Beast Behaving Badly (4 page)

“Why were you hiding behind a—”

“—and he slammed me into the wall so hard, I was bleeding and couldn't stand for like an hour. I still have the scar!”

“Dude, dude, that's nothing.” Phil, Sabina's husband, pulled the neck of his long-sleeve thermal tee down, revealing faint scratches on his chest. “I got this during the game he had against the Jersey Stompers three years ago. The crowd was throwing soda and chips and popcorn on him after he annihilated the Jersey team. And I leaned out and screamed, ‘Novikov! You suck!' And he
slashed
me with those eight-inch hybrid claws he's got!” Phil leaned back in his chair, appearing way too smug. “And I totally survived.”

Horrified, Blayne said, “What are you two bragging about? Abusing fans is not appropriate behavior.” Blayne pointed at Phil. “And if you didn't like him, why are you so excited about him physically assaulting you?”

“Who said I didn't like him?”

“
You
said you screamed at him that he sucked.”

“Because I'm his
toughest
fan.” Phil lifted his hands up as if what he was telling her was somehow obvious to the entire universe. “Which is way better than being just his most loyal or whatever. Right, Mitch?”

“Absolutely.”

Disgusted, Blayne said, “The man is a total asshole. He fights with his own teammates. During a game! Who does that?”

“I don't care if he beats his entire team to death,” Mitch said, disgusting Blayne even more, which she didn't think was possible. “As long as he keeps winning for teams I support.”

“This isn't about Dallas again, is it?”

“He should have never joined that team. It was the ultimate betrayal.”

Blayne looked down the table at Jess, crossing her eyes, because, yes, she'd lived through this ridiculous Philly Shifter argument before.

“Hey,” Mitch leaned in. “Since you know the guy, maybe you can hook me up with a signed jersey.”

“I don't know the guy and I'm not getting you shit.”

“It's like you don't love me at all.”

“I don't.”

“Fine. Be that way. But you can still get me a jersey.”

“Two,” Phil added. “
Two
signed jerseys.”

“I'm not getting either of you anything.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because Bo Novikov represents everything that's wrong in shifter sports.” She began to count off on her fingers, “No sportsmanship. No team spirit. No mentoring rookie or young players.”

“You're so naïve!” Mitch cried out in his usual dramatic fashion. “High morals don't make you a champion. And,” he added, “it's because of this attitude that Gwenie's probably going to make you second string for the championship bout against the Texas Longfangs, so she can bring in Pussies Galore from the Jamaica Me Howlers.”

Her hands dropping into her lap, Blayne asked, “What?”

Mitch, most likely realizing how quiet everyone had suddenly become, looked around the table before focusing on Blayne. “Gwen, uh, did mention that to you, didn't she?”

Phil relaxed back in his chair. “I'm guessing not.”

Blayne shoved her chair back and stood, Mitch grabbing her arm. “Wait! I'm probably wrong. I'm sure—”

“It isn't that she would make that decision,” Blayne snarled, yanking her arm out of Mitch's grip, “it's that she would talk to
you
about it before me.” She swiped up her backpack and spun to leave, pulling the straps of her bag over her shoulder at the same time. And, yeah, she kind of knew she hit Mitch in the process, sending him flying into the middle of the dining table. Too bad she couldn't bring herself to care!

Ignoring the wild dogs calling her back to the table, she went to the front door and yanked it open. The grizzly on the other side jerked back.

“Oh. Hey, Blayne.” Lock MacRyrie smiled down at her. “I brought Sabina her damn chest of drawers so I don't have to hear her asking me for it anymore.”

“Gwen with you?”

Lock's smile faded and he motioned behind him. “Yeah. She's—”

Blayne pushed past the bear and went down the front stairs to the still running pickup Lock used to deliver his handmade furniture. She knocked on the window and Gwen, grinning, rolled down the window.

“Hey, girl! I didn't know you were going to be here today.”

“Wild dog brunch.”

“You and your breakfast food obsession.” Gwen rested her arm on the window. “So what's up?”

“So . . . Pussies Galore as your blocker, huh?”

Gwen's gold eyes grew wide, her expression stunned. “Blayne, wait. It's just—”

“No. No. No need to explain. She rocks. I've seen her play.”

“Blayne—”

“And the Longfangs are really tough. Tougher than me, apparently. So I understand.”

“Blayne, we're not replacing you, but this is the championships, hon. We need a little bit of an edge.”

“An edge I don't have.”

“You're too damn nice,” Gwen stated bluntly. “You're constantly apologizing to the other team, and you hold yourself back because you don't want to hurt anybody. So yeah,” she said, getting pissed, “I guess you don't have that edge we need.”

Blayne stepped back from the truck. She knew she couldn't say anything at the moment because she'd start what her dad called, “All that goddamn blubbering.”

“Blayne, wait.”

Gwen unlocked the door and pushed it open, but Blayne rushed off. She needed to figure out what she was going to do next. She may be “nice”—something she refused to see as a curse—but that didn't mean she was weak. And she would never give up something she'd worked so hard to get.

No. There had to be a way to prove them all wrong. To prove that she wasn't just the Babes resident “cheerleader.” A title she'd loved until this very moment.

Yeah. She'd prove them
all
wrong.

CHAPTER 4

B
o glanced at his watch. Eight a.m. Time to hit the treadmill.

He left the ice, waving at a couple of the maintenance guys who knew him by name and went to the locker room. He changed out of his hockey gear and into sweats and sneakers. Locking up everything, he checked his watch again and jogged out of the locker room and down several floors. Bo pushed the door open, waved at a couple of other maintenance men who knew him by name, and headed to the massive gym that every team player, no matter the sport or whether they were on a minor or major league team, had access to. He wasn't rushing his run since this was a warm-up but was about to pick up the speed before charging into the gym and jumping on a treadmill, when a frustrated groan and a sniffle caught his attention. So did the scent.

He spun around and jogged back and through the open doorway. He was surprised to find it open. The center had several smaller stadiums for the minor and junior leagues that didn't get the size of crowds that the pro teams did. This particular stadium had become the domain of the tri-state derby teams that had become quite popular, and the space was rarely open this early since their games and training only happened in the evenings or on weekends.

Bo jogged to a stop and watched as Blayne picked herself up off the track. She readjusted her helmet, since it was currently blocking her eyes, and let out another frustrated breath. Then she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands and he realized she was crying. Wow, she either hit the floor really hard or she needed to toughen up a bit.

He thought for sure she was about to quit, but she suddenly squared her shoulders, crouched down, her hands fisted, her arms bent at the elbow, and after a brief moment, shot off again.

She was fast. Really fast. She was doing well, too, until she sort of . . . wiped out. He had no idea what she'd done, but she went down hard, flipping head over ass in a jumble of long legs, arms, and skates.

Bo grimaced, wondering if he'd have to take her to the health services floor. He stepped forward, and that's when she suddenly bounced back up. Her shoulder looked a little off until she grabbed it with her opposite hand, gritted her teeth, and jerked it back into place. The crack of bones echoed in the empty room, and Bo grimaced again.

He stepped in closer and, keeping his voice even and calm, asked, “Are you okay?”

Blayne spun around, startled even though he'd tried not to startle her. But once she recognized him, Blayne nailed him with a look so loathing, he was sure she still thought he was a serial killer.

“You,” she hissed at him. “This is
your
fault!”

Shocked, Bo asked, “What did I do?”

“You're an asshole!”

“You don't even know me.”

“On the ice. You're an asshole on the ice. And now everyone wants to be assholes! That's expected now!” She rolled closer. “And because I'm not an asshole, I'm suffering! Your fault!”

Not used to having people accuse him of something so stupid before, Bo said, “Okay,” turned, and walked out. He was halfway to the gym when he turned back around and returned to the derby track. Blayne had her arms on the railing and her head resting on them when he walked back in. She stood tall when she saw him.

“What?” she asked when he stood in front of her.

“You know, instead of standing here and crying and blaming me, maybe you should do something to fix whatever your problem is. I have no idea what your particular problem is, but I feel pretty confident it's not my fault.”

“It
is
your fault. Because of you and your bizarre ideas about sportsmanship, everyone has to become an asshole or you're considered the weak link on your team. The one who has to be replaced because no one thinks you can handle the Texas Longfangs. The one who needs to be replaced because maybe once, or sixteen times, you've said sorry when you've accidentally harmed someone during rigorous game play.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Have
you
ever said you're sorry after accidentally harming someone during rigorous game play?”

“No. Of course, I've never accidentally harmed someone during a game. I have, however, purposely harmed someone during . . . what was it? Rigorous game play?”

“And that doesn't bother you?”

“No.”

She let out a sigh, her whole body sort of deflating. “I'm doomed.”

“But,” he added, “you don't have to be an asshole to be a winner. I'm an asshole in the rink because that's just how I am when I'm out there. I've known other, really good players who were nice guys.”

“Like who?”

“Like Nice Guy Malone. He was extremely nice. And that first time I played against him, when he cross-checked me into the stands, giving me a concussion and a laceration that took forty-two stitches to close, if I remember correctly, he apologized.”

“What did he say?”

“ ‘Sorry, kid.' But more importantly . . . he meant that ‘sorry, kid.'”

“Okay.”

“I'm guessing, though, that being nice is not your problem.”

“But Gwen said—”

“It may look like it's your problem, but it's not your problem.”

“Fine. Then what is my problem?”

Bo gestured to the track. “Why did you end up falling?”

“Which time?”

Bo frowned at the question. “Do you fall so often you need clarification of timeline?”

“Sometimes. And sometimes I'm thrown, tripped, slammed, flung, battered—”

“Okay,” he cut in, sensing she could keep going. “Five minutes ago before we started this conversation, you wiped out. Why?”

“I don't know.”

“Did you trip? Lose your balance?”

“I said, I don't—”

“Don't get frustrated. Answer my question.”

She looked back at the track. “I was skating, everything was fine, and then . . .”

“And then,” he pushed when her voice trailed off.

“And then I started thinking about how unfair this all was and how no one was giving me a chance and then I realized I was being unfair and I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself and then I realized I was hungry and I would need to get something before I get to work and then when I realized I still had to go to work, I knew I'd have to see Gwen and she'd want to talk and any time Gwen wants to talk it's like a form of torture because there's no subtle with her, you know what I mean, she's just like in your face just like my dad and then I thought, ‘Oh, great, I'll need to tell Mr. I Told You You'd Never Be Good At Derby that I was being bumped for a Howler,' a full She-wolf no less and I knew that conversation would get—”

“Stop!” Bo put his hands over his ears and gaped down at her. “Good God, woman. Hit the brakes on the freight train that is your mouth.”

 

 

How pathetic. She was getting “assistance”—and she was using that term lightly—from the most assholey of all pro athletes. It was kind of like Mother Teresa asking Stalin for advice on the best way to handle difficult lepers.

And now he was telling her to shut up. Like she hadn't heard that enough over the years. The only person who had never told her to shut up had been her mother. Blayne could talk for hours, nonstop, and her mother never said a word or complained. Of course, the party was over once Cranky Old Wolf got home, but that was something to be dealt with in therapy.

Novikov lowered his hands and let out an overly dramatic breath. “I didn't think it would be this easy, but I know what your problem is. You think too much.”

“I can say with all honesty,” she said flatly, “you are perhaps the only person who's ever said that to me. At least without a definite note of sarcasm.”

“Do you know what I think about when I'm on the ice?”

“Something like, ‘Will I have to go to hell for what I just did to that guy's face?'”

“No. That never crosses my mind.”

“Shocking.” Dropping her hands to her hips, she asked, “So what are you thinking when you're on the ice?”

“My puck.”

Blayne waited for more. She waited at least two full minutes for more, but Bo didn't say anything else, and for two full minutes they stared at each other until she couldn't stand the silence any longer. “That's it?”

“That's it.”

“ ‘My puck'? You don't think about anything else? Like strategy or what your teammates are doing or time on the clock or—”

“I'm aware of all that, but I'm thinking ‘My puck.'”

“How . . . one note.”

“It works.”

He had a point. Novikov had brought nearly any team he'd been on to championship, was the all-time scorer in the league, and was considered one of the best players of all time. As much as Blayne hated his lack of fair play, she couldn't ignore the fact that the man was a winner.

Something Blayne wanted to be, she just didn't know until this moment how much.

And as she stared up at the seven-one, nearly four-hundred-pound descendent of Genghis Khan himself, it suddenly occurred to her that the one person who could help her become a winner was standing right in front of her.

That's when, for the first time since Sunday brunch, Blayne smiled.

Why was she smiling at him like that? It wasn't that big, sweet smile she usually had. What he secretly called her “doggie grin.” No, this was the wolf in her coming out, and the cat in him didn't like it one damn bit.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She skated closer. “So, do you train every day?”

“Of course. Don't you?”

“Not really.”

“You should.”

“Okay.” She moved around him. “Are you here every morning?”

“Except Sundays.”

“I guess you get in bright and early, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Like . . . what? Five thirty? Or six?”

“Six.”

“You start at the rink or the gym first?”

“Rink. That way I can—” Bo's eyes narrowed. “Wait.”

She skated to stop in front of him, and her smile had turned decidedly false and misleading.

“Not in this lifetime.” Bo turned away from her, but she zipped in front of him, proving she was as fast as she'd seemed on the track.

“You haven't heard my offer.”

Bo took a step back. “You're not going to offer me sex, are you?”

Blayne scowled. “No. I wasn't. But I'm not sure I like the look of obvious disgust on your face.” She slammed her hands onto her hips. “Are you saying you wouldn't want to have sex with me? Because you were the one who asked me out. And I don't appreciate—”

“Freight train. Brakes.”

She snorted at him. Like a bull.

“If you're going to offer sex,” he went on, “I just think it should be for something life or death. Or money.” He thought on that a moment, nodded. “Yeah. Life-or-death situation or money. But for a chick hobby? That's a little beneath you, don't you think?”

“A
chick
hobby?” she spit at him.

Bo wiped his chin. “What would you call it?”

“A sport! A valid sport!”

“Oh, come on.”

“Great. Another guy afraid of women in sports.”

“I'm not afraid of women in sports. Wait. I'm lying.”

“A-ha!”

“The sows on the Kodiak hockey team . . . I'm afraid of them. They're mean.”

Her anger slipped away as quickly as it had come. Now she seemed fascinated. “There are women in the hockey league?”

“Yeah. It's just . . . kind of hard to tell sometimes.”

“I had no idea.”

“Hockey league is coed. And if you saw the women play, you'd understand why.” She slapped his arm. “Ow.”

“You respect the sows in the hockey league—”

“And She-wolves.”

“—but you don't respect derby?”

He laughed and bam! Her anger was back.

“What's so damn funny?”

“It's like comparing Queen Boadicea to Pam Anderson.”

“Don't make up words and think you can distract me.”

“I didn't make up—”

“Look, the bottom line is, I need your help. I need an edge. We've made it into the National Championships next month, but we'll be going up against the Texas Longfangs. And the rumor is, part of their training is slaughtering cattle with their bare hands—while human. You've gotta help me.”

“I don't know anything about derby. In fact, I don't even respect derby as a sport. So how can
I
help you?”