Enforcer (Seattle Sharks 2)

Chapter 1

Rory

Here I am, again. I glanced down at the bruises marring the knuckles of my right hand and muttered a curse. Coach was going to fucking kill me. Fighting on the ice was one thing but in a bar? Yeah, I was pretty much screwed. Given the fact that I’d been sitting here since early this morning, my guess was he not only knew but had decided to let me stew.

My temper had been sitting at a simmer since I’d been handcuffed. My ass was numb from the hard metal of the bench, my mouth tasted like something was slowly dying in there, and I smelled like bar smoke and stale beer.

This was definitely not the image my publicist had been trying to cultivate.

“Jackson, Rory,” the cop called out from outside my cell, glancing up from his clipboard.

“That’s me,” I said, standing.

“You look like shit,” a familiar voice said from next to the cop.

“I’ll give you a second,” the cop said, holding an autographed Seattle Sharks hat in his other hand.

That’s how Gage got back here.

“You would too if you’d slept here.” I snapped at my best friend, gesturing to the cells all around me. At least I’d had my little 10X10 to myself. Perks of clearing $8 million last year, I guessed. Gage lifted one black eyebrow and shook his head.

“I wouldn’t be in the jail cell. Oh, wait. That’s right. I’m not.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “I’m not in the mood for your shit.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw at least three of the other guys—who’d been brought in way after I was—leaning forward against their bars. Not that I could blame them. Gage and I were two of the best-paid and well-played Seattle Sharks—the hometown NHL team. “Just get me out of here,” I ordered, lowering my voice.

“Why would I do that?” Gage asked. “At least if you’re in here, I know you’re not out there getting in trouble. You do realize Coach is going to bench your ass, don’t you?

I sighed, my shoulders drooping, and rubbed my hand over my forehead. “Yeah, I know.”

“And you do realize that this is the first year we could actually win the Cup?”

“Yes.”

“And you realize that you’re on your seventeenth strike of his ‘three strikes and you’re out’ policy?”

“God damn it, yes, I know that,” I hissed.

“Then what the fuck were you thinking?”

“The guy was an asshole,” I said with a shrug.

“So you hit him.”

“He tried to hit me first.” And the minute he’d swung, hell the moment anyone swung, they all became him in my mind.

Gage shook his head and looked at the ceiling like he was hoping God would come down and save him. “Un-fucking-believable.” A couple of deep breaths later, he finally looked at me again. That amazing control was what made Gage a fantastic grinder on the ice. My temper was what made me the Seattle Shark’s best enforcer, but it was also my biggest liability. “Grow the fuck up, Rory.”

“Working on it,” I told him.

“We’re ready,” Gage called over his shoulder, and the cop reappeared. A few quick motions and he had my cell unlocked.

“You’re free to go,” he said.

“Thank you…” I glanced at his nametag, “Officer Jonas.”

About ten minutes, a few signed papers, and one plastic bag with my belongings later, we were in Gage’s car, pulling into Seattle traffic.

“My truck is still at the bar,” I told him when he made a turn in the opposite direction.

“We’re headed to my house. Bailey picked up your tux—so remember to thank her—and if we’re fast, we can still make it in time.”

“Make it in time…” My brows lowered. What was I forgetting?

“If you forgot, you’d better pray that Coach comes for you because Bailey will kill you on Paige’s behalf.” He wove in and out of traffic, his nearly-dangerous driving at odds with the small booster seat in the back of his car that established his dad status.

Paige. Gage’s fiancée’s best friend and the current subject of most of my fantasies lately. Okay, all of my fantasies. She was fucking perfect—petite, gorgeous, with a body that begged to be stripped out of those super-serious suits for some super-serious fucking. She was brilliant, and not just in a ‘yeah-she’s-smart,’ kind of way. No. She was Ivy League and the only girl I considered out of my league.

“Paige’s fundraising gala,” I muttered, rubbing my hands over my face.

“Bingo,” Gage said, crossing three lanes of traffic for the exit.

“Fuck, I forgot that was tonight. It’s not like every other Shark won’t be there. She won’t notice one empty seat.”

Gage pointed to the dash clock. “Red carpet is at five, which means we have exactly an hour to get ready and get there. And yes, when it comes to you, she absolutely will notice.”

Right. I did promise to autograph all those sticks. Shit.

“Okay.” I ran through a quick mental schedule. At least I’d have time for a shower, so I wouldn’t show up smelling like I’d spent last night and the better part of today in a drunk tank.

We pulled into Gage’s driveway as my cell phone rang.

“It’s Coach Harris,” I groaned.

Gage killed the engine and slapped my shoulder. “Good luck, with that. Your tux is in the guest room when you’re ready.”

“Thanks, man.”

I answered the call as Gage shut the door, leaving me alone in the car.

“Coach.”

“Jackson.” His voice was soft, which I knew meant he was way more pissed than when he yelled.

“I have no excuses and I know it’s not enough to apologize,” I said, leaning my head back against the rest.

“You’re damn right you don’t, and it’s not. Look, the guy agreed not to press charges—”

I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“—but I can’t exactly look like I’m letting you off the hook on this one.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re way past the age where you should be pulling this shit, let alone two months before playoffs when we’re an actual contender.”