Page 115 of Coach's Temptation

"Watch that neutral zone trap!" I shout as Vegas's defense collapses around Connor. "Push through the—"

A flash of green catches my eye. Natalie, moving down the bench to check on Logan after a brutal hit. The way she deliberately angles her body away from me makes my chest ache.

Vegas scores first. The horn blares through the arena as their center celebrates right in front of our bench. Wes pumps his fist,playing it up for the cameras like he's already won the damn Cup and the job that any hockey coach in this country would kill for.

I should be furious. Should be breaking down plays, adjusting strategies, rallying my team.

Instead, all I can think about is how empty this feels without her smile, her strength and resilience beside me. How reaching the Finals means nothing if I can't share it with the woman who's become my whole world.

What's the point of winning if I lose her?

The thought hits me like the crosscheck Vegas slam into Ryder's chest on the ice, stealing my breath. Twenty years I've chased this dream, fought and clawed my way back from career-ending injury to stand behind this bench in this exact moment.

The Stanley Cup sits in full view, sparkling under the lights of the arena.

But watching Natalie work the bench with that carefully calculated distance between us, I realize no trophy could ever fill the void she'd leave behind.

The second period starts with Vegas still up by one. My eyes keep tracking Natalie's movements, but she's perfected the art of looking through me like I'm made of glass.

Focus on the game. Focus on the—

"Fuck!"

"Bull shit!"

The crowd's collective gasp echoes my own horror as Blake takes a vicious hit along the boards. He's slow getting up, favoring his right side. The same shoulder we've been nursing through the playoffs.

My stomach drops as he makes his way to the bench, face tight with pain. We can't lose him. Not now. Not in Game 1.

Natalie's already there, her hands moving with efficiency over Blake's shoulder. I lean in, trying to catch what she's saying to him in that low, soothing voice she uses with injured players.

A small hand shoots up, stopping me cold.

"I've got it, Coach," she says, voice flat and professional. She won't even look at me, keeping her eyes fixed on Blake's injury assessment.

My jaw clenches so hard it hurts. I'm the head coach of this team, but I'm completely helpless watching the two most important people in my life shut me out.

Blake's eyes flick between us.

"Still fighting, huh?" he mutters, wincing as Natalie probes a tender spot. "Couldn't have picked a better time, you two."

"Not now, Maddox," I growl.

The last thing I need is relationship advice in the middle of the Stanley Cup Finals, but dammit, he's right. Thisis notthe time to be having communication breakdowns.

I grip the edge of the bench, knuckles white against the wood as the arena around me explodes into a frenzy of pure Iron Ridge passion. The fans are wild, on their chairs screaming and shouting, there are kids crying and fathers shouting at the ice.

The fucking corporate box is lined with families and friends who've all come to watch.

Everything's falling apart at exactly the wrong moment - my team's down, my star player's hurt, and the woman I love won't even look at me.

Natalie straightens up. "He's cleared to play. Shorter shifts, quick line changes and he'll be fine."

Blake nods, but his eyes are locked on me. The moment Natalie steps away to check on Ryder who's just crashed over the boards, he leans in close.

"You know what your problem is, Coach?" His voice is low, meant just for me. "You're treating this like it's a game you can strategize your way out of."

"Not now, Blake."

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