The Boston Brute - Pt. 2 (Sweden Sounds Nice)
Pairing: NHL!Chris Evans x Athletic Trainer!Reader (female character)
Summary: When you graduated from Northeastern University, you had your sights set on the West Coast. And then you were offered a position with the Boston Bruins Athletic Training Department. And then you met Chris. A 6′3″, ruggedly handsome hockey player dead set on making your life a living hell by pushing every button and getting on every nerve. Despite your obvious disdain for each other and the 'No Fraternization' clause in your employee contract, you're drawn together in a passionate, fiery love affair that seems to burn everything in its wake.
Warnings: Chris is an asshollleeee, language, sexual innuendos, parental death mentioned, legal alcohol consumption (the reader is in late 20s), reader talking down about herself a little.
W/C: 8k
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All players and scenarios are made up completely. This story does not reflect things that actually happen in the NHL or witsit's players.
"He's not that bad..."
You rolled your eyes at Connor, moving the mouse so the computer came to life. It was almost 8am, Connor's appointment with you was at 8:30, but he always brought you coffee and joined you at open so he could talk your ear off about whatever or whoever he did this weekend. Today, it was different. You were beyond exhausted after being kept awake all weekend by Marlowe and Payton's relentless porno-making and were not looking forward to the fact that you had to deal with Chris later today, too, so instead of focusing on Connor, you vented.
About everything. Not that he seemed to care.
But first, it started with Marlowe and Payton and your annoyance with their constant need to be wrapped up in each other, Connor's rebuttal being that you were sad and single. Maybe he wasn't wrong... but that didn't save him from the shoulder punch you threw his way.
Then, you went off on a tangent about Chris. His attitude, his stupid fucking scowl, and constant need to argue and undermine everything that came out of your mouth.
Connor's 'not that bad' was in reference to your comment comparing him to Satan. You begged to differ.
"He is that bad, Connor." You scoffed, shaking your head while you sipped from the large latte he provided this morning, "He's probably not all sexist and grumpy when he's around you."
Connor's eyebrows jumped up in surprise. "Sexist?"
"Why else would he want someone else? He thinks I'm incapable of helping him because I'm a woman."
His eyes narrowed, "Did he say that?"
You huffed in response, turning your attention back to the computer so you could print out the client sheet for today.
"Mhmm." He shook his head, "That's what I thought. I mean, I know the man is a little... intense–" you scoffed, intense wasn't the word you were thinking, "–but he's a pretty good guy. He's protective and loyal, and he's a good friend."
"All qualities of a decent teammate and hockey player. Not a person." You argued, pointing your index finger at him, "I'm right about this, Townsend."
He rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching as he held back a grin, "Has anyone ever told you that you're fucking stubborn?"
You winced, remembering all too well how Dean, your ex, had thrown it in your face many times just how stubborn you are. The fucker even went as low as saying the reason he cheated was that your stubbornness was a turn-off. "Yeah, a time or two," you replied quietly, straightening up the papers that sat in front of you, "Anyway," you cleared your throat, "Chris sucks. Let's move on."
He chuckled, downing the rest of his coffee before tossing the cup into the trash, "Your mind would change if you just got to know him."
You snorted, "Not happening." Ignoring the want you had inside to break his stone-cold exterior, which you chalked up to your self-diagnosed "fixer syndrome", you attempted to shift his focus onto something he loved talking about: himself. "How was your weekend?"
Thankful for the change in topic, you haphazardly listened while Connor ranted aimlessly for the 20 minutes about some club that he went to with a couple of other players and something about a blonde girl that ended up in his bed, earning an eye roll from you. But unfortunately, your mind kept going back to Chris.
Was it actually possible that he wasn't such a dick in real life?
No. It couldn't be. You watched him on the ice before, all of the fights he'd gotten into, and the fact that he was so aggressive with reporters after games... there was no way he wasn't an asshole to everyone. His teammates were the obvious exception here.
"Y/N!"
Your head snapped towards Dan's office, his head poked around the door, and raised your eyebrows to show you were listening.
"You have a 9?"
Glancing down at your client sheet, you shook your head. "No, 9 is clear."
"Good, Evans is switching from 3 to 9. Marnie wants you on the rink after." He called out.
"I have a 10, I won't have time." You argued.
He paused, stuck his head back in the door, and poked it back out a second later, "Pat will cover the rest of your day. Get to the rink with Evans."
You groaned, "Great." You stood, wiping your hands on your khakis, "Alright, Townsend, let's go."
He checked his watch, "It's not even 8:30 yet."
It was 8:27. Close enough.
"Come on, ya wuss. Scared you can't keep up?"
Connor rolled his eyes, pushing away from the desk and walking over with you towards your station. You wondered what Marnie wanted with you after Chris's appointment. She knew what you were doing with him and the instructions that you'd given him... But you also knew that there was a team practice after and that Chris would likely want to participate. But Marnie was good at her job.. She didn't need you to evaluate. Also, why did he say 'with Evans'? Did you have to go with him or could you walk over on your own?
Connor snapped his fingers in your face, "Hello?"
You shook your head, "Sorry, start with the sitting calf stretches, I'll be right back." He'd been doing this with you long enough, you really didn't even need to instruct him.
You walked over to Dan's office, knocking twice before poking your head in, "Hey."
Dan held up his hand, shaking his head, "It's not happening."
"What?"
"Evans is yours. I'm not moving him."
You sighed. "That's not what I was going to ask."
"Good, because he has. 3 times since Friday and I told him it wasn't going to happen."
You tried to ignore the pinch of hurt in your chest. What did you do to piss this man off so much? You'd been nothing but kind to him in the beginning. It was him who walked in here and immediately treated you like you weren't worthy of helping him. Clearly, he could dish it but he couldn't take it.
"I just wanted to know what Marnie needed?" You asked, leaning against the doorframe and crossing your arms.
He shrugged, "I don't ask questions. She said she needs you, I send you her way."
"Right..." You responded, pausing for a second before tapping on his door frame with your hand and heading back over to Connor, whose nose was buried in his phone, "Connor!" You shook your head in disapproval, "Really?"
He grinned in an attempt to charm you, tossing his phone into his duffle bag and resuming his calf stretches.
"Your smiles don't work on me, you know that," you shook your head again, "I'm immune to your ways."
His grin only grew wider, "It's a shame, we'd be unstoppable, baby," he shot a wink your way, relaxing his leg to rest.
You snorted out a laugh. To anyone eavesdropping on your conversation, they might assume Connor was actually flirting, but this was just the way you guys worked. "Keep dreaming, bud," you sat down on a swivel chair next to him and crossed your legs, "How have you been feeling? Really?"
Connor shrugged. "It's been okay."
His torn ACL was on the mend, he was about 10 months into recovery and given the clear to start practice again in a week. You'd been encouraging him to honestly tell you how he feels because, like most buff-ass men in their 30s who play sports, he thinks he's invincible. Tearing your ACL should, in fact, let you know that you are not invincible, but alas, it did not.
You raised an eyebrow at him. "Okay?" He was clearly hiding something.
He shrugged once more. "Just okay."
"Are you in pain?"
He hesitated, looking away from you. "No."
"Connor Townsend, if you are in pain, you need to tell me! I can't clear you for practice if you're in pain."
"It's just stiff, that's all! Once I get back on the ice, I'll be fine!"
You shook your head, looking down at him as he stretched on the mat. "No. If you're in pain and you get on the ice, you risk tearing again, and then you'll be done. You hear me? Done. Bye-bye hockey, bye-bye puck bunnies."
He laughed. "They'll never get enough of me."
"They will. Because you'll be a washed-up hockey player with a limp that uses a cane to walk at 33."
He laughed again. "Damn, harsh!"
"Not as harsh as your new reality if you don't honestly tell me how you're feeling," you argued. You knew that despite his want to get back on the ice, Connor would listen to what you had to say. If you thought he needed to take an additional week, he would take it. He'd hate every minute of it, but he'd take it. You'd never be able to get over the guilt you'd harbor if you'd released him too soon and he reinjured himself. It would end his hockey career and there was no way you'd let him do that. It meant too much to him.
His eyebrow raised. "I'll tell you how I feel if you seriously tell me how you feel about Chris," he challenged.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Your voice raised an octave and you cleared your throat, "I have no clue what you're talking about."
Connor laughed. "Come on, Y/N. I know you. It can't all be hate."
"Trust me, it's all hate. The man's an ass. Who clearly can dish out all the bullshit he wants, but can't take it considering he's requested to be transferred 4 times now."
He laughed again. "Damn, 4 times? What'd you do to the poor guy?"
"Nothing! I mean, literally nothing. I seriously don't know what his problem is. Also, don't act like this is my fault. Everyone here talks about that trainer that quit the last time he was here. He makes everyone miserable."
Connor stopped his stretch, blinking at you a couple of times. "Do you know why?"
"Why what?"
"Why there was a huge blowup."
You shook your head, "No. No one does. Just that Chris said something, words— and equipment— were exchanged and then he quit without notice."
He huffed a sound of surprise, leaning back against his hands, "Maybe you should talk to him."
"The trainer? I don't—"
"Not the trainer, dumbass. Chris," he rolled his eyes.
You scoffed for the 50th time this morning, "I'm not talking to Chris about that," you shook your head, "you're sidetracking me. Are you hurting?" He was so damn good at distracting you.
He let out a resigned sigh, your tone making it clear that you were finished, "Okay, okay. Fine. It hurts just a little. Only when I do squats, sometimes when I climb the stairs."
"Thank you," you responded, your harsh tone replaced by a softer one, "I'm just trying to do my job, Towns. You know that."
"I know, I know. Desperately in love with me and all that."
You shook your head, standing and grabbing a gliding disc and passing it over, "You wish. Do some knee slides, we'll skip the squats today and added resistance, but if you're still hurting by the end of the week..." your voice trailed off.
"Yeah, benched another week. I know."
You gave him a sympathetic smile, "It's only the pre-season. You still have the whole season ahead of you, try not to worry."
He only huffed in response, working on the knee slides in silence and you could tell he was worried. You couldn't really blame him, he missed most of the season last year and was really hoping to be 100% before now. Unfortunately, that's not really how things work with the human body. Injuries were always unpredictable and different in their own way. That was a challenge you loved about this job. Some injuries that should take months to heal, heal in weeks. Some that should take weeks, take months and it was up to you to figure out the best course of action.
Every player that came through here was a challenge in their own way and you loved it.
Connor was your friend, though. It was hard to think of him as a challenge. He was a person that you cared about with an injury that could potentially ruin his career and it truly did bother you to see him like this.
You sighed at the crestfallen look on his face, "Okay."
He raised his right eyebrow, looking over at you, "Okay what?"
"It has to stay between the two of us."
"What does?"
You sigh again. I cannot believe I'm gonna do this. "Chris... he's attractive. I mean, I'd have to be just– I don't even know. Stupid... not to see that. He's ripped, tall, and he plays sports. He's attractive." You ignored the smug look on Connor's face and continued, "But, his personality is absolute shit. The biggest turn-off, ever. Ever. And that clouds any attraction that I could feel towards him."
Connor snickered, looking at his feet.
"What?"
You stopped breathing when someone clears their throat behind you, your cheeks instantly burning with embarrassment. Groaning, you buried your face in your hands. You didn't have to look to know that Chris was standing behind you.
A duffle bag hit the floor with a thud and Connor laughed– loudly. Like head thrown back, clutching his stomach with tears in his eyes, loudly.
This was where you quit your job and moved to Sweden, right? Sweden sounds nice. No Chris, no Connor. They play hockey in Sweden, right? You could get a job, settle down, and slowly forget that this moment ever happened while living deep in the mountains. This could work. Sweden was the only option you had.
"Well, princess, if I would've known the goal was to turn you on, I would've approached things very differently."
"Nope. Nope. I'm quitting. I'm leaving. I can't do this." You mumbled against your hands, letting out another groan, "Why are you here? Your appointment isn't until 9!" You snapped up, swiveling in your chair to face him, except you were met with his crotch, "Jesus! What is with you and personal space?!" you turned around quickly, snapping your jaw shut and staring daggers at Connor, who was still keeled over laughing.
"Connor! This isn't funny!"
He tried to compose himself, but failed tremendously, "I– Oh god, this is–" he stopped trying to talk, another burst of laughter escaping from his chest, "This is the best!" he choked out, laying flat on his back while laughter shook his body.
You pushed out of the chair, completely mortified, and stomped towards the women's restroom, Connor calling out after you.
"Come on, Y/N! It's all in good fun!" He cleared his throat a couple of times but you couldn't turn around. You pushed open the door, burying your face in your hands again while leaning against the door.
This tops every embarrassing moment that has ever happened to you. Ever. Mary Lake pulling your pants down during the 5th-grade winter recital? Nothing compared to this. Kissing your prom date with lettuce from dinner in your braces? That absolutely pales in comparison to the mortification you felt right now.
Chris knows that you think he's attractive. Mister sleeps-with-10-models-a-week knows that you think he's freaking tall, ripped, and attractive. You would never have a chance with someone like Chris, you knew that. It was more embarrassing to think about the fact that he thought that you thought you had a chance if his personality wasn't such a fucking downer. Like it was up to you in the first place.
You let out a couple of fake sobs, throwing your head back. This was the worst. The freaking worst. But, you had a job to do. And even if Connor thought this was fucking hysterical, he needed to be back on the ice and it was up to you to help him get there. So you splashed some cold water on your face, hoping that it would cool the heat still burning your cheeks before walking back out to the facility floor.
Connor sat up straight, his mouth twitching as he desperately tried to hold back a smile. Chris stood off to the side looking as smug and asshole-ish as ever.
You cleared your throat, avoiding eye contact with both of them. "Did you finish your knee slides?"
"Yup," he responded, a trace of humor in his voice.
"Great. Bike. Cycle for 20. Go slow." You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose and turning to Chris, "How do you feel?"
"Tall. Attractive. Ripped." He lifted his shoulder in a shrug and your fist twitched with the desire to punch his attractive face.
Instead of responding, you stared at him. Jaw clenched, arms crossed over your chest.
"Come on, princess. You're not the first person to be attracted to me and you won't be the last," he winked, stripping off his Bruins hoodie.
A breath hitched in your throat when his shirt underneath lifted, your eyes falling to the thin patch of hair that started at his belly button and disappeared under the Calvin Klein boxers that poked out from underneath his sweats.
Before he had the satisfaction of catching you ogling him, you tore your eyes away, looking up at the ceiling and pinching your eyes shut. Make a fucking list, Y/N. Make a list.
1. No fraternization clause in your handbook.
2. He's an asshole.
3. He's a hockey player. You swore you would never be... involved... with another hockey player.
4. He's. An. Asshole.
5. He sleeps around. A lot.
6. You'll lose your job.
7. Was it mentioned that he's an ass?
Your list-making was interrupted, your body stiffening when you felt the heat of Chris's body close to yours and prayed that the jolt of electricity you felt travel down your spine wasn't shown outwardly, too. You took in the smell of clean linen and a woodsy aftershave, swallowing the nerves that formed a knot in your throat, "Do you have an issue with personal space?"
"I don't, do you?"
You swallowed again, "It seems like you do. You're like a dog. You never know when you're too close." You hoped that your voice didn't sound as breathless and shaky to him as it did to you.
"Am I too close, princess?"
If the huskiness of his voice wasn't going to kill you slowly, the close proximity was. Holy fuck, you were going to hear that in your dreams tonight.
"You know that you are." You finally choked out, opening your eyes again and making eye contact. You hated how small he made you feel. Especially with those blue eyes burning into yours. Noticing that he wasn't moving, you took a step back and sighed, "So. I ask again. How are you feeling? Did you do the stretches? Stay off the ice?"
He let out an unamused laugh. "Yeah. My fob was deactivated, couldn't even get into the building until this morning."
You bit back a grin, adding another tally to your mental scorecard.
"I did the stretches. I'm fine." Just like that, he was back to his miserable, brooding self. All traces of self-satisfaction from hearing you call him ripped and attractive was gone and he was back to hating you.
You'd racked your brain all weekend, trying to figure out why the fuck he had such a bone to pick with you and you just kept coming up empty-handed. He shouldn't hate you or even remotely dislike you. He didn't know you. You guys have never interacted before Friday, you've never met him or worked on him before and you've never had anyone complain, so it's not like he had a reason to assume you were bad at your job, either.
It bothered you that he didn't like you. And not because you want him to like you, but because you have no clue why.
"Great. Go ahead and take a seat, and get some stretches in. I'll be back."
You walked over to Connor, irritated that he was peddling so fast and looked unaffected by the pace, "God are you like a superhuman? How have you not broken a sweat? I told you to go easy."
He looked at you deadpan, "This is easy. There's like barely any resistance."
Your eyes bugged at his version of barely any resistance. "Jesus. Okay. Maybe I should play hockey."
"I'll teach you, baby. All you have to do is ask," he winked and you groaned.
"No, thank you. Come see me when you're done."
You made your way back over to Chris, releasing a slow breath as you watched him stretch. His shirt lifted a little as his body twisted and your eyes locked on his abs. For as big of an asshole as he was, you were finding it very hard to look the other way. Chris was fucking hot. And every time you looked at him or got a glance of the rock-hard muscles twisting or straining in the best way, you forgot why you wanted to stay away.
And as soon as his mouth opened, you immediately remembered the reason.
"So do you flirt with every hockey player that comes through here? Is that why Towns keeps fucking his knee up?"
You stared at him for a second, the anger building in your chest started to boil your blood, warming your body from the inside out. You could feel your cheeks heat up. "What did I do to you?" you demanded, stopping your trek over to him and crossing your arms.
He raised an eyebrow, but didn't answer your question.
"Please, enlighten me. Tell me what the hell I did do to you to make you so fucking unbearable to be around? Is there a reason you're such a prick? Or can you just not help it?" You stood in front of Chris, fuming. You were becoming even more pissed by the second as his eyes flickered with amusement. His mouth twitched as if to hold back a grin and you were on the brink of losing it. He was clearly trying to get a rise out of you and you were playing right into it.
You let out an exasperated sigh, "You know what? Fuck up your leg even more. I don't care. Don't listen to me. I. Don't. Care. I'm done." You threw your hands up and turned on your heels, stomping over to the desk to grab your coat.
"Where are you going?" He grumbled.
"Fuck off."
You grabbed your keys and walked out of the front door, heading towards the rink. Your response wasn't the most professional thing you could muster, but if he wanted you pissed, it worked.
It bothered you so much that you let him get under your skin like this, he shouldn't. You don't know him. He clearly doesn't know you. But he was so goddamn irritating. He knew exactly what he was doing and he clearly didn't care if he hurt your feelings.
You knew that you shouldn't care about his opinion, but you couldn't stop focusing on the fact that he assumed you flirted your way through the hockey team. Sure, you were friendly, but you never flirted. It didn't surprise you that a person like Chris mistook friendly banter and coffee for flirting. You felt your eyes burn with tears, blinking quickly, trying to will them away. He wasn't worth your tears.
Quickly, you walked over to the ice rink, taking a second to compose yourself before walking in. You yanked open the door, and immediately met with the cold bite of the rink air, quickly followed by the smell of rubber and sweat. You zipped your jacket up, walking over towards Marnie's office, tapping lightly against the wooden door.
Her muffled voice called out for you to come in and a smile spread across your lips after you opened the door, your eyes immediately falling to her swollen belly, "Gah, look at you! You look amazing, Marnie!"
Marnie waved a hand at you, not bothering to get up, which you couldn't fault her for. At this stage in pregnancy, you were surprised she was still coming to work. "Oh shush, I'm a fat cow and you know it."
You shook your head and rolled your eyes, Marnie never was one to take a compliment very well. "Dan said you needed to see me?"
"Take a seat," she gestured for you to sit.
You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth nervously, sitting in the chair across from her desk. What if Chris had called to tell her the things you said? What if you were in trouble? Are you being fired? Your mind raced as you tried to figure out what the hell was going on.
"Okay, chill. I can literally see smoke from your brain going into overdrive," she shook her head, "it's nothing bad."
An involuntary sigh of relief left your lips, "Jesus, okay. My heart is pounding in my chest," you placed your hand over your heart and could feel the beat against your palm.
She smiled, "Nothing bad. I mean, I don't think it's bad at least," shrugging, she lifted a piece of paper and placed it in front of you, "This is your offer letter."
You stared at her with wide eyes, "Offer letter? For what?"
Her smile lessened to one that felt more nostalgic than happy, "I am... done. Eric and I decided that I'm gonna stay home after this little chicken nugget makes her appearance and I need a replacement. Dan is too old, Layne is too... Layne–'' you laughed, knowing exactly what she meant without saying it, "–You're the best person for the job. So it's yours if you want it."
You picked up the offer letter, gawking at the salary. Quickly, you glanced over the requirements, already knowing most of them. It seemed pretty standard. You'd attend every home game as the head athletic trainer and travel with the team to all of their away games. It was almost twice what you were making now and if you continued living like you were under the same budget, you'd have some of those pesky leftover student loans paid off sooner rather than later.
It didn't even seem like a question.
"Yes. I'm in. Where do I sign?"
She grinned from ear to ear, clasping her hands together, "Oh, yay! I knew you'd say yes. You're gonna love it!" Marnie pushed another piece of paper towards you, a pen resting on top, "Just sign on the dotted line!"
Without an ounce of hesitation, you grabbed the pen and signed your name. This would be a life-changer for you. You'd be gone a lot, but hey, as long as you were paying rent and all of your bills on time, it wouldn't really affect Marlowe that much. Sure, she'd probably get a little lonely, and you did feel a tad guilty for that, but you couldn't say no to this. It was too good.
"Awesome, I'll give Dan a call and fill him in, you can shadow me for the rest of the week, we'll go over the basics, and then the first games are in a week! The first couple of games are at home, I'll stick around long enough to show you the ropes but I can't travel, so you'll be on your own after that. You'll be traveling to Canada a lot, too. You have a passport right?"
Your heart dropped, fucking Canada? "How often do they play Montreal?"
She shrugged, "I'm not sure. You'll get your hands on a schedule, though. Do you have a passport? We might be able to get one expedited if you don't."
"I have one."
Marnie eyed you curiously, "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, it's stupid... I have a past with someone who plays for Montreal. I guess I hadn't thought we'd run into each other." Fucking Dean. Just the thought of being in the same room as he made your stomach churn.
She nodded, "Ah... gotcha. Well, honestly, you probably won't even see him. You'll spend your time on the bench and then go straight to the bus after."
"Good." You couldn't even hide the relief in your voice. "Okay. Yeah, this is great. Wow! Marnie... I mean, thank you for thinking of me."
"No one else better for the job, I mean it," she smiled again, resting her hands on her bump, "I can leave knowing these boys are in good hands."
"Except for Evans. If I get my hands on him, I might kill him. Like actually. But you'll be my alibi, right?"
Marnie laughed, "You and everyone else. He tends to rub people the wrong way. Why don't you wait outside, I'll make a few calls and then you can start shadowing me today?"
"Yes! Absolutely."
You stood quickly, grinning widely as you stepped out of her office. You pulled out your phone to call Layne, your mood instantly being dampened when you looked to your right and saw Chris leaning against the wall. His large biceps bulged against the fabric of his t-shirt, his legs crossed at his ankles.
"Is she available?"
"She's on the phone." You replied, turning your attention away from him and dialing Layne's number. You let out an annoyed sigh when it went to voicemail, "Dammit, Layne," you muttered under your breath, you were so anxious to tell someone about your promotion.
Chris clicked his tongue, "Ah, Layne. She's with Nichols right now. So... she's busy."
You rolled your eyes, turning and walking towards a bench that was a few feet away. Once you plopped down, you stared down at your phone in an attempt to appear busy, but Chris's stare was burning into your skin and making it hard to concentrate.
"How long until she's done?"
"I have no idea, Chris."
He sighed, but before he could say anything else, Marnie walked out of her office, "Well, it's official!"
You grinned, standing up and walking over to where they stood.
"What's official?" Chris questioned, looking from Marnie to you, "Did you quit?"
"No, God no, I'd kill her if she quit. She's been promoted! Head Athletic Trainer. Say hello to your new bus mate."
You snorted, "I'd rather walk to Canada, thank you," you turned to Marnie, "Let's get started!"
Chris looked surprised, "Huh. Well, congrats, princess. Looks like you're moving up in the world."
"Stop. Calling. Me. That." you growled through clenched teeth, "And yes. Because I earned it. Because I'm good at my job, not because I slept my way through the hockey team, you ass." You wanted to be embarrassed that Marnie was standing there listening to this conversation but you didn't care. Chris quite literally brought out the worst in you.
Marnie gasped, "Christopher! Did you insinuate that she did that?"
Chris glared at you, "I didn't say she slept with anyone." So now he wants to get technical with the insults he's throwing at you?
You rolled your eyes. "Let's just move on, it's not worth it."
Marnie's eyes flicked between the two of you a couple of times before she stood up straighter, "Okay... let's get started!"
Several hours later, you finally finished up with Marnie. She walked you through everything. She gave you a tour of her office, which would soon be yours, pointing out different documentation and charts for the athletes. You knew where all the equipment was and how to take care of it, it was the clerical stuff you weren't too sure about. But she made sure you had a little grasp on it and promised she'd be with you for at least the next week and a half to make sure any questions you had were answered.
You stayed behind after she left, familiarizing yourself with the other side of PT, sorting through injury files and logs, who was hurt and out, and who was in recovery. There was a lot you didn't see on this side of things.
Your phone buzzed around 7:30pm, snapping you out of your work-haze.
Marlowe: Coming home tonight?
You: Shit, sorry! I didn't realize it was so late. Coming now! Lots to tell.
You gathered your things from Marnie's desk, grabbing your new set of keys and locking up the office behind you. A little surprised that the lights in the rink were still on, you walked over to the ice, staring through the plexiglass as someone sped around.
It only took a second for you to realize it was Chris, but you were mesmerized. The way he was so effortlessly and gracefully gliding on the ice was beautiful. And for someone who was 6'3", weighing 220 pounds of pure muscle, he was fast. His practice jersey flapped in the wind he was creating, skillfully moving a puck back and forth. He pulled back his hockey stick, shooting it forward with force and it sped into the net. Chris skidded to a stop, pulling off his helmet and running his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair.
Before he could catch you basically spying on him, you turned and walked towards the exit.
"You're here late."
You sighed, closing your eyes for a second. Ultimately, you decided that ignoring him was the best option.
"Are you this welcoming to everyone?"
So close. So fucking close to just ignoring him. But instead, you whipped around, "No. Because normally the people that talk to me like you do get kicked in the shin or pepper-sprayed, but apparently I can't do that to you." Lie, you've never kicked anyone's shin or used the pepper spray in your bag.
He stepped off of the rink, and sitting down on a bench right outside of the ice, "Huh. Why are you here so late?"
"I'm failing to see how that's any of your business."
He shrugged, "It's not."
"I know." Why were you even entertaining this conversation?
He shrugged, unlacing his skates, "Everyone wants to partake in small talk with me. Thought I might give it a go with you," he looked up, flashing you a grin. The same kind of grin that Connor sends your way when he's in trouble.
"Yeah, that–" you gestured to his face, "–doesn't work on me. That whole 'boy-ish charm shit, doesn't phase me. Try it on one of your puck bunnies instead."
Chris pulled off his skates, setting them to the side before yanking off his gear, leaving him in one very sweaty cut-off t-shirt. He stood, walking over to stand in front of you, "Princess, I can assure you. I'm all man. There's nothing boyish about me."
You wanted to blame the shiver that ran through your body on the cold, but the truth is, there wasn't a single part of you that was affected by the cold of the rink right now. Your skin burned under Chris's gaze, heat pooling in your belly as you released a shaky breath, "That's inappropriate," you somehow managed to choke out.
"Is it?"
You nodded, swallowing hard, "I'm leaving," you went to walk away, Chris' large hand reaching out to grip your bicep.
"It's late."
You yanked your arm from his grasp, "I'm aware. Hence why I'm leaving."
"I'll walk you," he grumbled, dipping his chin towards the door.
Your eyes flickered to his feet and then back up to his face, "No thanks."
His eyes rolled, "Just give me a sec."
When you didn't respond, he turned to walk back towards the locker room. After a second, you snapped out of your Chris-sex-haze, shaking your head. Why were you waiting for him? What the fuck!
Quickly, you turned on your heels, rushing towards the exit. You pushed against the door, gulping in a few long breaths of fresh air, finally feeling like you could breathe again. Your head felt clear. Fucking Chris walking you out? What the hell! You made a beeline for your car, pulling out your keys and unlocking it.
"What the hell?" Chris called out behind you as if reading your mind. You heard the door slam shut, Chris's tennis shoes hitting the asphalt as he jogged towards you, "You can't just wander through empty parking lots at night!"
You had just made it to your car, pulling on the driver's side handle when he caught up to you. His hand met the window, pushing it hard so it shut again, "I'm not wandering. I knew exactly where I needed to go. Now stop, I'm trying to leave."
"I know you're trying to leave. But you don't have to be an idiot about it."
You scoffed, "You're such a dick, honestly, Chris. I have plans. And someone waiting for me at home." You cringed at how that sounded, "And no before you make any assumptions, it's not someone from the hockey team."
He ignored your comment, "Is there a reason you ran? I offered to walk you to your car." Was it even remotely possible for his voice to contain emotion of any sort? Everything he said to you came out like his body was being raked over hot coals as he ground it out.
You gaped at him for a second, "Seriously? I don't know you and you're an asshole. I don't need you to walk me to my car. I'm an adult."
"You shouldn't be walking through a parking lot at night.. alone."
"It's none of your business what I do. Why don't you just back off? And besides, if someone was waiting out here for me, wouldn't that just solve all your problems? You wouldn't have to deal with me anymore!" Okay, you can at least admit you sound a little crazy right now. Just a little.
"Trust me, my long list of problems does not include you."
Your brows furrowed, "Am I supposed to be offended by that? Chris, just go. I'm fine. I made it to my car. You can sleep peacefully knowing your one good deed of the year has been fulfilled."
His eyes bored into yours, his lips turned down in a frown. You waited for him to leave or speak up and say something that would even remotely resemble an apology for being a complete dick to you. But nothing came. "Are you going to leave?"
"Are you?"
He stared at you for a second, "I'm waiting. I didn't come all the way out here just to leave and end up reading about your murder in the paper anyway."
"I didn't ask you to follow me." You snapped, yanking the driver's side door open.
His lips twitched into something that resembled a smirk. "A thank you would suffice."
Seriously?
"Screw. You." Fuming, you climbed into your car and pulled the door shut, locking it immediately. He was unbelievable. What was it about hockey players that made them think the fucking world revolved around them? Did he really expect your gratitude for following you out to your car? You didn't ask him to. You didn't want him to. In fact, you'd explicitly told him that you didn't want to. Why the fuck did he deserve thanks for doing something you didn't want? What an ass.
You kept your eyes trained on the empty parking lot ahead of you, ignoring his gaze as it burned into you. You knew he was watching. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him back away as you put your car in drive. For good measure, you threw up your middle finger as you pressed on the gas, peeling out of the parking lot and leaving him a cloud of dust.
The entire way home, you replayed almost every conversation you've had with Chris as you tried to figure out where the hell everything went wrong. It bothered you that you were putting so much fucking thought into this because at the end of the day, did you really care? The answer was kind of sort of yes. You didn't care about Chris. You cared about the fact that he didn't like you. For whatever reason, big or small, the man hated you and he made it very clear that that was the case. You cared that you didn't know why.
Thinking back to your first encounter, you wondered if maybe he caught you practically drooling over you and had taken offense or maybe thought you were into him or something. He'd assumed when you approached, you were a fan asking for an autograph because your mouth was too dry to speak at the moment. But you'd instantly cleared that up?
You groaned, trying to tell yourself it wasn't worth it to be this worried about Chris's opinion of you. He was an asshole. Everyone knew that about him. Everyone. Even his coach. And it was stupid to think that you were the exception to that. You didn't even know the man.
A few minutes later, you pulled into your driveway, climbing out of your car and stomping inside. You threw the door open, "Do we have wine?!"
Marlowe grinned, shooting up and running into the kitchen, "We sure do!" She very happily snagged a bottle of your favorite wine and poured two glasses, "Spill!!" Mar paused, "Not the wine, whatever you're pissed about."
You rolled your eyes, swallowing your wine in one gulp before recapping your entire day. You told her about your promotion, which she was a mixture of sad and happy about. She loved the opportunity for you, but she was going to miss you like crazy while you were gone. Of course, you told her all about Chris, conveniently leaving the details about every shiver you felt when he stood too close out. Several minutes (and several expletives) later, you finished up your story and your 3rd glass of wine.
"Maybe he likes you."
You choked on your wine, cursing under your breath when the alcohol burned your throat, then shook your head, pouring yourself another glass, "I highly doubt that. He can't stand to be in the same room as me."
She shrugged, "I don't know. He walked you to your car."
You scoffed, "For his own, selfish reasons! Don't you think people would judge him if someone found out we were the only two left in the building and he'd let me walk to my car alone simply because he hated me and then I was murdered because of it? He didn't want the bad press. That's all."
Her shoulder lifted into a shrug again, "I don't know. I think he likes you." How she could just offer up this information so nonchalant was going to make your head explode. Does she not even realize what she's saying?
"Well, he's got a terrible fucking way of showing it," you grumbled. "And I don't care if he likes me. I hate him. He's a jerk, he's an ass–"
"I think those might mean like sort of the same thing."
You rolled your eyes at her interruption, "I don't like him and I don't care if he 'likes' me."
"It's cute! It's like you're on the playground in 1st grade and he's pulling your hair."
"No–" you shook your head, "–don't pull that 'boys-will-be-boys' sexist bullshit on me. And also, he doesn't like me. He's made it very clear."
She snagged her wine glass off of the counter, bringing it to her full lips and taking a long pull before speaking up, "I don't know, babe. Maybe in a year from now, I'll be saying I told you so."
"Don't hold your breath," you mumbled, gulping down the rest of your wine before setting the glass in the sink, "I'm going to bed."
She let out a sarcastic laugh, "No, you're going to go stew over this conversation for the next 2 to 4 hours before you collapse from exhaustion."
Maybe she had a point.
You walked up the first couple of stairs before mumbling, "What's the difference?" under your breath.
Chris didn't have to like you. In fact, you'd expressed that several times. He didn't like you and you didn't expect or want him to. But he needed to respect you. And with that thought, you made a horrible decision. Honestly, Marlowe should've just taken your phone. 3 glasses of wine in, you picked up your phone and dialed Connor's number.
"Hey, sugar. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
You took a deep breath, "Do you have Chris's number?"
He paused.
"I don't want to be a part of this if it's some kind of booty call."
You rolled your eyes, "Ew, Connor. No. I just– I need to give him a piece of my mind."
He paused again, neither of you saying anything for a few seconds. Then your phone dinged.
"There. You didn't get it from me."
"Thank you, Connor. I appreciate it."
He sighed, "Go easy on the Brute. He's a good guy."
"Yeah," you scoffed, "I'll believe that when I see it. I'll see you later."
After you hung up, you realized that you never apologized for leaving him high and dry during his session and you'd failed to mention your promotion. Tonight was about demanding respect from Chris. Tomorrow you could apologize for being a bad friend and trainer.
You added Chris's number into your phone, taking in a breath so deep that your lungs ached. You blew it out slowly, taking your time before you started typing.
You: For whatever reason, you have decided not to like me. I don't know what I did or why you hate me, but I've decided that I don't care. Like I said before, we don't have to be friends. We don't have to like each other. But you have to show me at least a little bit of respect when we're at work. Despite what you think, I'm not sleeping or flirting my way through the team. It's called having friends and being nice. Perhaps you should give it a try sometime. Once you've developed a friendship with them, they might even help you pull the stick out of your ass. Who knows. Anyway, I don't expect pleasantries from you, I don't care anymore. But if we're going to work together, you need to at least give me the same decency you give to the other employees. That's all I have to say.
You pressed send, smiling to yourself as the message was marked delivered. Chris was an asshole. You've come to this conclusion many times in the few short days that you have known him and it wasn't worth fixating on or dwelling over. You had some awesome friends, an awesome new job, and one asshole at work wasn't going to bring you down.
Once you'd changed out of your work clothes, you slipped into a pair of leggings and an oversized shirt, your heartbeat pounding when your voice dinged from the bed. You stared at it for a second, unable to move. You knew it was Chris, you could feel it in your bones and you only hoped that you had gotten through to him and he would start behaving.
Taking a short breath, you reached for the phone, your jaw clenching when you read his text.
Chris: Who is this?
You wanted to scream. This man is unbelievable. You wanted to call his number, scream at him over the phone, tell him what a dick he was being. But instead, you opted to throw your phone on the bed, switch on your TV and forget that he existed.