“Thanks,” I grind out. I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or being seminice because Waters is here and listening.

“When you’re ready to get back on the ice, you should spend some time working with the other guys on defense.”

I bite back an asshole reply and force out, “I’m sure that’ll be part of the training plan.”

“Actually, I’m not convinced defense is necessarily the best place for Winslow.”

Rook and I break our stare down and give Alex our full attention.

“What? But I thought you agreed that Winslow would be better guarding the net than trying to score on it,” Rook spits out.

Alex pins him with a look that seems a lot like a warning. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Bowman.” He turns to me.

“You have a lot of size, Winslow, and I felt like defense could be a good fit, especially with how tight you and Kingston are. With time and practice, you’d make a great defensive player, and maybe that’s something you’ll want to focus on later in your career, but I think it may have been a mistake on my part to move you there now. I’ve been studying your performance on the ice with Nashville, and you have a lot of speed for your size, so for now we’ll shift you back to forward, where you’re more comfortable.”

I nod and fight a smile, because I can practically feel Rook seething. “Who’s going to take his place on defense?”

“You can let me worry about that, Rook, since that’s my job.” Alex smiles tightly.

“Right, yeah. You know what’s best for the team,” Rook replies.

“Actually, I have an idea.” Alex steeples his fingers and looks between us.

“What’s that?” Rook leans on the boards, trying to appear casual, but his tension is obvious.

“Once Bishop is back on the ice, I think it would be good for the two of you to work together.”

“Are you serious?” And Rook is back to looking like he wants to punch me. Or Alex. I’m not sure which.

“Very.” He turns to me. “With more speed training you’ll be second line, and since Rook is the best forward we have, it makes the most sense for you to work together when you’re ice ready.”

Rook smirks and cocks a brow. “I’m not the best; you are. Maybe you should lace up your skates and get back on the ice, Coach.”

“I lost that title last year when you blew my scoring record out of the water.”

And now it’s turning into a fucking lovefest. Rook is such a brownnoser. “Do you two want a minute alone?”

Both of their grins drop, and they pin me with the same unimpressed look.

“Kidding. It was a joke.” I’m not kidding at all, but I don’t need to piss off my coach and my team captain with more of my asshole remarks.

“You’re being given a golden opportunity here, Winslow. I get that you’re unhappy about the situation, but don’t screw yourself over because of pride.” Waters pushes to a stand, and Rook gives me an arched brow before he skates away, as if to say he won that round.

I wish I could stop digging holes for myself.

I consider how pissed off Rook would be if he knew his sister had offered to help me with physiotherapy. Not that I care. I want back on the ice more than I want him to like me.

“Everything okay?” Kingston asks on the way home.

“Waters wants me to work with Bowman when I’m ready to get back on the ice.”

“That’s not a bad thing, is it? He’s got the best scoring record in the league.”

“Not you too.” I roll my eyes. “Why is everyone so up this guy’s ass?”

Kingston shrugs. “He’s a great player. Plus he waived his no-trade clause so he could be part of a new team and so his wife could be closer to his family. He’s a good guy.”

I chose to come to this team, too, but that doesn’t seem to matter to anyone but me anymore.

“You should’ve heard him and Waters. They’re so far up each other’s asses it’s ridiculous. ‘You’re the best.’ ‘No, you’re the best.’” I mock their voices. “I’m surprised they didn’t offer each other goddamn blow jobs to go with the lovefest.”

“They both have wives. And kids.”

Sometimes Kingston can be super literal about things. “I know that. I don’t honestly mean I think they’d blow each other. I just mean it was a mutual and annoying lovefest. I should probably shut up. I’m in a bad mood.”

“Do you want to grab lunch?” Food is Kingston’s way of changing this subject.

“Nah. I’m tired. I need a nap.”

I take the meds like I’m supposed to when I get home and fall asleep on the couch with a cold compress on my thigh.

My brother is home this afternoon, so I do myself a favor and run a bath so I can manage the heat-therapy shit. Stevie left me a short list of things to do today, among which are to take another epsom salts bath, alternate with cold compresses, and keep a detailed record of the exercises I do with my team physiotherapist.

I try to get into the tub on my own, but I can’t do it without causing myself more pain, so I get Nolan to help me. He won’t shut up about how crappy it must be to have a hot chick all over my jock when getting hard feels like someone is stabbing me in the balls with a fiery poker.

The highlight of my shit day occurs when Stevie shows up at my door at seven. She’s holding a piece of the pizza I brought her yesterday in one hand and a rolled-up yoga mat in the other hand. Today she’s wearing a pair of athletic shorts and a tank top. It’s a lot of skin on display. Tanned skin wrapped around toned muscles. She clearly works hard to stay in shape, which I can appreciate, because I have to do the same thing.

She looks me over with pursed lips. “I see we’re out of clothes again.”

“I get hot.”

“I’m sure you do, Billboard Balls.” She flips her hair over her shoulder—it’s now pale blue—as she slips by me.

“What did you call me?”

“It’s what me and the girls call you at work.”

“You talk about me at work?”

“I talk about what an asshole you are, so don’t let that inflate your ego.” She shoots me a look. “Did you take an epsom salts bath and use ice therapy this afternoon like I told you to?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Now give me a rundown of what you did with your team therapist today. I’m assuming you saw him? Her?” She drops down on my couch and stretches her legs out. Her feet are bare, toenails painted the same shade as her hair.

“Him, and go right ahead and make yourself at home,” I grumble.

She gives me a syrupy smile. “Watch the ’tude, dude, unless you want today’s session to suck more than a sex worker on Saturday night.”

I lower myself into one of the recliners. “Mostly he poked at my legs and did range-of-motion exercises until I was at risk of vomiting.”

She makes a face. “Can you not talk about throwing up while I’m eating?”

“You asked.”

“Not for references to regurgitated food.”

Dicken jumps up on the edge of the couch and headbutts her. Then he jumps onto the cushion beside her, making his broken-squeaky-toy sounds and getting all up in her face, sniffing her pizza. She gives him a scratch under the chin, but he doesn’t stick around. Instead, he jumps off the couch and trots over to his dish to check out the contents.