Page 8 of Wyatt

Because the last time she’d knocked on his door, he’d chased her down the hallway, shooed everyone in his private party out of his room—menandwomen, so apparently she’d let her worst fears dream up trouble—and invited her inside.

She couldn’t let herself think about the rest if she hoped to hand over the USB drive and walk away.

And walk away she would. Because Wyatt had to stay alive.

If not for her, then for Mikka.

Because someday, her son had to meet his superstar father.

2

“So, that was fun. Any more sunshine from you and we might need shades.”

Wyatt looked over at Coach Jace as he caught up to him in the lobby.

Jace “J-Hammer” Jacobsen had been their leading enforcer before he’d taken one too many hits to the head. A big guy, dark hair, a few scars on his square chin, Jace was a straight shooter, with a pretty wife and a family. He became a coach right about the time Wyatt was moved up to the show.

Wyatt’s hair was still wet, dripping into the collar of his shirt, and frankly, he just wanted to get upstairs, stow his duffle bag and get back down to the bar where he was supposed to meet York.

But he had a job to keep and a coach to respect so, “Sorry, Coach. I just didn’t have much to say.”

No, correct that. He hadn’t hadanythingto say—his focus on getting on the bus and back to the hotel.

His focus on finding Coco. Tonight.Please.

“We’re always representing,” Jace said. “And, if I remember, you pushed us to get into this tournament. I expected a little more than a few mumbles about playing better in the zone and congratulating the Polish team. We count on you to woo the press. You’re not just our starting goalie but a team leader.”

Jace sort of reminded Wyatt of his father. Serious. Hard-hitting. The kind of guy who didn’t rattle easily. But he knew how to mix it up on the ice—rumor was he’d ended someone’s career in his early days with his fists. At least Wyatt’s mistakes only cost games.

It must have changed him because Jace occasionally spouted Bible verses and quotes by C.S. Lewis.

Very much like Orrin Marshall.

Maybe that’s why Wyatt tried to steer clear of him.

Wyatt’s mouth tightened around the edges. “I wasn’t in the mood for an interview.” He didn’t slow at the desk but headed right for the elevator bank.

“Wyatt, I need to talk to you,” Jace said, following him to the elevators.

It was his tone that stopped Wyatt. Sent a cold fist around his chest.

Jace lowered his voice. “How are your hips?”

The question was like a shot on goal Wyatt hadn’t seen coming. He could nearly hear the sirens blaring in the back of his head. “Fine.”

“You’re moving pretty slowly—”

“I’m in top shape, Coach. I promise.”

Jace gave him a thin-lipped shake of his head.

“What?”

“You know Kalen is ready to come back. And your contract is up next year, and…well, after the Stanley Cup—”

“It was ashootout. Three overtimes—”

“You’re slipping, Wyatt. And I’m not just talking about today. Yes, the Stanley Cup overtime loss was hard. But before that—and again during this tournament—your game is off.”

---