Eye of the Hurricane

If you’ve never been near an ice rink, let me tell you, football has nothing on this. Sure, football has its injuries and people get hurt. Hockey? I’m only in the stands, yet I insisted on wearing a helmet because the assistant coach liked slamming pucks in random directions. She was a short one, yelling at men three times her size, but her mouth made up the difference. She tersely introduced herself to me before barking orders at the others, something the head coach ignored.

According to Jared, wherever the boys where, I better be. He said my ignorance of the sport could be an asset to the corporate team, because if he heard one more time about the Chicago Cubs he’d scream. Jared was raised in New York, where not being a Mets or Yankee fan was akin to killing your mother.

Kris said hi to me at the beginning of the practice, standing out with his infectious grin as the rest of his teammates shuffled onto the ice. I learned the players inside and out during the last week thanks to Jared’s notes. Adam Burish, the ladies’ man with the laughing eyes, was a handful. Marian Hossa was the dedicated, focused man who’d rather shoot a puck than shoot the breeze. It didn’t take me long to associate Patrick Kane with victim. He was being teased by a tower of a man, who I didn’t recognize at first. It wasn’t until I realized his undershirt wasn’t tucked in that I knew it was Ben Eager.

“Alright, enough fucking around,” Lyndsey barked. She wasn’t known to anyone as Coach Legier. It may have been her title, but as the fear etched onto many employers faces who told me the stories, she didn’t like it. I’ve heard many horrors about her as the assistant coach, but so far she didn’t seem that crazy. But when Coach Quenneville tells you that “If she‘s in a bad mood, duck, she almost killed a player,” you start paying attention to your well being. “I really hope ya’ll don’t think that was cute, last game. I saw more mistakes than a ten dollar hooker looking at porn!” She looked around frowning deeply. The boys shifted nervously, even the coach followed her gaze cautiously. “Where’s Sharp?”

I quickly sat down, making sure my cell phone was turned off. I wouldn’t want that brown-eyed glare beamed at me, not matter how sturdy the surrounding glass seemed to be. The boys shrugged, making her smirk.

“Alright then, so until Mr. Sharp decides to be on time, the rest of you can do laps!” she blew her whistle, making Brent Seabrook swiftly cover his ears. “Get to it!”

I shifted in my seat, leaning towards my bag to take out my notes. The first order of business for the campaign was to find a community service project for all the boys. Jonathan Toews, Patrick Kane, and Brian Campbell did some charity work, but when you add in Ben Eager and Adam Burish’s partying.. It didn’t bode well for great community spirit. I read, ignoring the annoying brown curl that slipped out of my ponytail. A cough startled me into shoving it back, before turning my head towards the ground.

The man was worth millions, yet Patrick Sharp insisted on sleeping on the seats in the bleachers. I was out of my mind in disbelief.

He sleepily rubbed his eyes, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry, did I interrupt?”

My uncle was a sick man, making me work with these men. I got Ben Eager sneaking girls into the locker room after the first game, Patrick Kane not knowing what to say to the media, Adam Burish saying too much to the media, and Patrick Sharp sleeping in bleachers. What the hell is it with hockey players? I thought Sharp was normal, but here I am meeting him after his nap. He was mighty sexy looking with his strong jaw line, easy smile, and animated eyes. However, he screamed trouble.

I shook my head, before frowning. Lyndsey might see me, and I liked my head. I still haven’t figured out the speed of her pucks, and today was not a good day for target practice. “You better go out and practice. She already is making them do laps.”

Patrick scowled, reaching onto the seat for my phone. When he saw the time, he paled. “She’s going to kill me.”

“I will too,” I smirked, snatching my phone back. “If you ever touch my phone again. Do me a favor, pretty boy, and get to practice.”

Offended, he shot up looking at me intently. “What did you call me?”

“She called you a pretty boy, Sharp!” Lyndsey yelled, startling us both. Why could she hear that far? “Get your lazy behind up and get on this ice before I bench you for two games!’

“Yes ma’am,” he muttered, getting up fairly quickly in spite of his equipment. He moved towards the door for the bench before swinging his body over it. Whew. I caught myself staring at his ass, before snapping out of it when Troy Brouwer yelled curses at Sharpie when he circled his lap. I looked up catching Kris’ eyes only to blush. I was caught checking out a player by his teammate. He must’ve ratted me out too, because halfway during practice, Sharp caught my eye and winked.

Kris Versteeg was sent on this planet to torture me.