Beast Behaving Badly by Shelly Laurenston Read Free Book Online

players who were nice guys.”
    â€œLike who?”
    â€œLike Nice Guy Malone. He was extremely nice. And that first time I played against him, when he cross-checked me into the stands, giving me a concussion and a laceration that took forty-two stitches to close, if I remember correctly, he apologized.”
    â€œWhat did he say?”
    â€œ ‘Sorry, kid.’ But more importantly . . . he meant that ‘sorry, kid.’”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œI’m guessing, though, that being nice is not your problem.”
    â€œBut Gwen said—”
    â€œIt may look like it’s your problem, but it’s not your problem.”
    â€œFine. Then what is my problem?”
    Bo gestured to the track. “Why did you end up falling?”
    â€œWhich time?”
    Bo frowned at the question. “Do you fall so often you need clarification of timeline?”
    â€œSometimes. And sometimes I’m thrown, tripped, slammed, flung, battered—”
    â€œOkay,” he cut in, sensing she could keep going. “Five minutes ago before we started this conversation, you wiped out. Why?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œDid you trip? Lose your balance?”
    â€œI said, I don’t—”
    â€œDon’t get frustrated. Answer my question.”
    She looked back at the track. “I was skating, everything was fine, and then . . .”
    â€œAnd then,” he pushed when her voice trailed off.
    â€œAnd then I started thinking about how unfair this all was and how no one was giving me a chance and then I realized I was being unfair and I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself and then I realized I was hungry and I would need to get something before I get to work and then when I realized I still had to go to work, I knew I’d have to see Gwen and she’d want to talk and any time Gwen wants to talk it’s like a form of torture because there’s no subtle with her, you know what I mean, she’s just like in your face just like my dad and then I thought, ‘Oh, great, I’ll need to tell Mr. I Told You You’d Never Be Good At Derby that I was being bumped for a Howler,’ a full She-wolf no less and I knew that conversation would get—”
    â€œStop!” Bo put his hands over his ears and gaped down at her. “Good God, woman. Hit the brakes on the freight train that is your mouth.”
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    How pathetic. She was getting “assistance”—and she was using that term lightly—from the most assholey of all pro athletes. It was kind of like Mother Teresa asking Stalin for advice on the best way to handle difficult lepers.
    And now he was telling her to shut up. Like she hadn’t heard that enough over the years. The only person who had never told her to shut up had been her mother. Blayne could talk for hours, nonstop, and her mother never said a word or complained. Of course, the party was over once Cranky Old Wolf got home, but that was something to be dealt with in therapy.
    Novikov lowered his hands and let out an overly dramatic breath. “I didn’t think it would be this easy, but I know what your problem is. You think too much.”
    â€œI can say with all honesty,” she said flatly, “you are perhaps the only person who’s ever said that to me. At least without a definite note of sarcasm.”
    â€œDo you know what I think about when I’m on the ice?”
    â€œSomething like, ‘Will I have to go to hell for what I just did to that guy’s face?’”
    â€œNo. That never crosses my mind.”
    â€œShocking.” Dropping her hands to her hips, she asked, “So what are you thinking when you’re on the ice?”
    â€œMy puck.”
    Blayne waited for more. She waited at least two full minutes for more, but Bo didn’t say anything else, and for two full minutes they stared at each other until she couldn’t stand the silence any