Rachel Gibson - Nothing But Trouble

Coach Mark

P. S. How did you manage to get my e-mail address?

Friday afternoon, Mark looked forward to a day of doing nothing besides watching junk TV. As was true with his life lately, there seemed to be a conspiracy to change his plans. “That double overtime against Colorado in the regular season was grueling. One of the toughest games I’ve ever played,” Sam Leclaire said as he raised a bottle of Corona to his lips. The light in the room caressed the black and purple shiner smudging his right eye.

“It wasn’t pretty. Especially with you sitting out a double minor,” Mark agreed as he looked at the four hockey players lounging on his couches and chairs inside the leisure room. Through the open glass doors, two more of the guys stood on the veranda outside, hitting golf balls across the yard and into the thick, short hedge. Beyond the hedge was the Medina golf course, and Mark hoped they kept the balls off the green or he’d hear about it from the grounds superintendent, aka Kenneth the Nazi. Kenneth was just one more reason he needed to get the hell out of Medina.

“Hensick took a dive on that one. The pansy ass rolled around like a girl. He embarrassed himself.”

Which might have been true, but didn’t mean that Sam hadn’t tripped Hensick. Then punched him for good measure and gave Colorado the power play.

The guys had shown up at his house half an hour ago, unannounced. He was pretty sure they’d organized this little trip without calling first because they knew he’d tell them not to come. He hated to admit it, but he was glad they’d shown up without warning. He’d known most of these guys for a long time. He’d been their captain, but they were more than just teammates. They were friends. Close as brothers, and he missed shooting the shit with them. He hadn’t known how much until now.

Today they all looked rough around the edges. Like warriors who’d just survived a battle. The two defensemen outside looked the worst of the lot. Left guard Vlad Fetisov had a few stitches in his brow, while the team’s enforcer, Andre Courtoure, had butterfly tape closing a cut on his chin. Inside the house, second-in-command, alternate captain Walker Brooks, wore a brace on his left knee. Of course there was Sam’s shiner, but Sam always had a shiner. He was a good guy. Always laughing and joking, but there was something darker inside. Something he tended to work out on the ice. Which made Sam a liability almost as much as a damn good hockey player.

“The rumor is that Eddie is leaving,” forward Daniel Holstrom informed everyone from his position on the side of the chaise. Unfortunately, Daniel had yet to shave off his playoffs beard, and the growth of blond hair on his cheeks and chin looked moth-eaten.

Sniper Frankie Kawczynski raised a bottle of Corona to his lips. “Isn’t he already playing in the Swedish leagues these days?”

“Not Eddie the Eagle. Assistant coach Eddie,” Daniel clarified.

“What?” Walker looked across the room at Daniel, incredulous. “Eddie Thornton?”

“Thorny?”

“That’s what I hear. He’s signing on as the assistant coach in Dallas.”

“Where did you hear that?” Mark wanted to know.

“Around. I bet it’s true. Thorny never did get along with Larry,” he added, referring to the Chinooks’ head coach, Larry Nystrom.

“Nystrom can be a straight-up hard-ass,” Frankie said. He sat in a chair to Mark’s left, a big kid from Wisconsin whose height and bulk had deceived many opposing players. Frankie was as nimble as a ballerina, with a slap shot clocked at one hundred and fifteen miles an hour. Just three miles short of the record holder, Bobby Hull. Mark had helped handpick Frankie when Mark and the late owner of the team, Virgil Duffy, had looked over the NHL draft several years ago.

Mark shrugged. “Larry’s always been a fair hard-ass.”

“True,” Frankie agreed. “But remember when he got all apoplectic and turned purple after Tampa Bay handed our balls to us a couple seasons ago? I thought he was going to bust a vessel in his head and blood would shoot from his eyes.”

“Apoplectic?” Mark laughed. “Have you been reading again?”

“Unlike most of you guys, I did spend a few years in college before I was drafted.”

As much as the guys could get on Mark’s nerves, he missed the constant razzing. He pointed to his own chin and asked Daniel, “Why are you keeping the fuzz?” He and the Stromster had played on the same front line for past six seasons. The Swede had been drafted by the Chinooks his rookie year. The same year Mark had been named captain.

“I like it.”

“You should have seen Blake’s.” Sam chuckled and took a drink from his bottle. “He looked like someone had given him a bikini wax on his face. One of those Brazilians like my ex-girlfriend used to get on her patch.”

Mark glanced toward the door. The guys didn’t know there was a woman in the house. Exactly where his little assistant was, Mark didn’t know. When he’d answered the door, she hadn’t been in the office at the front of the house.

“It was bad,” Walker agreed, “but I thought Johan’s beard was-” He stopped, and his attention shifted to the vicinity of Mark’s crotch as “American Woman” played from the pocket of his jogging pants. The nylon pocket had slid to his inner thigh, and he looked around at the curious faces. Mark stuck his hand in his pocket and dug around next to his balls. He pulled out his new cell phone as The Guess Who warned American woman to stay away. A picture of Chelsea flashed on the cell’s screen. “Yeah?” he answered.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“I guessed that. Tell me about ‘American Woman.’”

“‘American Woman’ was a song written and performed by the Guess Who and later Lenny Kravitz.”

“I know all that. Why is it on my phone?”

“It’s my ringtone so that you know it’s me. I thought it was appropriate given our relationship.”

“Where are you and why are you calling?”

“In the kitchen. I’m taking a break from answering fan letters, and I just wanted to know if you or your guests need anything.”

There it was again. Need. “I’m sure the guys could use another beer.”

“I figured. How many guys are there?”

“Six counting Vlad, but he’s not drinking today.” Which Mark knew from his long association with the Russian meant he was hungover. He flipped the phone closed and lifted one hip and shoved it back in his pocket. For the most part, when the guys got together at his house to drink or play poker or both, it was just the guys. He didn’t know how they’d react to a female in their mix. “That was my assistant,” he told them. “She’s bringing more beer.”

Sam finished off his Corona and set the empty bottle on an end table. “You have an assistant?”

“More like a pain in the ass.” Mark stuck one finger beneath the brace and scratched the back of his hand. “The Chinooks kept sending nurses over here to check my pulse and make sure I took a crap. I hated having them hover over me, watching me all the time, so I guess the organization thought they’d have better luck if they sent an assistant.”

“What’s she like?”

“Annoying as hell.” Mark leaned back against the soft leather couch. “You’ll see.”

A few minutes later she walked into the room, all five feet nothing of her, carrying a tin bucket filled with ice and Coronas. “Hello, gentlemen. Don’t get up,” she said, even though no one had made a move to stand. She wore those big clunky shoes she favored and a short leather skirt with animal print on it-zebra maybe. Her baggy black blouse had a big bow on the front, and her neon pink cell phone was clipped to the sparkly red belt wrapped around her waist. In the short time that she’d worked for him, Mark had noticed that she wore her tops really loose and her bottoms really tight. He wondered if she thought big shirts made her big breasts less noticeable. They didn’t. “I’m Chelsea Ross, Mr. Bressler’s personal assistant.” She bent forward to set the bucket on the coffee table, and Mark watched Frankie’s gaze slide to her little behind wrapped up in black-and-white-striped leather. “I’ve brought beer. Any takers?”

All four gentlemen raised their hands like they were in school.

“You look familiar,” Walker said, tilting his head to one side to study her.

Mark had always thought so too.

She grabbed a beer out of the bucket, slid her hands up the bottle, and twisted off the top. “Do you watch The Young and the Restless?”

“No.”

“Ever seen Slasher Camp?”

“No.”

She handed Walker the Corona. “Killer Valentine? Prom Night 2? He Knows It’s You?” She turned back to the bucket. “Motel on Lake Hell?”

“Don’t forget that ‘go meat’ commercial,” Mark reminded her. “The one where you wore a cheerleader outfit.”

She chuckled and pulled another beer from the ice. “Good to know you were paying attention.”

Droplets of water slipped across the tips of her fingers, ran down the bottle, and dripped into the bucket. Yeah, he was paying attention. Too much attention, although he didn’t know why. “Among Chelsea’s many talents, she’s a scream queen,” he informed the guys.

Daniel looked up at her as she moved toward him. “You’re a what?”

“I’m an actress.” She handed the Swede the bottle and flicked the droplets from the tips of her fingers. “I recently moved here from L.A.”

“And you’ve starred in horror movies?” Walker asked.

“I wish.” She shook her head and moved back to the coffee table. “I didn’t star in horror films, but I’ve acted in a number of them. My biggest role was in Slasher Camp. I got the axe, literally, within the first half hour.” She dug around in the ice and pulled out a Corona. “The amount of blood was ridiculous. The scene was shot at night in the woods and called for me to be practically nude. They didn’t even warm up the fake blood before they splashed it all over my throat. All that gross stuff gushed down my chest and soaked my white underwear. I about froze to death.”