fury.

"You weren't invited," I tell her as I insert the key into the lock, not even bothering to look at her.

She merely steps in close and reaches a well-manicured hand down to cup me between the legs. Leaning her chin on my shoulder, she whispers, "Come on, Alex . . . you know I'll make you feel good."

Her hand squeezes me and, along with the sexy purr in her voice, it w

orks like magic and I start to get hard. Cassie's a fucking knockout with her platinum blond hair, mile-long legs and fantastic tits, so yeah . . . my body reacts.

Pushing the door open, I walk in, dislodging her hand but knowing she'll follow me to finish the job. I hear her close the door as I walk into the kitchen. Dropping my bag on the floor, I pull a beer from the fridge and twist the cap, tossing it in the sink. Taking a deep swallow, I watch as she walks into the kitchen, sauntering forward like a woman on a mission.

I know she thinks she has me figured out. That she can worm her way into a relationship with me by giving great blow jobs and even hotter sex, but she's way off base. No self-respecting woman would get down on her knees for an asshole like me, just to try to trap an asshole like me.

If I had more of a conscience, I might feel guilty about the give-and-take of our situation, but I've got no qualms about the part where I take what she is offering. I've been straight up, honest with her about how I play, and relationships aren't part of my makeup. She knows she's barking up the wrong tree if she's looking for anything more than Richter-inducing orgasms.

"Don't come over again unless I invite you," I tell her after I take another swallow of beer.

Stepping up close to me, she trails a finger along my jaw, smiling apologetically. "Sure thing, baby."

"I'm not your baby," I remind her, just because I feel like being an even bigger asshole than I normally am.

"What are you, then?" she teases me as she starts to work at my belt buckle.

"I'm the guy that fucks you when it suits me. Nothing more."

She chuckles, because that's not the first time she's heard those words from my lips. But being the glutton for punishment that she is, she merely says, "My, my, my . . . you are in supreme asshole mood tonight. I don't get why you have to be so mean."

Stepping away from her grasp, I walk into the living room, grab a pillow off the couch and walk back into the kitchen. I resume my spot in front of her and drop the pillow at her knees.