Delayed Call
Page 26
“Um. Are you staring at Brie?”
He looked over at his buddy Phillip Anderson and laughed. “Please, I was wondering where Jet was with the tape.”
“He’s behind us.”
“Yeah, right here.”
“Oh, let me get some tape,” he said quickly, standing to retape his stick, but Coach started yelling.
“Not now, JoJo, go!”
Throwing the tape back to Jet, the new trainer, Vaughn jumped over the boards with Franklin and Willis. They went to set up as Sinclair carried the puck up, passing it to Reeves. Then back to Sinclair the puck went, but Vaughn was moving, going to the blue line to either wait for the pass or follow his defense in. Sending the puck up to Franklin, he cut past a defender and then deked to the right, passing it quickly to Willis. He shot but missed it, the rebound coming back on his stick, at which point he shot again, but it went wide. Following it behind the net, Vaughn got it, pressing his hip into another defender before passing it up the boards to Sinclair before rushing back out in front of the goal. He wanted to screen the goalie, give Sinclair a path to shoot, but it didn’t work. When he shot, it hit Willis instead, and when he tried to shoot, he fanned on the puck.
Willis slapped his stick to it at the same time a defender did, shattering his stick. Dropping it, Willis kicked the puck to Franklin, who quickly passed it to Vaughn. It was like the hockey gods were there, holding the goalie out of the way, because with a wide-open net, Vaughn slowly wristed the puck in.
Goal.
Fucking goal!
Throwing his hands up, he heard his boys yell as the home team’s fans groaned in dismay, minus the handful of Assassins fans that were there. Fist-pumping hard, he was wrapped in a hug as the boys congratulated him. His goal gave them a bit of insurance being two goals up, but really, they didn’t sit back on their heels when they played the Hawks. He knew that and didn’t plan on giving them any room, but man, it felt fucking good to score.
Skating to the bench, he slapped hands with his teammates, and within seconds his eyes locked with Brie’s. “Hey, Brie Fucking Soledad! Did you see that? I scored—with my wrister,” he called to her as he climbed over the bench. A smug little smile spread over her lips. “My wrister did that.”
She shrugged, her eyes bright with laughter. “I thought it was more of a tap in.”
Gasping in utter shock, he held his hands up to the goal. “Tap in? I wristed that!”
“JoJo, sit down!” Coach yelled, but Vaughn was glaring at Brie.
“You’re insane!”
“Yeah, I’m just a reporter with stupid questions.”
He scowled, and she glared back as he sat down with more force than needed. Fuck, she pissed him off. The high of his goal was gone and replaced by annoyance. He didn’t tap it; he wristed it.
She was a brat.
He wristed it. Well, maybe wristed-tapped it in, but same thing. It was wristed!
Leaning over to Anderson, he said, “Hey, I wristed that, right?”
Anderson shrugged. “Looked like a tap with flair to me, but who gives two fucks? It’s a goal. Great job, bro.”
“But it wasn’t a wrister.” Grumbling, he leaned back into Jet. “Tap in?”
“Yeah, for sure, but a really pretty tap in that could be considered an ugly wrister.”
“Damn it.”
Jet patted his shoulders. “But if she asks, I’ll say it was a wrister.”
Vaughn laughed. “Good man, Jet.”
“Thanks.”
Then something occurred to him. Leaning back once more, he asked, “Do you think I’m gonna get fined for that f-bomb?”
Jet shook his head. “Wasn’t on camera.”
His only saving grace. And while he should be happy about that—and his goal—he wasn’t.
Because Vaughn didn’t like that Brie was right.
He didn’t like it one fucking bit.
When the door opened to Wren’s apartment, they saw exasperation come over her face instantly.
“Go away.”
She went to shut the door, but Jensen held it open, holding up a bottle of wine. “Merry Christmas,” he said in his low and sexy voice that usually made girls swoon. But Wren Lemiere did not swoon.
“Come on, Wrenny, let us in. It’s Christmas.”
“I don’t care. I want to be alone.”
“We don’t care that you want to be alone.” Vaughn pushed the door, and she went with it as she let out an annoyed breath. Like her soul, her apartment was decorated with dark furniture and dark accessories. When they were younger, they all made fun of her for being the Goth kid of the group. She would joke back that she had voodoo dolls of them all. It scared Vaughn so bad, he didn’t sleep for a week. He still wasn’t sure she was joking back then. Not that it mattered now; she loved them.
“I hate you two. Go away.”
Sometimes.
Laughing, he fell onto her couch, kicking his feet up as he looked around. “Done nothing with the place, I see.”
“I’m never home, always at work, waiting for you, it seems.”
He shrugged. “I’ve told you like a billion times, I don’t need therapy.”
“You do. You have some anger issues that need to be fixed.”
“Can’t fix issues when there aren’t any. I wouldn’t be angry if people would do what they’re supposed to.”
“So why do you get angry on the ice? No one is perfect.”
Rolling his eyes, he shrugged. “But I’m supposed to be. I’m paid bookoo bucks to bring wins, along with my teammates. Sometimes we don’t, and that pisses me off.”
“Which is why you need therapy.”
“Whatever,” he finally said, falling back against the couch as she lowered into a very uncomfortable looking chair.
Jensen came with glasses of wine, but Wren declined hers. “My stomach is still a little iffy.”
“It’s been a week.”
“Yeah, I have some kind of bug from what the doctors are saying.” She looked down and pulled in a deep breath.
“Are you okay?” Jensen asked, lowering himself to the couch beside Vaughn.
“Yeah, fine.”
She was lying and they both knew it, but before they could press, she went on. “So what, like thirty minutes, and then you two will leave?”
He looked over at his buddy Phillip Anderson and laughed. “Please, I was wondering where Jet was with the tape.”
“He’s behind us.”
“Yeah, right here.”
“Oh, let me get some tape,” he said quickly, standing to retape his stick, but Coach started yelling.
“Not now, JoJo, go!”
Throwing the tape back to Jet, the new trainer, Vaughn jumped over the boards with Franklin and Willis. They went to set up as Sinclair carried the puck up, passing it to Reeves. Then back to Sinclair the puck went, but Vaughn was moving, going to the blue line to either wait for the pass or follow his defense in. Sending the puck up to Franklin, he cut past a defender and then deked to the right, passing it quickly to Willis. He shot but missed it, the rebound coming back on his stick, at which point he shot again, but it went wide. Following it behind the net, Vaughn got it, pressing his hip into another defender before passing it up the boards to Sinclair before rushing back out in front of the goal. He wanted to screen the goalie, give Sinclair a path to shoot, but it didn’t work. When he shot, it hit Willis instead, and when he tried to shoot, he fanned on the puck.
Willis slapped his stick to it at the same time a defender did, shattering his stick. Dropping it, Willis kicked the puck to Franklin, who quickly passed it to Vaughn. It was like the hockey gods were there, holding the goalie out of the way, because with a wide-open net, Vaughn slowly wristed the puck in.
Goal.
Fucking goal!
Throwing his hands up, he heard his boys yell as the home team’s fans groaned in dismay, minus the handful of Assassins fans that were there. Fist-pumping hard, he was wrapped in a hug as the boys congratulated him. His goal gave them a bit of insurance being two goals up, but really, they didn’t sit back on their heels when they played the Hawks. He knew that and didn’t plan on giving them any room, but man, it felt fucking good to score.
Skating to the bench, he slapped hands with his teammates, and within seconds his eyes locked with Brie’s. “Hey, Brie Fucking Soledad! Did you see that? I scored—with my wrister,” he called to her as he climbed over the bench. A smug little smile spread over her lips. “My wrister did that.”
She shrugged, her eyes bright with laughter. “I thought it was more of a tap in.”
Gasping in utter shock, he held his hands up to the goal. “Tap in? I wristed that!”
“JoJo, sit down!” Coach yelled, but Vaughn was glaring at Brie.
“You’re insane!”
“Yeah, I’m just a reporter with stupid questions.”
He scowled, and she glared back as he sat down with more force than needed. Fuck, she pissed him off. The high of his goal was gone and replaced by annoyance. He didn’t tap it; he wristed it.
She was a brat.
He wristed it. Well, maybe wristed-tapped it in, but same thing. It was wristed!
Leaning over to Anderson, he said, “Hey, I wristed that, right?”
Anderson shrugged. “Looked like a tap with flair to me, but who gives two fucks? It’s a goal. Great job, bro.”
“But it wasn’t a wrister.” Grumbling, he leaned back into Jet. “Tap in?”
“Yeah, for sure, but a really pretty tap in that could be considered an ugly wrister.”
“Damn it.”
Jet patted his shoulders. “But if she asks, I’ll say it was a wrister.”
Vaughn laughed. “Good man, Jet.”
“Thanks.”
Then something occurred to him. Leaning back once more, he asked, “Do you think I’m gonna get fined for that f-bomb?”
Jet shook his head. “Wasn’t on camera.”
His only saving grace. And while he should be happy about that—and his goal—he wasn’t.
Because Vaughn didn’t like that Brie was right.
He didn’t like it one fucking bit.
When the door opened to Wren’s apartment, they saw exasperation come over her face instantly.
“Go away.”
She went to shut the door, but Jensen held it open, holding up a bottle of wine. “Merry Christmas,” he said in his low and sexy voice that usually made girls swoon. But Wren Lemiere did not swoon.
“Come on, Wrenny, let us in. It’s Christmas.”
“I don’t care. I want to be alone.”
“We don’t care that you want to be alone.” Vaughn pushed the door, and she went with it as she let out an annoyed breath. Like her soul, her apartment was decorated with dark furniture and dark accessories. When they were younger, they all made fun of her for being the Goth kid of the group. She would joke back that she had voodoo dolls of them all. It scared Vaughn so bad, he didn’t sleep for a week. He still wasn’t sure she was joking back then. Not that it mattered now; she loved them.
“I hate you two. Go away.”
Sometimes.
Laughing, he fell onto her couch, kicking his feet up as he looked around. “Done nothing with the place, I see.”
“I’m never home, always at work, waiting for you, it seems.”
He shrugged. “I’ve told you like a billion times, I don’t need therapy.”
“You do. You have some anger issues that need to be fixed.”
“Can’t fix issues when there aren’t any. I wouldn’t be angry if people would do what they’re supposed to.”
“So why do you get angry on the ice? No one is perfect.”
Rolling his eyes, he shrugged. “But I’m supposed to be. I’m paid bookoo bucks to bring wins, along with my teammates. Sometimes we don’t, and that pisses me off.”
“Which is why you need therapy.”
“Whatever,” he finally said, falling back against the couch as she lowered into a very uncomfortable looking chair.
Jensen came with glasses of wine, but Wren declined hers. “My stomach is still a little iffy.”
“It’s been a week.”
“Yeah, I have some kind of bug from what the doctors are saying.” She looked down and pulled in a deep breath.
“Are you okay?” Jensen asked, lowering himself to the couch beside Vaughn.
“Yeah, fine.”
She was lying and they both knew it, but before they could press, she went on. “So what, like thirty minutes, and then you two will leave?”
