Puck Me Secretly (A Vancouver Wolves Hockey Romance Book 1)
Puck Me Secretly: Chapter 23

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, the players and management gathered together. Baxter wanted everyone to move out to the bus as a group.

Dave, the assistant coach, instructed us. “We head straight to the bus. You keep your head down. Now we can’t do anything about the fans lined up, but you can ignore them and whatever they shout at you, is that clear?”

No one said a word.

We opened the door and filed out. The Minnesota fans that were lined up behind waist-high metal gates, went ballistic when they saw the Wolves file out of the dressing room.

“Max, you dumb fuck, why don’t you come over here so we can show you how we feel about you?”

“Hey, Max. I heard the reason Flanynk fought you is because you tried to suck his cock.”

“Max. Who paid you off to lose the cup for us?”

I kept my head down, willing myself not to acknowledge the angry men that lined up on the other side of the short fence. Baxter shoved past me, knocking me towards the angry men. I righted myself and hands grabbed me. Hands from the other side.

I screamed as more hands yanked at me. My feet lifted off the ground and I felt myself being pulled over the gate. I fought with panic, but they were all too strong, too big. Someone pulled my hair. I could feel my shirt ride up as more of my body got dragged over the gate.

I felt a pressure from behind me as a big body slammed against me. Warm mist sprayed my face. Something connected with my cheek, a fist or an elbow, perhaps. It hit me so hard, I saw stars. People jeered and screamed around me and then, two big, warm hands, from my side of the fence, lifted me. Above the grabby hands, above the fence.

Someone set me down on unsteady legs. I blinked up at Max. Around me chaos ensued. The Wolves reined punches at the men on the other side of the fence. Baxter screamed. Police and security valiantly tried to break everyone up.

I burst into tears.

Max scooped me up into his arms. I covered my face with my hands while he walked me outside towards the bus. He sat me down on one of our boxes. One trainer rushed over.

“Is she cut?”

Max carefully pulled my hands off my face. Concerned blue eyes stared into mine. “I think she’s only shaken up.”

“Is that her blood?”

“No.”

The trainer opened one of our Medi-kits. “Rory, we’re going to clean you up.”

“Sorry,” I managed.

Max grimaced. “For what?”

“Everyone is fighting.”

“This wasn’t your fault.”

I nodded, but tears continued to leak down my face. I felt horrible about what had transpired. One by one, players came trickling out of the stadium. Most of them were bleeding. After the most brutal game, they ended up getting into another brawl, because of me.

The trainers moved into motion. They butterfly taped cuts, provided gauze for nosebleeds and checked pupils for concussions.

Baxter strode out of the stadium with a bloody nose and a ripped suit jacket. He stopped and pointed at me. “This is your fault, and this is why there is no place for women in hockey.”

My eyes dropped to the ground. I was the only woman, sitting amongst the wounded, men who had all taken part in a brawl because the opposing team had mauled me.

“That’s bullshit,” some player called. “I was hoping to get into it with the fans.”

“Yeah me too.”

“That fight was the best part of my night.”

Oh geez. I fought more tears as these men, this team, stood up for me.

Max put a familiar hand on the back of my neck. “Why don’t you go get on the bus?”

I nodded and avoiding eye contact with everyone, I climbed onto the bus. I crawled into my seat when something outside caught my eyes. Max was toe-to-toe with Baxter and he wasn’t backing down. Baxter screamed. Max responded with a look so lethal it scared me. Apparently, it scared Baxter too because he shook his head and walked off.

I huddled in my seat and held the ice pack to my cheek. I still felt like crying, but because everyone had come to my defense, I sucked it up hard and put on a brave face. No one spoke when they got onto the bus. We drove in complete silence to the airport.

When we got to the airport, we found out that our flight had been delayed due to shit weather. Usually, when we waited for a flight, our team took up residence in the airport bar. Not tonight. Everyone hunkered down in the private security room provided by the airport. The bruised and cut faces of the players gave the impression that they had been to war and lost.

On the corner TV, the sports channel played.

“And now some breaking news from Minnesota, where the Wolves get into a brawl with angry fans.”

“Turn it up,” someone yelled.

Players stood and watched the screen.

There we were. Walking out of the green room. I looked like a tiny child, surrounded by massive hockey players. And then, for everyone to see, Baxter rushed up behind me, knocking me without care against the fence. Big men, from the other side, reached and grabbed, trying to haul me over the fence.

Max appeared out of nowhere. He somehow shielded me from the worst, holding my body while using one hand to fight off those that worked to pull me over. His fist reigned blows on surprised faces. Responding fists connected with his face, yet he never let go. He kept punching until those angry hands let go. Other players scrambled to get into the mix. Fists flew. Blood sprayed. And then the camera zoomed back to the reporter.

“The female in the middle of that mix was none other than Rory Ashford. She is the daughter of the Vancouver Wolves’ GM.”

“Turn it off.’ A player shook his head in disgust.

The television snapped off.

All the eyes shifted to me. I swallowed, feeling stupid.

“You okay?” a player asked.

I nodded.

“You’re all right. If that had been my girlfriend, she’d be hysterical right now.”

“Same,” someone else agreed.

I nodded, working to keep all the emotion off my face. “Thanks.”

I made my way to the farthest seat away from everyone. I curled up on the seat and turned my body away from the group. I felt vulnerable, weak, and on the verge of my own hysterical tears.

My phone was blowing up. Two calls from Dad and about a million texts.

Me: I’m fine

Dad: Tell.Baxter.To.Call.Me

The last thing I needed was Dad coming to my defense.

Me: Dad. Please. It’s tense right now

Dad: I knew it was a mistake to let you go

Me: If it wasn’t for Logan, it could have been way worse

Dad: Call me

Me: I have to go, they are boarding

A slight lie, but I knew if I talked to Dad, I would begin to cry and I probably wouldn’t stop. My cheek was on fire, and I felt dirty, angry, and completely overwhelmed. I avoided making eye contact with anyone.

I sat there, pretending to work on my phone, until they called us for boarding.

I USUALLY SAT in the front, in business class, with the rest of management. When I walked to my seat, I saw Baxter sitting in the seat next to my assigned seat.

Yeah, that wasn’t happening.

I carried on, heading to the back, where the players sat. I picked a random seat, jammed my bag in the baggage bin and crawled over to the window seat. I put on my seatbelt and covered myself with the blanket I stole from business class. The players filed in after me. Everyone left me alone. No one sat beside me, probably because I was curled up in a tiny ball and staring out the window. My body language screamed ‘leave me alone’.

Someone shoved their bag in the bin above my seat. Then a familiar masculine citrus scent hit my nostrils.

I glanced up at Max. He had the start of a black eye and a split lip.

We didn’t speak when he eased his big body into the seat beside me. I watched as the flight attendant walked us through the usual safety procedures.

“You okay?” Max’s voice was low.

I knew he was asking about the fight, but I pretended he was talking about the takeoff.

“I still don’t like to fly.”

The plane screamed down the runway and my hands clenched around the armrests. Beneath the blanket, Max peeled my hand off the cold metal and squeezed it in his big, warm hand.

“Thank you,” I breathed, keeping my eyes on my lap.

“So, have you been avoiding me?” his voice was low.

“No.” I glanced at him and saw a true question in his gaze. “Yes. Maybe.”

“Why?”

“Because you told me to.”

Blue eyes clashed with mine, but we didn’t speak.

I wanted to ask him how he was doing after tonight. Tonight, his old team, men who used to be close friends, had done everything in their power to hurt him. Fans who used to adore him showed their hate. If that was me, I’d feel crushed.

I fell into a fitful sleep, and when I woke up, my hand was still in his.