Power Play (Nashville Assassins Next Generation 2)

I feel like Hoenes is looking at me, and when I glance at him, sure enough, he’s watching me. I’ve noticed he does that a lot. I fully expected him to be shy with me since the night he asked if I hated him, but I’m realizing that’s not how he works. He wants to learn. He wants to play, but he just isn’t getting it done for me. “As soon as Bacioretty has the puck, you go to the left and wait for the pass while Brooks moves through the crease. When he is right there, pass—with some fucking purpose—to Mac, drop it back, and then, Reeves, one time the hell out of it.”

With his eyes burning into me, Boon points to the man who is supposed to block him. “And what if he gets in the way?”

“That’s why we pass with purpose,” I say, sending it to Boon. I line up as if I am going to break the pass. “Have some confidence and pass the puck.”

He brings his brows together in offense. “I do have confidence.”

“Then show me. Because right now, you’re the major issue on this power play.”

He narrows his eyes on me, and electricity flows through my body. He’s massive on his skates, his purple jersey dark against his olive skin. Just the small bit of neck that is showing has me in knots. I wonder how it tastes. I bet he’s all sweaty and musky, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to bury my nose in his neck. Since talking to Ally, I find myself wondering things about him. Very inappropriate things.

I’m pretty sure he’s thinking I’m one hell of a bitch.

“I am not,” he protests.

“You are. I need more. If you want the recognition you so boldly ask for, then earn it.”

His eyes are in slits now, and I’m pretty damn sure I’ve pissed him off. Good. When Ally said to flirt with him, she didn’t mean it in this way, but I don’t have time for her nonsense. I don’t have time for this attraction to him. I need this power play to be successful, and in my attempt to do so, I have to push Boon. More than likely, I’m making him hate me, but in the end, it isn’t about me. It’s about the team. It’s about winning.

He wouldn’t ever like me anyway.

I blow the whistle, but he doesn’t pass. “You waiting for an invitation? Pass the puck.”

“Now? Against you?”

“Yeah. What? You scared?”

That gets him some razzing from the guys, but it visibly pisses off Boon. When he passes to Wes, I break the pass. “Again.” He does it once more, and I’m there. Again, same thing. Soon, rage is in his hazel depths. “You know I’m passing it, so of course you can break it.”

“You know I’m gonna break it, so lift the puck over my stick,” I throw back at him. I swear he’s two seconds from calling me out. I can see it in his face. He’s pissed. He goes again, and I block it out of the air. Over and over again, he tries to get it past me, but he can’t. I won’t let him. Frustration is all over his face—hell, it’s burning within me—and soon you could hear a pin drop in the rink. Everyone is watching our battle. And when I block his pass for the tenth time, he skates toward me, his shoulders back. He’s ready for the fight.

So am I.

“This is bullshit. The opponent will never be able to block it like you are. You’re anticipating what I’m doing before I can even pass.”

I skate closer to him. “Exactly! Do the same, Hoenes. Think out of the fucking box. That is your job, just as my job is to push you and make you a better player. You’re too worried about me blocking it that you aren’t trying to get it to Brooks!”

I can feel his breath, his heat as he glares down at me. “I am trying, but you’re blocking it! You aren’t even giving me the chance. The opponent plays back, protecting the net. Not right in my damn face, blocking everything I do.”

“Oh, is that why I’m blocking it?” I skate back, my eyes on him as Aiden passes him the puck. Once more, Boon goes to pass, and I stretch out, blocking it. “It doesn’t matter where I am. If I want to stop it, I will. Laser pass it—and want to. Again!”

Boon is shaking with anger, and I can feel the tension radiating off his body. He shakes his head as he moves the puck back and forth on his blade. When he doesn’t pass, I reach for my whistle, blowing it hard. The look he gives me says he wants to stuff this whistle up my ass, but finally, he passes it. I am only able to deflect it, and I want to scream in victory. Finally, a decent pass. But I can’t let him know that he pleased me. I skate toward him, our eyes meeting, and in a low voice, I say, “That. I want that. Every fucking time. The other team isn’t here to make sure you score. This isn’t peewees. It’s the National fucking Hockey League. Get your head out of your ass and pass the fucking puck, or get the hell off my power play.”