The 25 Men of Christmas Page 3

  A muscle ticks in Cyrus’ jaw as his eyes narrow. His head swivels up the field and back down again as he watches his teammates run drills. He plays hard as hell, and he’s tough on the guys. Honestly? There’s no one on the team who’s a better fit for the role than Cyrus.

  Yeah, the loss to the Spartans was gut-wrenching but the guys are determined as hell to make up for it. My eyes narrow as I scrutinize the team. The pre-season is only just kicking into high-gear, but it’s more than obvious that every single Storm spent the interim between seasons focused on the task at hand.

  They’re hungry. They want the championship, more than anything any of them have wanted in a long time. This reporter is an idiot.

  Clearly.

  “Gemma!” My head jerks around to face Coach.

  I let my arms fall from my chest when I see him staring expectantly at me. I tilt my head, and Marty’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline. It apparently only took us two years to finally perfect silent communication.

  My shoulders tense at the message I’m getting now. Come get this goddamn reporter. Now.

  Crap.

  I let my eyes fall closed for a second and take a deep, steadying breath. These things never go particularly well for me.

  I force a smile on my face before I jog over to where they’re standing a little removed from the rest of the coaching staff. Great. I can’t count on one of them for an easy escape. And I know Marty will be gone the second he gets the chance.

  “Gemma here can answer your questions.”

  “But—”

  “Coach!”

  But he’s gone, and I’m alone with the unhappy reporter. I grit my teeth as the reporter stares after Coach with a forlorn expression on his face. He turns to me after an awkward-as-hell minute or two and stares me up and down. He sneers.

  I fight the reflex to cross my arms over my chest and give him the same treatment. I can already tell how well this is going to go for me.

  “Gemma, was it?”

  I offer the reporter a hand, and he legit stares at it like I’ve offered him something filthy. I temper my breathing through my overdone smile. “Gemma Mitchell, I’m the—”

  “Ball girl?”

  Is this guy serious right now?

  “Athletic trainer, actually.” My tone is terse, and I know I should correct it.

  Force a smile on my face.

  Pretend everything’s okay.

  If there’s one thing men like this one like less than a woman in sports, it’s one that’s too serious and dresses down in athletic gear in case she needs to get down and dirty with the guys. I’m sure he’d much prefer I be in something tight with a pound of makeup on my face.

  “Oh, you work for the athletic trainer? Can I talk to him instead?”

  My stomach knots, and I fight back the fuck you that’s on the tip of my tongue. Remember you’re a representative of the Storms becomes my mantra as I count back from ten and focus on controlling my breathing. And my face. Gotta keep that pretty, too. Ugh.

  I’m damn good at my job. The Storms are in the best shape they ever have been—Ben’s injury not withstanding, of course—and I know I have an impact here.

  But there’s that annoying damn voice in the back of my head that’s constantly nagging, always reminding me that I’ll work twice as hard as my male peers. And today’s Channel 6 run-in is just another reminder that I’ll be scrutinized harder and held to a higher standard in a profession that’s still dominated by men.

  “You misunderstood me,” I offer sweetly, and the reporter’s eyes narrow. It just by the tiniest bit, but I sure as hell don’t miss it. Jerk. “I don’t work for the trainer. I am the trainer.”

  “Where’s the rest of your training team?” He doesn’t give me the chance to tell him the training staff consists of me, myself, and I. “Where did you go to college?”

  “That’s hardly relevant.” Not that I’m not proud of my education. I am, but it’s not any of this douche-bag’s business.

  “What relevant experience do you have that qualifies you for this position?” The way his eyes rove down my body before settling on my chest is a pretty clear indication of where he thinks my qualifications come from.

  As if Marty would ever.

  “I interned through college. I spent two seasons with my university’s NCAA hockey team.”

  “That hardly makes you qualified to train for a professional—”

  “Hey man, that’s not okay.” My head twists around to see Luis trotting our way from the benches, a towel wrapped around his neck and a water bottle in hand.

  He looks pissed, which is totally at odds with his usual laid back personality.

  It’s totally fucking hot.

  Whoa. Where did that come from?

  “Gemma’s as much a part of this team as anyone else, and she earned her way onto the team staff. She keeps us in shape, and she keeps our asses in line, too.”

  Okay, don’t tell him I’m the team mommy, Luis.

  Still, I stand a little taller at the words. I’ve never been the type of person to crave recognition, but it’s still nice knowing my efforts aren’t going unnoticed or under appreciated.

  “Remember how you were reporting on Isaac’s miraculous recovery last season?” The reporter nods reluctantly as Luis fumes.

  My heart pitter-patters along in my chest, gratitude flooding my being at the realization that my team takes me just as seriously as my coaching staff does. “He recovered so damn quickly because of Gemma’s care, which came as a result of her knowledge. She’s smart as hell, she’s good at her job, and we’re lucky to have her.”

  Holy cow, are there actual stars in my eyes?

  The reporter mumbles something that almost sounds like an apology, and I smile graciously even though I’d rather be smirking.

  Luis stands at my side during the rest of the interview, arms crossed over his chest and glowering. I answer the questions with easy grace, never once sinking to the reporter’s level of snarky assholery. I’m too damn happy to let him bring me down.

  I’m glad Luis thinks the Storms are lucky to have me. Without a doubt, I’m lucky as hell to have them.

  Five

  Mateo

  “Have you noticed something off with Gemma the past few weeks?”

  Edric’s not talking to me, but he’s got my attention anyway. I try not to scowl.

  I fucking fail.

  There have been whispers around the complex the past few weeks, and it’s impossible not to listen to them. Whispers that her shitty boyfriend sent her the wrong color roses. Again. That Andre ran into her wearing the red dress out at a nightclub. That her douche-dick boyfriend still isn’t giving her the time and attention she deserves.

  Fucking fancy-boy asshole.

  She deserves better than that. And not just because she’s one of the guys, and we look out for our own. It’s because she’s Gemma, and she’s amazing, and we would probably fall apart without her keeping all our dumb asses in line.

  Hank definitely wouldn’t have clean laundry. Ben wouldn’t be anywhere close to where he is with his rehab. And my stubborn ass would probably already be back in a European League where shitty attitudes like mine are more the norm.

  If it weren’t for the Storms, I’d be back home in Costa Rica since I can’t seem to keep my own ass out of trouble.

  I take a swig of my beer as thoughts of our curvy trainer fill my head. She’s a part of the team as much as any of us and has been with the Storms pretty much since day one. And even though not a single fucking one of us thought she was going to make it past the first week, she stuck it out—helped Coach whip our asses into shape, too.

  I’m not sure about the rest of the team, but I’d rather cut my left nut off than see her get hurt.

  Might quit the team if Coach ever tried to get rid of her, too. Because dammit, there’s just something about her.

  Everything about her is otherworldly, down to her infectious smile. Gemma’s hard as fuck
not to get caught up in on a good day, so when her mood’s wrong, we notice. That shit hangs around the pitch like a black cloud.

  So it’s definitely not hard to tell when our girl’s off. And the past few weeks…

  My grip tightens around the pint glass in my hand. I lean toward where the Englishman and Declan are sitting a few spots down from me at our cluster of tables near the back of the bar.

  I get why Edric asked Dec. He’s a hell of a lot more quiet than the rest of us, way more intuitive, too, so he usually picks shit up way before we do. I don’t doubt he knows something I don’t—he almost always does.

  But all he does is shrug before running a hand through his short blonde hair with a grunt.

  My stomach drops. That’s super fucking helpful, I think to myself as I bite back a scoff. Either there’s something going on with Dec, or I’ve been paying Gemma a little too much attention. And even though her boyfriend’s a total piece of shit, they’ve been together forever. And I’m not about to try to step between that.

  I know I’m better than that asshat she’s with—hell, any one of us is better than him—but she’s been mostly happy. Still, I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one that’s spared Gemma one way-too-long look over the past couple years.

  Bro code is really the only thing that’s kept any of us from going for it with her. I mean, besides the fact that she’s dating a douche. If it weren’t for that, though, any of us would jump at the chance to be with her, which is the reason we keep our fucking distance. We’re tight knit. It wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the team for one of us to make a move and screw the rest of the guys over.

  “Quite insightful,” Edric says as he rolls his eyes, and I pull myself away from thoughts that I know aren’t going to lead anywhere my head needs to be.

  A cheer goes up from the other side of Midtown Brewhouse, and I look up long enough to see some dudes slapping each other on the back over whatever hockey game is playing on the flat screens. I grunt but turn my attention back to my teammates.

  The Storms are as much a part of this place as any of the jerseys hanging on the walls. It may just be your typical middle of the road sport’s bar, but we’ve been haunting it as long as we’ve been a team.

  The bar is literally in the middle of fucking everything in Strudford. It’s close to downtown. It’s close to the pitch. It’s close to Gemma’s place…

  I lean over my table, squinting in Edric’s direction as I tap the bottom of my glass on the table. “I’ve noticed it, too. She’s been acting strange the past couple weeks.”

  Edric zeroes in on me as a hush falls over the guys close enough to hear what I’ve just said. Ben and Victor lean over their table in my direction, their own beers forgotten. Edric answers with a quirked eyebrow as he tips his glass back, draining the pint in one long gulp.

  “She never used to frown as much as she has been lately.”

  Anthony scoffs at me from a couple tables away, and I lean back in my chair so I can glare at him proper, instead of having Eli’s big ass blocking me. Not many of us are small—we’re a professional rugby team, come the fuck on—but we’re not all as jacked as this brute. I don’t know how the fuck he does it, either, since he’s almost never in the gym outside of the training facility.

  The rookie—Anthony—shakes his head at me, and I have to remind myself that not only is he young and stupid, he’s also been on the team the shortest amount of time. He’s had a year with Gemma, but the rest of us have had two. He doesn’t get it—not really—not yet.

  “Screw off, kid,” Kyle grunts out. “She’s always smiling. Even when she has to smell Hank’s dirty ass in close quarters.”

  I point at Kyle with a nod. I love Hank—the fucker’s fixed my car more than once—but he can’t seem to get his shit together otherwise. And Gemma must be some kind of nose-deaf saint because she never kicks him out of her office when he stops by pre-shower to pester her about buying a new car since hers is “absolute shit.” (His words, not mine.)

  It’s not like her Civic’s going to stop running any day now, but it gives him something to talk to her about when he doesn’t have one-on-one training with her. Personally, I respect the fuck out of the fact that she prioritized buying a house over a new car. I like a woman with a good head on her shoulders.

  I shift in my seat as Anthony scoffs and turns back to his beer. “Whatever, dude,” he says before taking a long drink. “I think you’re just caught up on her. She’s got a boyfriend, dude.”

  “That guy’s the fucking worst,” Victor pipes in before I can push away from the table and shake some sense into the rookie.

  Of course I’m caught up on her. She’s amazing. It’s not just Victor’s words keeping me in my seat, though. No, there’s a flash in Anthony’s brown eyes, something suggesting that maybe the rookie’s all caught up on her, too, despite what he seems to want us to think.

  “I mean, what an idiot,” Victor rants on, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. “Can’t get her the right flowers. Can’t fucking keep her happy.”

  “Total piece of shit,” Jean-Luc calls and a round of grunts accompany the statement. No one bothers to call him out—to remind him that he used to go through girls like idiot hockey players go through fake teeth. Probably because, just like the rest of us, he stopped fucking around and seeing other women sometime in the last year.

  The entire team’s going through a damn dry spell.

  Some of the dudes nod, but it’s Cyrus—our take-no-shit captain—who catches my attention. He’s sitting at his table in the middle of us all, a dark look crossing his face as his jaw ticks. Like he’s got something to say but doesn’t know yet if he’s ready to share.

  “She could do better than him.” Oliver crosses his arms over his broad chest as he says it, his eyes sliding over the rest of the team as another chorus of “fuck yeah” rings through the room. “Pretty sure she eats dinner with us more than she does with him these days. I’m not saying that he needs a twenty-five men ass-kicking, but I’m not not saying that either.”

  “Might knock some sense into him. How the hell does he not see what he has right in front of him? Gemma’s way too fucking good for him, that’s for damn sure.”

  Beers are raised, long drags are taken, and then we’re all off again about how much Gemma’s boyfriend just really sucks.

  And about how much better she could do.

  And about how we need to make sure our girl’s taken care of.

  Because that’s what she is—a part of our Storms family. She’s our girl to watch out for.

  “The guy’s a total wanker,” Edric mumbles, and I laugh.

  There’s another loud round of cheers from the hockey crowd, and I glance in their direction. The laugh dies on my lips at the same time a hush falls over the rest of the guys. Because now Gemma’s here pushing her way through the loud dudes to get to the bar.

  And that same frown she’s been sporting off-and-on for the past few weeks is there. She leans over the bar to talk to the bartender, Angeline, and my jaw ticks when a deep frown settles on her lips at whatever Gemma’s saying to her.

  I push my chair back when Gemma’s shoulders go stiff as Angeline points toward our corner with a jerk of her head. Gemma turns toward us, a pint glass in each hand, and all I can focus on is how splotchy her face is as she moves through the bar toward us.

  My hands tighten into fists around the lip of the table. A deep ache pounds from my clenched jaw. What the fuck did her dumbass boyfriend do this time? I push away from the table completely, but Cyrus beats me to the punch.

  I watch, eyes narrowed, as he pulls her to the side and leans in close to talk to her. His brow creases when she backs out of his side-hug in favor of chugging one of her beers and shoving the glass in his hand before she turns the second one up.

  What. The. Fuck?

  Cyrus drops a hand on her shoulder and says something I can’t make out. Her brows furrow as she finishes the second beer and shrugs his
hand off.

  She swipes the corner of her lips, and her shoulders heave as she shoves the second glass into Cyrus’ hands, too. “No, I don’t want to talk about it,” she exclaims loudly before dropping into a chair jammed between Andre and Kellin.

  But all it takes is Andre asking, “What’s going on?” for Gemma to sigh and swipe his beer, too.

  “I broke up with Colin,” she says. And it’s such a concise, matter-of-fact comment that no one immediately reacts.

  Her shoulders slump with the silence, and my heart pounds like a kick drum in my chest. Should she look more upset?

  But that’s the thing. She doesn’t look upset. She looks resigned, like whatever happened was a long time coming.

  She tips Andre’s beer back as he wraps her in a one-armed hug.

  The next few minutes turn to chaos as she gets swarmed and wrapped in hugs and comforting words. When I finally get my turn with her, I wrap her in the tightest hug I can manage. She melts into my embrace the same way I’ve been watching her do with the others.

  “It’s about time, Gemma,” I whisper, and she squeezes me a little tighter around the waist. “I’m fucking proud of you.”

  Six

  Cyrus

  The tension is palpable, suffocating me to the point I have to excuse myself to step outside for a few minutes so I can get some air. The team’s been a wreck ever since Gemma finally gave her dipshit boyfriend the boot.

  Everyone’s gathered at my place for a team lunch to celebrate Thanksgiving, but mostly everyone’s just sitting around nervously trying not to make eye contact with Gemma.

  She can tell something’s up, too.

  Every time she goes to talk to someone, they’ve suddenly got an excuse to talk to someone else. We’re all a bunch of nervous fucking cats, on edge waiting for someone to break and be the first to pursue the woman we’ve all been panting after for years.

  I’m not weak.

  But at this rate, I’m going to be.