Axel (Carolina Reapers 1)

Crickets would have a hell of a party if they could make it up here.

I wondered if he’d open up to Axel—his Captain—if he’d been here. Axel had a way of seeing through all the surface walls people built around themselves and tearing them down brick by brick. Except with me. He’d gently removed each brick, lovingly stroking me to get those walls to loosen. Fucking hell, I needed him. I needed to tell him everything that was bleeding out of my heart.

Cannon shifted in his seat, drawing my attention. The white T-shirt he wore stretched tightly over the rock-hard muscle beneath. And the shirt was thin enough that I could almost make out all the tattoos covering his body—his entire upper half from the look of the black whorls and patterns. His muscled arms were covered in black with splashes of color depending on the piece of design, and I knew from seeing him at Scythe that the ink traveled up the back of his neck and base of his skull, too. Funny, when the man was in his Reapers’ gear, you’d never be able to see the art decorating him. Couldn’t see that each piece had been a choice—for what reasoning, I’d likely never know. I pitied whatever woman would be the one to decipher the ink—and break down the iron walls—he kept around himself.

Thirty-eight minutes.

“I have practice.”

It took all my years of professional experience not to breathe a sigh of relief at his words. Instead, I nodded. “In fifteen minutes,” I answered.

“Want to get this over with?” he asked, not as sharp as I would’ve guessed.

“Absolutely.” I waited, despite my soul dying to finish this meeting and figure out if I needed to jump on a plane or break speed limits to get home. Axel was the best thing that ever happened to me. I needed him to know. I needed to fix this.

“Well?” Price’s eyes were hard, unshakeable.

“Well, what?” I asked, my tone soft. Calm. Easy. This wasn’t an attack. He was my player as much as he was Gage’s. I wanted to know him so I could help him.

Cannon raised those inked arms before resting them on the armrests again. “You called this meeting.”

“I did,” I said. “Why do you think you’re here?”

A muscle in his jaw flexed. So much anger brewing beneath his skin. Not a fresh wave, but an old anger, like it’d been forged over so many years that now it was always with him. A constant molten heat just shy of surface level and—from his reputation—easily triggered.

“You probably wanted to chew me out like coach.”

I tilted my head. “Is that what Gage did?”

Cannon shrugged. “Not like my last coach, no.”

“Like what, then?”

Cannon leaned further back in his seat. “Lecture was more like it. Like he’s my dad or some shit.”

I bit back my smile. Sounded like Gage.

“He’s a great coach.”

Cannon moved his head, almost like he was going to nod in agreement but caught himself.

“I didn’t ask you here to chew you out.”

“No?” He smirked. “Then what?” He motioned to the room. “You wanted to meditate?”

I laughed. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Haven’t been doing much of that this past half hour.”

“I wanted to wait until you were ready.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not going to happen.”

I reached for my glass again, raising it toward him. “And yet here we are, talking.”

He planted me with a look that screamed how unamused he was.

“Is it so bad that I want your side of the story?” I set my glass down after another sip.

He scoffed. “You’ve already decided the story. Just like everyone else.”

I arched a brow at him. “Don’t presume to know me, Cannon,” I said, a little sharper than before. “You don’t get to make assumptions about me until you’ve earned it. You haven’t made an effort to know me. I’m making one to know you now. And, in my gut, I know you didn’t punch out a ref for funsies.”

He sucked his teeth. “What makes you say that?”

I took a deep breath, begging the hockey gods for patience. “You’re smarter than that.”

Surprise colored those dark eyes.

“I’ve read your file, Cannon,” I said. “Sure, you’ve got an attitude, but who doesn’t? You’ve always made smart choices when it comes to your career. Punching a ref? That’s a dumb choice. Even if it was after the game, post-locker-room shop-talk.” I leaned forward, holding his gaze. “So, that leads me to believe it was provoked. A reactive choice, not a thoughtful one.” I leaned back in my seat, the ball now in his court.

He studied me for a good long minute before the tension in his shoulders dropped, just a fraction. He glanced down at his hands, at the ink decorated there.

“I have a baby sister,” he said, then laughed to himself. “Well, she isn’t a baby anymore. She’s only a year younger than me. But she’s…” He cleared his throat. “Anyway. Ref was her ex.”