Page 3 of Mile High Coach

“Okay,” Chrys says, and I can picture her running her hand through her hair. Her’s is a lighter brown like mom’s, so much finer than the thick, glossy hair I share with Dad. I wonder if she’s sitting at the kitchen table and if Dad is there with her. “It does look worse down south, but I just wanted to check.”

“I think those southern routes are pushing some flights over here.” I shift onto my right foot and cup my opposite elbow with my hand, thinking. “That could delay us—I don’t know. I’ll let you know when I’m boarding.”

“Okay. Good.”

A beat passes, then I clear my throat and ask, “HowisDad doing?”

The volume of Chrys’ voice drops immediately, and I know it’s because she doesn’t want Dad to overhear her talking about him. So, they’re not eating dinner together. “He had another accident this morning. But he’s been chipper about it.”

That makes sense. Our Dad has been surprisingly, almost troublingly chipper about everything since what happened.

I say goodbye to Chrys and head back to my seat, eyes snapping to the napping man again. The ease of his posture is impossibly relaxed compared to the other, more high-strung passengers around us.

Including me.

Twisting the ring on my right hand, I decide I’m done ogling and need something substantial to take my mind off of everything, so I do what I do best—distract myself with work.

When I sit, I pop in my ear buds, open my laptop and find last year’s Stanley Cup finals. I’ve already watched through the others, and I’m on the last game in the series now. I queue it and wait for the terrible airport Wi-Fi to do its job. The notes on my tablet are color-coordinated, and I pull them up, glancing through them while I wait for the game to load.

Finally, after a few minutes, the video starts up and the announcer’s crackling voice fills my ear buds.

“…puck bounces past the right post, and into the air on a blast to the goal—but it's into the glove of Roman Petroff! A great save by this Atlanta Fire’s goalie…”

I take notes about form, communication, and the basic rules of the game, just like I’ve been doing for the past two weeks after I received an offer for the position and realized I was going to have to go from knowing basically nothing about hockey to being a passable professional.

Because in less than five hours—barring a delay from the storms—I’ll land in Baltimore, head to an NHL arena, and start my first day as the official Director of Player Development for the Baltimore Blue Crabs.

Chapter 2

Harrison

It’s pointless trying to take a nap when I’m distracted by the knockout in the seat next to me.

The second I sit down, she stands up and moves into the wide hallway. I tip my hat up to get a good look at her as she walks away. She's tall and wearing a soft black dress that hugs her body but looks comfortable enough to fly in. Her hair is slightly wavy but is styled and completely put together, hanging pinned just above her shoulders.

I’ve never been the kind of man to discriminate when it comes to the shape of a woman—I’m a fan of them all. But there’s something about the way she moves, the slight pop of her hip when she looks up at the flight board, the finger that twirls through her hair while she talks to whomever is on the other end of the phone.

She looks like something I could take a bite out of.

And she also looks like someone who would take a considerable bite out of me. When she walks, it’s with purpose. The tilt of her head seems to be at a precise angle. Her sharp, exacting stare, the tone of her voice—she sounds like a mix between a CEO and an angry librarian. Her voice is also a little low. Automatically sultry.

It’s been a minute since I’ve had this kind of reaction to a woman at first sight. There were plenty of beautiful women in Nice looking for a good time—even with an older guy—but none of them caught my eye like this.

Something rises inside me I haven’t felt in a while about another person—curiosity. A hunger to know more about her—who is she, why is she in Maine, and what is she doing when she gets to Baltimore?

Covertly, I watch her as she moves to the center of the aisle, her chin tipped up. She’s speaking quietly, almost into her palm. It’s like she wants to hide what she’s saying over the line—maybe to a boyfriend?—as she gazes up at the flight board, dropping her hand from her mouth and agitating a ring on her finger.

Maybe she was re-routed through here, too.

Nothing like capping off a week-long trip in France with hours stuck in a nowhere airport. At least the airline upgraded me to first class for the trouble. And now, sitting next to her, there’s something more than shitty, dry food here to distract me while I wait to get back to Baltimore.

My phone buzzes against my hip and draws my attention away from the knockout, who’s turned away from me now. Shifting my weight, I pull the phone from my pocket, intending to do a quick glance and put it away again.

Then I see who the email is from, and tap it open.

SUBJECT: Clark Initiative Proposal

Hey Coach,

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