Crashing the Net

Crashing

the Net

Samantha Wayland

Also by Samantha Wayland

Destiny Calls

With Grace

Hat Trick Book One: Fair Play

Hat Trick Book Two: Two Man Advantage

Hat Trick Book Three: End Game

Crashing the Net

Copyright © 2014 Samantha Wayland

Published by Loch Awe Press

P.O. Box 5481

Wayland, MA 01778

ISBN 978-1-940839-06-6

Edited by Meghan Conrad

Cover Art by Caitlin Fry

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Loch Awe Press, PO Box 5481, Wayland, MA 01778.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

For Serena Bell, master plotter and the queen of cognitive dissonance.

Any other editor would have taken this author out behind the barn and shot me for what I did in the course of writing, rewriting, and editing this book. Meghan Conrad has earned not only my deepest gratitude, but possibly sainthood for this one.

To all the other friends, beta readers, and innocent bystanders harmed in the making of this book, I offer my thanks and apologies. Particularly Stephanie Kay, for keeping me on deadline. Serena Bell, Dalton Diaz, and Victoria Morgan, for reading one version or another of this story more than once. And my family, for putting up with late nights and a whole lot of take-out for dinner.

Author’s Note

This book takes place three years before the Hat Trick Series.

Mike Erdo had lived the first twenty-two years of his life without learning the taste or texture of sexual lubricant.

Until a moment ago, that had actually been a
regret
.

Standing in the door of the Moncton Ice Cats’ locker room, his mouth full of absolutely revolting goop, he searched for a place to spit out the world’s biggest artificial loogie before his gag reflex got the better of him.

Too late.

He shuddered and hocked it onto the floor.

At least, he hoped he hit the floor and not his own shoe. Or worse, someone else’s shoe. He couldn’t see a fucking thing through the gallons of lube still streaming down his face and over his shoulders. It dripped steadily from the fingertips of his right hand, so he used his comparatively clean left to gingerly wipe what he could away from his eyes.

God, it was
disgusting
.

His new teammates were doubled over with hysterical laughter. Several collapsed onto the benches and one guy even hit the floor. Mike, virtually shellacked in clear, viscous, faintly medicinal-scented fluid, worked hard to laugh right along with them.

Another huge glob of lube dripped from his nose to land on the floor with a splat of finality.

Maybe tomorrow would be less of a suckfest. It couldn’t be worse than today. Or yesterday. Yesterday actually made today look pretty fucking fantastic.

A big hand landed on his shoulder, sending up a spray in all directions. Mike refused to wince, even as his vision blurred from the rush of pain.

“Welcome to the Ice Cats!”

“Thanks,” he said brightly, acutely aware that all eyes were on him. He searched for something to say. To do. He’d wanted to make a good first impression, but he had no idea how the fuck was he supposed to roll with this.

His gaze fell to the enormous empty jugs a few feet away and the first
incredibly dorky
thought that popped into his mind actually flew out of his mouth. “I had no idea lube came in such large containers.”

His teammates doubled up again. Someone fell headfirst into their locker.

Mike’s cheeks burned, no doubt turning a god-awful shade of red. The guy still gripping his shoulder was laughing so hard, Mike practically vibrated from it. He turned to look at the man and his mouth fell open before he could think better of it, accidentally letting in more lube.

Holy shit, he’s fucking hot.

The beautiful man grinned. Full lips, Deep dimples. Bright green eyes dancing.

“I am Alexei,” the man announced, his Russian accent unmistakable even in those three little words.

I should have known
.

Alexei’s wide shoulders and chest, coupled with the insanely powerful thighs his worn jeans struggled to contain, should have been Mike’s first clue he was looking at a goalie. And in the case of the Ice Cats, the metric ton of lube soaking into his clothes should probably have been a good hint, too. Alexei Belov was
infamous
for his pranks. Wild tales of locker rooms having to be repainted, decontaminated, and possibly even fumigated, were rampant in the league.

Mike tore his eyes away from the Alexei’s pink lips and shit-eating grin and studied the puddle spreading around his feet. Maybe today wasn’t so bad, after all. He still had all his teeth and he wasn’t on fire. That was something, right?

He risked another glance at the god standing next to him and smiled weakly. “I’m Mike.”

“We know,” Alexei said with a chuckle. Then he cocked back his arm.

Mike knew what was coming and steeled himself, but it was a wasted effort. Nothing could sufficiently prepare him for Alexei’s punch to his arm.

He staggered back.

Goddamn, that hurts.

Alexei stepped aside for the next player, and so began the ritual that Mike had been expecting and dreading all day. He’d done this to countless new teammates in the course of his life, but now he wondered why the fuck were hockey players all such assholes. One after another, the Wild Cats introduced themselves, then slapped his back, punched his arm, or, in a few cases, gave his ass a firm swat. Mike stood solid, discreetly taking deep breaths and ignoring the black spots dancing before his eyes.

He could get through this. He
would
get through this. He’d done this when he’d arrived at his last team, and the one before, and this was no different. He wouldn’t have thought anything of it if they’d done this yesterday. Or a week from now. The men around him had no way of knowing how fucked up Mike was
today
, of all days.

An eternity later, they completed their special, violent, and unwittingly excruciating greeting. Mike took satisfaction that most of the guys left complaining that they had to go wash lube off their hands before they could go out for the night.

Serves them right.

Only Alexei and Garrick LeBlanc—who’d actually introduced himself, in case Mike had been living under a rock for the last ten years—stayed behind with him in the locker room.

Garrick cocked his head. “You okay?”

Mike smiled like he hadn’t a care in the world. “Yeah, sure.”

Garrick’s dubious look made Mike think he needed to work on his carefree smile. Since that wasn’t working, he took the next best option. Retreat.

He waved his hand toward the back of the room. “Showers that way? ’Cuz I don’t think you want me showing up at the bar like this.”

“Yeah, even Smitty’s wouldn’t let you in,” Garrick agreed with a smirk.

Alexei snorted. “Not sure this one is old enough to drink anyway.”

Mike rolled his eyes, but didn’t take the bait. He was used to annoying comments about his age, even if the Russian accent made this one sound more charming that usual.

He hefted his gear bag up off the floor and grimaced at the puddle on top, praying the clothes within weren’t as ruined as the ones he was wearing. As it was, he was going to leave a slug-trail of lube across the locker room, but it was either that or leave one between here and the parking lot, then do untold damage to the already crappy upholstery in his piece-of-shit car.

He barely bit back his sigh and forced another bright smile. “I’ll see you guys later.”

Garrick studied him and said nothing, so Mike looked at Alexei.

Damn. Still hot
.

Alexei nodded. “Yeah, see you later, kid.”

“Only if you’re wearing your glasses, old man.”
So much for not taking the bait.

Alexei’s eyes lit with amusement. Fortunately, Garrick’s bark of laughter pulled Mike’s attention away before he could start drooling.

“He’s got your number, Belov.”

“We’ll see about that,” Alexei replied in a slow drawl as he looked Mike over.

Mike turned away, afraid his stupid baby face would give away his every thought. And his dick was
definitely
going to give a few things away if Alexei kept looking at him like that. Mike focused on unloading his gear into his stall, dragging what should have been a five minute chore out for as long as possible.

It felt like hours before Alexei and Garrick finally left and Mike could collapse onto the bench behind him.

It was supposed to be one of the best days of his life. A new team. Professional hockey. His first time truly on his own, finally able to support himself and help his family, all without a parent hovering over his shoulder.

And that was good. Really good.

Maybe tomorrow it would even feel that way.

“Alexei!”

Alexei turned to see Garrick jogging across the parking lot toward him. “What’s up?”

“The new guy…Mike? He, uhh…” Garrick shrugged.

Alexei sighed, once again nipped by the guilt he’d been actively ignoring since he’d pulled this evening’s prank.

“Do you think he’s all right?” Garrick asked.

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Yeah? He just seemed kind of…”

Lost? Hurt? Really fucking pretty?

“…overwhelmed.”

Alexei’s shoulders slumped.
Fuck
. He hadn’t been imagining it. “Okay, I’ll go back in. Check on him.”

Garrick’s eyes widened. “You sure?”

Alexei tried not to take Garrick’s surprise personally. Normally this was exactly the sort of thing Alexei would let Garrick handle. But there’d been something about that kid. Those goddamn eyes. Even when he’d been grinning and joking with the rest of them, he’d still seemed…
sad
.

Alexei blew out a deep breath. Occasionally, his pranks did backfire. He’d been trying, in his own admittedly perverse way, to welcome the newest member of the team. Not make him miserable. “No, it’s cool. I’ll go check on him. Make sure he knows where Smitty’s is.”

“I’ll see you there, then?”

“Yeah, see you in a few.”

Alexei trudged back into the arena, surprised to find the locker room empty. He almost left to continue his search in the gym or the offices when he heard the water running in the pitch black shower room.

Shit, what if the poor kid hadn’t been able to find the light switch?

It took a few seconds for Alexei’s eyes to adjust to the low light cast through the door from the locker room, but eventually he found the tall, rangy defenseman standing under a torrent of water on the far side of the showers. He had his hands planted on the tile wall, his head hanging down so the spray beat down on his neck and between his wide shoulders.

It was a damn nice view, but something wasn’t right. Tremors racked Mike’s body, his unsteady breaths audible even over the rushing water.

Alexei almost dove back into the locker room, desperate to call Garrick and beg him to come back. This so wasn’t his fucking thing.

Don’t be such a coward, Belov.

In a burst of stupid courage, he charged into the shower room, crossing the tile to the point where the toes of his boots darkened from the water splashing back up off the floor. He still didn’t have the faintest fucking idea what he was going to say or do, but then he saw what the shadows and steam had hidden.