Page 3 of Ice Devil

“Good game out there, Beck,” the coach said as I headed off the ice.

“Thank you, sir. Just doing my job.”

He hung his head as I passed. He and the rest of the team knew me as a prankster, a man always laughing. Yet right now, all I wanted was a solid, long night’s sleep.

After easing on the blade guards, I headed for the locker room, finding the hallway buzzing with activity. Reporters swarmed the corridor, all hoping to provide the perfect clip for the nightly news.

I didn’t need to worry. As soon as Ford made his way off the ice, the swarm would be all over him. That was fine by me.

“Time to par-ty!” I wasn’t even certain who’d made the announcement. I didn’t blame him. There was talk we could make the playoffs, which would be fucking amazing.

The roar in the wide-open space was deafening.

“Alright, gentlemen, remember we have a plane to catch late morning,” Assistant Coach Parker reminded us dutifully. Okay, so a couple of us had almost missed a flight two weeks before. That was another reason I was trying to be a good boy.

A short snicker pushed up from my throat. Good boy, my ass. I had a sordid reputation to uphold. Right? I ripped off my shirt, tossing it toward the laundry bag, noticing the open doorway was crowded with reporters.

I guess beating the home team was big news.

Turning my back, I continued undressing, eager to take a long, hot shower. Before I grabbed a towel, a sharp and intense series of vibrations smashed into my system, sucking out every bit of air from my lungs. There was the scent again, sweet and sultry, lingering on my skin while it pumped into my nostrils.

I’d be damned if my entire system wasn’t immediately shoved into a raging firestorm. Which was particularly bad since I was suddenly experiencing a cattle prod to my scrotum. In my case, my cock immediately jumped to full attention.

“Uh-oh. Lady in da house, boys.”

“Who do you want to talk to?” I heard Coach Parker ask while I took my time reaching for a towel.

“Beck Kendrick.” Her voice wasn’t soft and breathless like I was used to hearing from every woman determined to carry my baby to term, but edgy, defiant.

On fire.

Maybe upon some lengthy reflection I might think the sun suddenly made an abstract appearance in the dark, almost underground space offered to members of an opposing team, but I wasn’t that kind of man. There wasn’t a romantic or passionate bone in my furry body. I’d learned a long time ago women used whatever it took to get what they wanted.

And this woman wanted an interview.

Wait. She’d asked for me. Interesting. Maybe my brother was too busy being the team star. My initial thought was that she was in the wrong place, although my way of thinking was Neanderthal at best. Mandates allowed female reporters access, which usually caused mixed, often vindictively mischievous reactions from male players.

Especially if the female invading our space was cute.

However, I was a professional, which was why I snatched a towel from the rack, tying the thin material around my waist. As soon as I turned to face the din turning into a hungry roar, the terrycloth swiped across my aching dick. What the hell was wrong with the arena owners? Couldn’t they afford Egyptian cotton?

“Hey, Beck, a reporter here to see you.” Coach Parker was used to wrangling reporters and by the time I started to push my way through the crowd of guys, a slow and steady throng of them from newspapers to local television stations were actively seeking a player in hopes of capturing their fifteen minutes of fame. “Be nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

“No, you’re always a ham,” he corrected, grinning as he did. It wasn’t but so often I was interviewed by a reporter, but the Hellions’ presence on social media had increased the last few weeks.

Maybe one day I’d be a star. At least I could snicker from the thought.

I swaggered closer, running my fingers through my hair. While I approached, a few of the guys winked, a couple striking a pose offering full frontal nudity. Did the assholes think we were auditioning for a reality show? Knowing them, yes. The closer I came to the unknown reporter, the more curious I became. She had cocks and butts inches away with no indication any one of them were impressive.

The reporter was busy studying the space around us, her back turned. With her long, dark hair in a high ponytail, her even longer legs wrapped in bell-bottomed black trousers, and wearing a white tee shirt, there appeared to be nothing spectacular about her.

Other than that her clothes couldn’t hide her voluptuous curves.

She was also wearing bright chartreuse tennis shoes that undoubtedly glowed in the dark.

“Ms. Winters, I located Beck,” Coach Parker said and passed right by where she was standing.