he was fucking constipated.
Our uniforms, purple and green monstrosities that were made even worse by the gold lame numbers on the back of the sweaters.
Our owner, who had more money and connections than he did common sense and hockey knowledge. Not that I was foolish enough to say that out loud. Hell no. Nathan could deal with that disaster, since he was dating the owner's daughter.
Hell, even the arena where we played left a lot to be desired. It wasn't as bad as our practice facility...but it wasn't much better, either.
And it still had more empty seats than filled ones.
I shifted on the bench and pretended to stretch so I could look around. The light crowd in attendance this afternoon didn't seem to be very interested in the game. Not that I could blame them, considering we were having our asses handed to us and were trailing by three near the end of the second. I'm not sure if that would have bothered me as much as it did if Morgan wasn't here. Her being here shouldn't make a difference but it did. Egotistical on my part? Yeah, probably. I'd never really wanted to show off for a woman before—at least, not since high school—but I did tonight.
For Morgan.
And yeah, that was beyond laughable. Hell, I didn't even know her last name! That shouldn't bother me but it did. I shouldn't want anything to do with her at all, considering she had come close to marrying some other guy yesterday morning.
But waking up and seeing her in my bed this morning, with her hair all tousled around her sleep-kissed face...no, I couldn't explain the sudden possessiveness that gripped me when I saw her. I also couldn't deny it.
Was it stupid? Yeah, definitely.
Was I really thinking of making such a catastrophic mistake? Yeah, I was.
Did I care? Not at all.
If that wasn't a recipe for guaranteed trouble, I didn't know what was.
A shadow passed behind me on the bench and I stiffened, already knowing what was coming. I shifted and stared straight ahead as the man behind me leaned down and spoke.
"You have somewhere to go, Gleason?"
"No, Coach."
"Is there something out there more important than this game?"
"No, Coach."
"You sure about that? Because you can head back to the locker room with an undisclosed injury if there's somewhere else you'd rather be right now."
"No, Coach. Sorry. It won't happen again."
Something that sounded very much like a growl echoed in my ear and I was only half-worried that Coach Somers was ready to take my head off. That worry grew just the smallest bit when one hand clamped down on my shoulder and squeezed with enough pressure that I could feel it through my pads.
"On your feet, Gleason. Get ready for the line change."
I did exactly as I was told, my stick clutched in my hand and my eyes focused on the ice. Christian Tracey was right next to me and we both jumped the wall as soon as Logan Byrd and Blake Roody made their way to the bench. My feet hit the ice and I wasted no time taking off, spinning backward to fend off Cleveland's players as Tristan Holland moved the puck toward the net. If we could give him enough space so he could get in there without any interference, there was a chance he might score.
If.
Might.
No, fuck that. I was tired of playing games. Tired of losing. Tired of having our asses handed to us. It was time to get my fucking head in the game and do what I'd been meant to do: play hockey.
I moved a little faster, sweeping my stick back and forth in front of me to keep my man from Cleveland back. I saw his mouth curl in a sneer a split-second before he darted to his right, intending to pass me to go after Tristan.
Not this time.
I dug my blades into the ice and pivoted left, catching the other guy's shoulder with my own. We both went down in a tangle of arms and legs, fighting each other to be the first one to reach his feet. There may have been a persuasive punch or two thrown but neither one of us got called for it so I didn't care—especially since I was the first one to get back up. I watched Tristan's progress from the corner of my eyes while trying to pay attention to the guy from Cleveland who was still floundering like a fish out of water.
Tristan was moving