Page 71 of Shots Fired

“Thanks for having me,” he says, clearing his throat. “Jon—Coach Morgan,” he corrects himself, “has told me nothing but good stuff about each and every one of you. The plan is for me to work with the team over the next couple of months, but perhapslonger. I’ll be here in a mentor capacity, although mainly working with Moore.” He looks at me again and then my training bag. He’s probably wondering why I’m not already padded up.

Because I’m having a mild breakdown over my personal life.

“I’m looking forward to working closely with you and helping achieve your goals this season?—”

“Which is lifting the Cup,” Coach finishes Jensen’s sentence for him. “Okay”—he points at the clock above the exit leading to the rink—“I want everyone ready and out on the ice in the next five minutes.”

As Coach leaves the room, Jensen looks like he wants to say something directly to me, but then pauses, swiping a hand across his mouth. I catch a flash of his platinum wedding band.

I vaguely remember reading an article about his wife and the circumstances in which they got together. Allegedly, she got pregnant unexpectedly with twins, and then he made some kind of grand gesture in a TV interview about them getting married someday.

He walks over to me, a warm smile on his face. “Nice to finally meet you beyond a handshake and a few awkward stares from the crease,” he says with humor in his voice.

I hold out my hand, and he takes it, offering me the eye contact he never did at games. He was the ultimate professional during his career, but that’s where the pleasantries ended.

“Looking forward to working with you. As you’re aware, Jon has employed me in a coaching capacity, but we can shape that in any way that will work best for you. I’m here to give you pointers on the ice, off the ice, as part of game prep or postgame analysis. Whatever you want. As much as we are a part of the team, goalies are a different breed, and this job can be lonely as fuck sometimes. It’s a whole different perspective from the blue line, and at times, it feels like we’ll never be understood.”

I swipe a hand across my mouth, eyes flicking to Jack as he passes by, wearing a grin.

“Yeah,” I say, already liking this guy way more than I thought I would. “Ain’t that the whole damn truth?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

DARCY

Sunlight pours into the bedroom, and I immediately know it isn’t my own, drenching me in a warm October sun.

I snap an eye open, the other side of my face still buried in Archer’s soft white pillows. I always sleep well in his bed, and last night was no exception, despite feeling like utter crap. Aside from dropping the Hiroshima bomb on him and stuffing my face with Taco Bell, all I can recall is Archer carrying me to his bed, where I promptly passed out.

And,my God, could I stay here all day. This mattress is a cloud. I mean, I’ve never actually felt or slept on a cloud, and if I did, I’d obviously fall to my death since they aren’t really?—

A loud beeping sounds from behind me, and I forcibly roll over, reaching for the bedside table.

Shit.

Holy fucking shit. I have work in thirty minutes.

I snatch my phone up from the charging pad, muting the alarm as I sit up in bed, eyes scanning my upper half.

Wait.

I push back the duvet to reveal lacy white bottoms that match a silky top.Where did this sleepwear come from?

Swinging my legs out of the bed, the heated floor quells my panic as it warms the soles of my feet. I know I’m going to be late for work.

I look around Archer’s luxury bedroom. He must be reeling over what I told him. To be honest, I wouldn’t have been shocked if he’d packed his bags and left the country, fleeing the crazy parental reality we’re both faced with.

But when my eyes land on a note scrawled in his handwriting, memories of the way he reacted to my news cling to my skin as softly as the silky sleepwear I know he bought me.

All he did was reveal something of his own—the depths of his feelings.

Jesus. After yesterday,Ishould be the one boarding a flight out of the country. Except I didn’t run or balk or feel any semblance of fear. All I felt was a repeat of the warmth and comfort that’d grown to be familiar in his presence.

I fall asleep so easily in his bed because he makes me feel safe. I don’t hold back or feel like I’m overbearing or too much when I’m around him because he makes me feel seen. Why would I want to run away from that?

I stand from the bed and stretch my arms above my head, the Brooklyn Bridge just in the distance through Archer’s floor-to-ceiling windows. The headache from last night is still present, but the throbbing has at least subsided, and I pad towards his en suite.

I’m a few feet across his bedroom when Archer steps into view, leaning against the doorframe. Keeping his eyes on me, he dips a hand into the pocket of his black sweatpants, tossing his mobile phone and keys onto a plush chair just inside the door.

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