Page 18 of Mile High Coach

When I’m finished with my workout, I shower and make a cup of coffee, planning to go into the complex, even though we technically have the day off. Tomorrow is our second pre-season game, then next week we’ll officially move into the regular season.

I walk out of my apartment and onto the street, already spotting the Baltimore residents dressing more for vibes than the actual weather. A woman walks by in a sweater and a pair of tall boots, already sweating.

We might technically be in autumn, but it’s already seventy-five degrees and only getting hotter from here.

The walk to the complex is short, and I even manage to whistle a bit as I go, putting Eliza’s call in the back of my mind. It’s not worth worrying or thinking about—that was all years ago.

If I’m going to focus my energy on anything, it should be the woman trying to ruin my life now. The one forcing each of my players to test a thousand different hockey sticks, despite the fact that they already know which ones are their favorites. The women insisting they log everything they eat and turn in the information to a new team of nutritionists.

These guys have been athletes since they were born. They know how to eat, for fuck’s sake.

But the worst part is that the guys aren’t even mad about it—they’re treating Lovie Waters like she’s some sort of hockey expert, when she and I both know she was still “studying” on her way into this city.

Last week, right in the middle of practice, she’d arrived with a carton of white robot-looking things. I’d skated over to whereshe was standing on the other side of the boards, glaring at her as she angled her head down at me, cool and collected, as always.

“Where the hell do you get off, interrupting practice?” I swung my arm out at the stuff being unloaded around us. “What is all this crap?”

“These,” Lovie had said, like she was explaining clouds to a child, “are highly advanced cameras with body-tracking programming. We’re going to use them to map player movement and provide highly-attuned coaching for each person on the ice.”

“Uh, hello?” I raised my eyebrows, gesturing to myself. “I’m already providing the coaching, in case you already forgot what it is that I do here.”

“It’s not to replace you,” she’d said, shaking her head. “It’s to enhance you.”

And damn it if she didn’t say that last bit with a hint of satisfaction, like she enjoyed riling me up.

Now, I push into my office, muttering under my breath as I drop my bag onto my desk and my body into my seat, booting up my computer to print out the details for the pre-season game. I work better with tactile, physical information. Always have.

And I don’t need enhancement. Don’t need fancy robots and cameras in the ass of every player on the ice. I got the team to the Stanley Cup just fine on my own.

A voice sounds in my head,but you didn’t win the Stanley Cup.

“Fuck,” I mutter, when I realize that, yet again, my printer is out of paper.

The walk to the supply closet is short, and I only run into some of the cleaning staff and the odd accountant, surely here on the weekend to try and catch up on work. They all wave with that familiar, don’t you wish you weren’t here? look that I don’t actually feel. I come here on off days all the time.

When I reach the supply closet, the door is jammed slightly, like it always is, and I have to yank a little harder to get it to come open. When it does, there is a sharp, high-pitched scream that nearly bursts my ear drums.

“What the fuck?” Lovie asks, just before the pile of binders she’s reaching for tips forward, tumbling straight for her head. I jump forward, letting go of the supply closet door and reaching up, stopping the box from emptying completely.

A single binder falls, cracking against the ground and lying open, the silver rings shining in the low, fluorescent light.

Then, that goes out, too.

“Just great,” she grumbles, her face close enough to mine that I can feel the breath from her speaking against my neck. The closet is tight enough that we have to be touching to fit in together at the same time. A counter is pushing in on one side and tall metal shelving is in the way on the other. “What are you doing?”

“You could try thank you for saving my life,” I return, my arms starting to burn from the effort of holding up the box of binders.

“My life was only in danger because you yanked the door open to this room like it had personally offended you!”

Rolling my eyes, I shove the binders back onto the shelf and turn, barely able to see Lovie as she grabs the door handle and shoves. A small sliver of light is filtering into the room from the partially shut door.

“See?” I say, sliding past her, my chest thoroughly rubbing against hers, “It sticks.”

Except when I shove against it, it still doesn’t open.

She takes a deep breath, and I feel the press of her breasts, the soft, smooth feeling of her satiny shirt. It occurs to me that this isn’t the first time the two of us have been alone in a dark, small space like this.

Maybe it occurs to her, too, because she sucks in a tiny breath, a sound I’ve heard before—a sound that takes me back to that airplane, her body nestled against mine. The quiet, careful restraint of not being too loud.

---