Page 32 of Coach's Temptation

I let the steak rest on a cutting board and turn to the roasted potatoes in the oven, golden brown and crisp around the edges. The sauce simmers on the stove, thickening into a deep, velvety reduction.

Cooking is like a game plan.

Like a strategy.

Every movement, every measurement of the ingredients is deliberate, calculated and defined with a direct reason for doing that action. Just like a play on the ice.

Which isexactlywhy I like cooking whenever a big game is approaching.

My eyes flick to the kitchen island, where scouting reports and line matchups are spread in a meticulous grid. Vancouver’s logo stares back at me. I spent the entire day in meetings, going over plays, breaking down film, reinforcingthe plan.

And still, my brain won’t shut up.

Power plays. Faceoffs. Defensive pairings.

The pace we need to set. The hits we need to land. The pressure we need to apply.

I grab a knife and slice through the steak, pink and perfect in the center. I pour the sauce over the top, let it pool around the edges of the plate. Every piece of this meal is precision. Focus.

And then…ding-dong.

The knife stills in my hand.

I wipe my hands on the dish towel, toss it on the counter. For a second, I don’t move. Because I know. I fucking know. Then my feet carry me to the door before my brain can talk sense into them.

The handle's cold against my palm. One deep breath. Two.

I swing the door open.

And there she is.

Natalie Hayes on my doorstep, hair damp and wild, wearing those damn yoga pants that make me forget every rule I've ever made. Her green eyes lock with mine, and just like that, two weeks of carefully constructed walls crumble in an instant.

"Took you long enough."

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head at me. "Don't make me regret this already."

I step back, just enough to give her space. Just enough to let her decide.

She hesitates for half a second. A breath. A beat. Then, with a sigh—one of those exasperated,I hate this but I’m doing it anywaykind of sighs—she steps inside.

And just like that, she’s in my house.

My domain.

My fucking kingdom.

The air shifts the second she crosses the threshold. Like the whole damn house knows something just changed. Like all the planets have just aligned, and now, the perfect symmetry of the universe has her right where she belongs.

The warmth from the fireplace catches her damp skin, the scent of seared steak and rosemary curling around her as she takes her first hesitant step onto the hardwood floors.

She pauses, eyes scanning the massive open-concept space. I watch her, because I can’tnotwatch her. The way she takes it all in—the cathedral ceilings, the stone fireplace stretching two stories high, the floor-to-ceiling windows framing the darkened mountains beyond.

I see it the moment she clocks the chef’s kitchen, the dark granite island big enough to seat an entire team. The sleek leather furniture. The meticulously stacked firewood.

She blinks.

I watch her circle the kitchen island, trailing her fingers along the edge of the polished granite. Her eyes catch on the sparkling rangehood, the pan simmering on the stovetop, the wall of custom cabinets stretching to the ceiling.

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