Scored (V-Card Diaries 1)

He trails off with a shrug, but that’s fine. I don’t need him to fill in the blank.

As team captain I know these guys better than anyone and even the good-natured among them live to fuck with each other. It’s the way they show affection, the way they bond. I’m guessing most of them won’t mean to embarrass Evie, or make her feel bad with their teasing, but that’s likely to be the result.

Evie’s just so…Evie. So sweet and innocent and earnest.

But if they make her run from the art room in tears, I may have to pound a few faces myself.

Hell, maybe I should open a can of whoop ass on the lot of them. Maybe seeing their usually calm, cool, and level-headed captain foaming at the mouth and throwing punches will deliver a message—everyone has a limit to the amount of bullshit they’ll tolerate and half the men on this team are pushing mine.

Once Coach Vera finally has Pete under control in one penalty box and Sven parked in the one on the opposite side of the rink, we return to our scrimmage, but none of our hearts are in it. Practice this morning was plagued by low energy from the guys who didn’t take the “well-rested” mandate seriously, anxiety from our two injured players trying to get back on the ice, and bad attitudes from the rest.

Group therapy before lunch only exacerbated the problem, leading to Russian Sven throwing his sandwich across the room in response to a joke about his twin sister, Anya, who is nearly Sven’s size, and which one of them would win in a fight.

And now the afternoon scrimmage is proving to be just as much of a wash.

To say my expectations are low as I shower and change into street clothes for art therapy, is an understatement.

I’m dreading the next ninety minutes and not sure how much support I’ll be able to give Evie. Sure, I’m the captain, and most of these men like me as much as they like anyone, but the bad energy is thick in the air today. The team is tired, pissed off, frustrated, and looking to take it out on a vulnerable target.

And I can’t imagine a more vulnerable target than Evie.

I toss my things into my bag and hustle to the new “art room” as fast as I can, but by the time I arrive, several of the other players are already there.

Already there and settled peacefully into their seats, drawing with a focus that is frankly…shocking.

Before I can shoot a raised eyebrow Evie’s way to silently enquire as to what magic she’s worked on these cranky bastards, she pipes up from the corner of the room behind me, “Hey there, Ian, Pete, your materials are waiting on the tables, under the postcard with your name on it. I decided against the clay project. I think this exercise will be more beneficial for where you are as a team.”

I spin toward her voice and suddenly lose the ability to hear.

I know she’s still speaking—I can see her glossy pink lips moving—but I can’t make sense of anything she’s saying.

I’m too thrown by her sex siren of a transformation.

Chapter 10

Ian

Whoa. And…wow.

Evie hardly looks like the same person.

Gone are the grungy overalls and oversized t-shirts she usually wears underneath. Instead, she’s wearing a pair of tight black jeans that cling to her curvy thighs, leather boots with a small heel, and a fluttery green sleeveless blouse that emphasizes the bright green of her eyes.

Or maybe that’s the eyeliner doing that…

Evie’s wearing makeup—not a lot—but the effect is knock-your-socks-off stunning. She looks like…

Like…

“Spit spot, boys,” she says, shooing me and Pete—who is also standing stock-still beside me with his jaw dropped—toward the tables. “The faster you finish your first assignment, the faster you get donuts.”

She motions toward her desk at the front of the room, where three large boxes from “Dough You Didn’t” sit stacked one on top of the other.

“I’m almost done,” Braxton calls out from the end of our table on the far side of the room, catching my gaze as he adds in a meaningful tone, “I’m finding today’s assignment highly motivating, captain. I think you will, too.”

“I’m so motivated,” Kyle mutters beneath his breath as I pass behind his chair. “I’m going to break the spell this shithead has over me if it’s the last thing I do.”

Frowning, I glance over his shoulder to see a drawing of a man with a full beard and tiny, squinted eyes that would look more at home on a mean-spirited pig.

I’m about to ask Evie who we’re supposed to be drawing, but when I glance her way, she’s already turned back to the corner, where she’s taping plain squares of cardboard paper in Ice Possum royal blue to the wall. This also treats me to my first glance of her from behind and the curve of her bottom in those black jeans is nearly enough to cause a cardiac event.