Dump and Chase (Nashville Assassins Next Generation 1)

I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m an absolute twatwaffle. Damn it, I am so pissed at her. She acted all blasé with me in the bathroom. She didn’t even seem at all interested in me or even affected by me like I was her. It was taking everything in me not to capture that rebellious tip of her chin and kiss the shit out of her. I don’t know what the hell her deal is, but I need to know she isn’t going to tell anyone. And also, I want to know what the hell changed from that night to now. I know I was good, and she was good, so why wouldn’t she want me now? Not that I want her to want me, but it would be nice to know she’s craving me like I am her.

I need help.

People start to file out as I tape up my socks. The guy beside me, Wesley McMillan, taps my skate with his stick. “Nice to have ya, Brooks.”

His voice is thick with an accent I don’t recognize, but I send him a grin nonetheless. “Thanks, bro.”

He heads out, and once I am done, I rush out so I’m not the last. That would be weird. Once I hit the ice, though, I’m not ready for the emotion that comes over me. I have watched games in this arena my whole life. I have sat in our box and watched my dad raise the Cup above his head three times, the last time being his last game. I swallow hard, the lump in my throat a little overwhelming as I look up to see the number twenty-two jersey hanging in the rafters. I’ve been number twenty-two my whole life, just like my dad, but since his number has been retired with the Assassins, I went with twenty-three. A new number for a new start.

For my start.

As a Nashville Assassin.

Wow. What a feeling.

I take a deep breath as I start around the rink, warming up with the rest of the guys. Once everyone has hit the ice, we take a knee as Coach Townes blows his whistle. He’s the fourth coach of the Assassins franchise. Elli pulled him up from our AHL team, and so far, things are going pretty damn good. He’s young and he’s smart. He wants to make things happen, and I’ve admired his game from afar. Now I get to play with him.

“Welcome back, boys,” he says in his deep tenor. “First off, I want to welcome our newest center, Aiden Brooks, to the team.”

I hold up my hand in an awkward, dorky wave and say, “Thanks. Excited to be here.”

“Us too,” he says with a nod. “Do you have a nickname you go by?”

Before I can even speak, Tate decides this is the perfect time to open his mouth. “Boogie Butt. His aunt has been calling him that since he was a baby.”

Kill me now.

The guys all chuckle as I silently die inside. “Thanks, Tate.”

Tate laughs, and Coach nods. “All right, well, I’m a thirty-one-year-old man, and I will not be calling you that.”

“I appreciate that.”

“So to celebrate Boogie Butt’s return,” he says, pausing for the laughter. And I can’t help it, I chuckle along. “Let’s do some drills. BB, we’re gonna try you out with McMillan and Johansson. Let’s go.”

BB. Boogie Butt. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Once Coach blows the whistle, everyone is up and getting into position. I skate to my line and watch as the center before me gets the puck and passes it to his right before the right winger sends it to the left wing for the shot if he has the opening. Once it’s our turn, I start off passing it to my left since I’m left-handed. Johansson passes it across the ice to McMillan, who acts as if he is going to take the shot but instead sends it back to me for a beaut of a goal. A simple tap in that is pure perfection.

In this moment, I know for a fact, I’m home.

“I live off Music Row.”

“Really? Where?” I ask as I wash my balls.

Wes is in the shower next to mine as he says, “It’s closer to the Gulch. Broadstone?”

“I haven’t looked that way. My mom is trying to keep me close to her.”

He laughs. He’s a shorter dude, but he packs a punch. He ran into me playfully when I scored, and he knocked me over. Like, clear on my ass. He reminds me of one of those GQ models with the perfect hair, even after wearing a damn helmet. “My mom did the same, but then I got traded and made her stay back in Montreal.”

“Nice,” I say. Though, I’d never ask my mom to stay back. I just wish she’d give me a bit of space…and carbs. I need some bread, damn it. “Can I come check out your place?”