Page 2 of The Coach

The guy scoffs as I chuckle. I distinctly remember Coach Jefferies saying that at the end of the season, two weeks before I left, when he was begging me to stay on.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Mick.” Tom waves his hand at her, turning to his buddy on the other side of him and likely, complaining about the woman’s opinion—Mick.

I don’t know what it was about the name. It wasn’t completely out of the ordinary, nothing uniquely special about it. But it was somehow the perfect name for her.

She throws her hair over her shoulder, and her eyes connect briefly with my own before she shrugs, “Am I wrong?”

I’m momentarily shocked that she’s bringing me into the conversation, but there’s nothing flirty about her question. Her gaze only wanders over me once—quickly—before her eyes connect with mine. They’re brown, bright chocolate brown with flecks of gold.

“Uh.” I hesitate, my eyes and mind still comprehending the scene.

“Not a hockey fan?”

I smile, glad she doesn’t know who I am.

Though we’re not on campus, a lot of students and faculty used to come to this place, and when I’d been announced as the new head coach, the fanfare was both comforting and overwhelming.

I relax my shoulders. “No, I am. And no, you’re not wrong.”

She nods a little, her hand coming up to grasp the neck of her bottle of beer. Her lips pucker as the taste hits her tongue, and I watch the way her throat moves as she swallows. I clear my throat.

“Though your friend over there isn’t wrong either. Jameson should have blocked it.”

She lets loose a deep sigh, her brown hair swishing as she shakes her head. “Everyone always puts pressure on the goalie.”

I turn my attention fully to her, interested in talking about hockey as a fan rather than for work. “The goalie will always feel the pressure. It’s the way it is. It’s like putting pressure on a kicker in football; it’s inevitable.”

She moans out a little laugh. “Yuck, boo.”

I laugh with her, settling in comfortably. “Not a football fan?”

Turning to face me, she smirks. “I’m a born and bred hockey lover. We’ve had Phantom season tickets since I was little. Hockey runs through my veins.”

Fuck, if there were words in the English language that would make a woman instantly attractive to me, it was the sentence that just fell out of this woman’s mouth.

She was a local, too, since she mentioned the Phantoms, the local pro hockey team, which was interesting. She looks to be in her early to midtwenties, a little too gorgeous to be here alone. But judging by the familiar way the staff looks at her and interacts with her, I’d say she’s a regular.

It’s been years since I’ve frequented this bar. The staff is all new now. Though back in the day—I can’t believe I’m old enough to use that phrase—I knew just about everyone in here.

“You hungry?” she asks, nodding toward the menu above the bar.

I lean an elbow on the bar, glancing back at her. “You asking me to dinner?”

The smirk that crosses her mouth diverts my attention. “Would you be bothered by that? Let me guess.” She holds up a finger. “You’re an alpha male and hate when women ask you out?”

I click my tongue. “Oh, I’m definitely an alpha.”

She rolls her eyes, and I laugh.

“But I can’t say a woman has ever asked me out.”

A brow raises. “I find that hard to believe.”

She’s so fucking confident. I’ve met confident women—puck bunnies were no strangers to the life of hockey players, and I’ve participated in… plenty of activities—but she was confident in a way that was intriguing. It had me hoping that tonight wouldn’t be our only conversation. Which is why I continue to flirt.

“Well.” I clear my throat. “Not without me finding out her name first.”

She regards me for a moment before sticking her hand out. “I’m Mick.”

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