Sugar and Ice - RJ Scott Page 0,15
are the half-naked women and men. I need pulled pork, excuse me.” I made a beeline for the food tables, skirting the pool and slipping into the lengthening shadows. The tables looked as if an emu had been helping himself to the food, which he had been. I sighed, took a sip of my drink, and grabbed a handful of chips from a bowl that didn’t have feathers in it. When I turned to find who was screaming and why—the emu had stolen a bikini top somehow and its owner was shrieking while pretending to cover her bouncing breasts—I found Tate Collins right in front of me.
This time there was no awkwardness, or any of his shifty-eyed weirdness. No, he was right up in my face and he’d gone straight past wary to angry and incensed. I’d seen this on the ice, when Corey Mason from LA had high-sticked him, but still, this was off-ice when we normally had nice polite Tate and he hadn’t sounded pissed when he’d asked about the emu.
“Okay, so, what is it?” he snapped as Kricker made another pass, his big feet slapping on the wet cement, a yellow swimsuit top around his long neck. He’d lost his bowler hat.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“You read the post didn’t you! I know everyone else has!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I genuinely didn’t, but he stormed ahead.
“You think I want to be here tonight? You think that I want to face Ryker after that post?”
“What happened with—?”
“Yet I’m here, facing the laughter, just like I am at every freaking party, just like I am on the ice when I chip in with advice and people look at me like I’m an interloper”
“Tate—”
“But it’s you that’s worse. Sometimes you won’t even look me in the eye. What have I done? What do I need to do? Because it’s almost as if you hate me for some reason and I want to know what it is.”
“Hate is a strong word that I would not think to—”
“Did you know that I was an alternate captain in Dallas?” His anger shifted and now his voice was low but pumped full of passion. It was an arousing sound, the way he wrapped his words in that subtle Texas twang. It sent blood rushing to my groin. “Hell, another year and they would have given me the C.”
“I’m happy for your accomplishments in Dallas, but as I’m sure most of your teammates would like to tell you but are too polite to do so, you are no longer in Dallas. You are in Tucson.”
His handsome face tightened in anger. “I know where the fuck I am!” He barked, and several heads turned.
I felt the flush of shame creeping up my neck. “Keep your voice down, idiot!” I snarled low in my chest.
He did have the sense to glance around before stalking off, shoulders up, hands in fists. I should have let him go. But no, I had to be a rock-headed Russian with an overinflated value of my importance in other people’s lives. I threw back my vodka, placed the empty glass on the table beside an overturned bowl of guacamole, and stormed after Tate. Perhaps it was the moon, full and fat and bright yellow overhead that set me on his trail. Perhaps it was my ego. Lord knows, many lovers had told me I thought highly of myself, which wasn’t true, I just knew I had some skills in hockey and lovemaking. Perhaps I felt bad for calling the man an idiot, for he certainly was not a fool.
“I swear to God if you don’t back the fuck up…” Tate growled as I rounded a sculpted bush to find him staring at a small koi pond. The sounds of the party had grown distant, just the thump-thump-thump of an old Madonna dance song and the occasional womanly squeal.
I could feel his rage and pain from ten feet away. “I need to apologize,” I said, taking a small step, the lush grass wetting my toes.
“Fuck you and your apologies,” he seethed, his gaze locked on the little cherub peeing into the pond. “I’ve busted my fucking ass here trying to make the transition smooth, despite all the shit in the press, and all I get from you is flack. You know I would be valuable to this team if you’d just let me.”
Shrugging I moved closer. “Tate, I am sorry. My…it’s not you, it’s me. I’ve…there are…you’ll