Page 39 of Coach's Temptation

The worst part? Instead of being intimidated, something in my chest flutters with excitement. I'm either incredibly brave or monumentally stupid for stepping into his world.

Probably both.

And somehow, I know this is only the beginning of the trouble I’ve just signed up for.

***

After a day of dodging questions about my sleeping arrangements with Lucy and Sophia, and checking on my flooded apartment on the way home, which, by the way, is still adisaster, I push open Hunter's front door, expecting to find him hunched over game tapes or statistics.

Instead, the aroma hits me like a linebacker - garlic, herbs, and something rich that makes my mouth water instantly.

I follow my nose to the kitchen, where I find Hunter Brody stirring something that smells like heaven.

His sleeves are rolled up, shoulders flexing as he flips a perfectly golden stuffed chicken breast in a pan. A bottle of red breathes on the counter, next to a cutting board piled with fresh herbs. A pan of asparagus rests beside it, glistening with olive oil and just the right amount of char.

I cross my arms and lean against the doorway, watching him.

"Are you sure you’re not actually a chef pretending to be a hockey coach?"

Hunter doesn’t even look up as he plates the chicken, pouring a drizzle of some kind of ridiculous sauce over it with precise, practiced movements.

"Cooking keeps me sane."

I push off the doorframe and wander closer, inhaling the rich scent.

"And yet… still so grumpy." I glance at him, watching the muscle in his jaw flex. "What was with you today?"

I think back to practice at the arena earlier today.

Hunter was a different person on the ice when I went down after lunch. Red-faced, veins popping in his neck as he screamed at Logan for missing a pass.

Even Blake looked shell-shocked at the intensity.

There’s a long beat before he answers. "Nothing."

Liar.

I don’t press. Instead, I slide onto one of the barstools, watching as he places a plate in front of me. The food looks like something out of a Michelin-starred restaurant, the kind of meal people take photos of before eating.

I stab into the chicken, and the second it hits my tongue, my eyes flutter shut.

"Okay," I say, pointing my fork at him. "This is starting to piss me off."

Hunter finally looks at me, amused. "What now?"

"I said it this morning, and I'm gonna say it again. You can’t be this good ateverything."

He smirks, grabbing his own plate and settling in across from me. "Fine. I’m shit at pottery. Happy now?"

I nearly choke on my bite. "Oh my God. Donottell me you’ve taken a pottery class."

Hunter just shrugs and sits down beside me.

Silence settles as we start eating, but not the kind that’s uncomfortable. The wine flows, our forks scrape against plates and we talk about our day at The Nest.

It's all very… normal.

By the time I'm finished my chicken, my wine glass is nearly empty. I reach for the bottle without thinking, and Hunter's hand moves at the same moment.

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