Page 33 of Mile High Coach

“Ha,” I say, watching as he finishes off my coffee and snaps the lid on. If I’m being honest, our winning streak might have something to do with all the adjustments Lovie’s made to the team and the players’ routines. But it could also just be the drive that comes with getting close to the Stanley Cup and not getting to take it home.

“You guys have been on fire,” he says, turning and sliding the cup over to me. “It’s been fun to watch.”

The good feeling from that conversation lasts all the way until I get to the arena, where I discover the training room is completely empty, rows of weights and machines sitting vacant, untouched. Instead of sweat, the room smells vaguely of rubber and cleaning solution.

Nobody has even been here this morning.

One hour before practice. All players should be in the training room, warning up. What the fuck?

When I try calling Samir, it goes to voice mail. Same with Deacon and Colt. None of my assistant coaches are answering, the skills coach is off today, and the goal tending coach was in the training room when I got there, looking just as confused as I was.

Finally, Ki Park answers the phone.

“Hello?”

“What the fuck?” I ask, in lieu of a greeting. “Where the hell are my players, Park?”

“Good morning to you, too, Clark,” he says, sounding a little too amused with himself. “They are in the conference room with Waters. She’s talking to them about the new?—”

But I’ve already hung up on him, turning on my heel and making my way to the elevator.

For the briefest, wildest second, I allow myself to think that Lovie Waters might be sleeping with me to make me let my guard down, so she can sink her claws into this team and KPI us into fucking hell.

As the elevator doors slide shut, I remind myself that this thing between us was my idea. The contract was hers, but I offered. And as brilliant as she is, I don’t think she was faking any of what happened between us in her office, or mine.

By the time I reach the conference room, I’m half-pissed-off, half-turned-on at the thought of seeing her.

“…remember to log the information, and we’ll check back in about a month, alright?”

When I open the door, heads turn to me in the middle of what sounds like Lovie’s conclusion. The guys sit around the table, half of them with love struck puppy looks. It would be hilarious—this many guys all soft and mooning over a woman—if it wasn’t Lovie at the center of their attention.

“What the fuck are you assholes doing?” I growl, knowing that this isn’t their fault, but not caring at the moment. “Training started five minutes ago!”

Wordlessly, they stand and start to file from the room, the more defiant guys not making eye contact, some of them mouthingsorry coachat me before they go.

When they’re gone, I turn to Lovie, who is calmly packing up her things, not paying me any mind.

“And what the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask, letting the door shut behind me as I step inside.

“You ask that a lot,” she says, smirking up at me, then hugging her tablet to her chest as she stands. “You should work on your bedside manner, Coach.”

I ignore the feeling that word sends through me and focus on the fact that I’m pissed off. Lovie should not be taking my players away from their training time.

“I’m not a doctor,” I growl, stepping further into the room and cutting off her exit. “But I am the leader of this team, and I need my guys where they’re supposed to be, not drooling over you up here when they should be warming up.”

She hikes a single eyebrow. “Are you jealous, Clark?”

My hands twitch to touch her, to take her and show exactly how jealous I can be. Instead, I fix her with a look. “What was this meeting even about?”

“Customized diets for each player,” she says, glancing at the board, where the name of the presentation still hovers. “We brought in a team of specialized elite nutritionists. They’re going to make a plan that caters to each player?—”

“This is garbage,” I snap, shaking my head and holding in a frustrated growl. “Eat protein. Carbo-load. These guys have known that shit since preschool. They don’t need fancy nutritionists to tell them what to eat?—”

“Do you know what a competitive advantage is?” Lovie asks, cutting me off.

I scowl in response.

“It’s what a company has that makes them better than others. It’s what helps you win.”

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