Page 13 of Blocked Shot
“What?”
“You’ll call me when this is over.”
Her heart does this painful little flip. She wants to. She wants to come back here and pick up exactly where they left off, wants to find out what his hands would feel like everywhere else, wants to discover if he tastes as good as she imagines he does.
But she knows herself too well. She'll deal with Jesse's mess, drive back to Port Perry, and Jake will become one of those late-night fantasies she replays when she can't sleep—thealmostthat never quite happened.
She nods anyway, whispering, “Okay,” before slipping out the door.
As she steps into the hallway, the weight of what happened, or what didn’t happen, hits her all at once. Her body is still buzzing from Jake’s touch, her skin still warm from his lips. But now, adrenaline crashes through her, drowning out the heat with cold, hard fear.
CHAPTER 8
JAKE
Jake drums his fingers on the steering wheel of his truck, clenching his teeth as he navigates through the morning traffic. The roads are slick from last night’s rain, the sky still overcast, as if the sun decided it wasn’t worth the effort today. He knows the feeling.
The phone call had come way too early, before his alarm, before his body was ready to function like a normal human. The team administrator told him the coach wanted to see him. ASAP. No details, no small talk. Just a firm request to show up at the training rink.
Coach Dick.
Jake had played for a lot of hard-nosed coaches in his career, but Richard Barbier had built his entire reputation on being ruthlessly blunt. No bullshit. No sugarcoating. If he thought you were screwing up, he’d tell you to your face, loudly and with colorful language. If he thought you were too old, too slow, or just not good enough, he wouldn’t dance around it.
Jake exhales, bouncing his knee impatiently at a red light. He doesn’t like it. Meetings like this don’t happen unless something’s wrong. Schedule changes are handled over text. If it was something minor, he would’ve been pulled aside at the rink.
No, this is something bigger. And Jake has a creeping suspicion that he already knows what it is.
Scratched before the season even starts.
He’s been around too long to pretend he’s not on the edge. He’s not the same guy he was at twenty-five, not even the same guy he was at thirty. He still has the fight in him. But does the team see it? Does Coach Dick see it? Or is he just another old-timer they’re shuffling around, waiting for him to take the hint and retire?
The idea twists his gut, but something else gnaws at him, something even more frustrating than the uncertainty about his career.
Jake can’t get Natalie out of his damn head. The way she looked at him last night, the sharpness in her eyes, the easy way she pushed back when he teased her. He’d gone to bed fisting his cock, chasing the memory of her breathy sighs when he kissed her neck, the sweet scent of her coconutty shampoo still lingering in his nose.
Now, in the unforgiving glare of morning, she’s still there.
He shifts in his seat, jaw tightening. It’s been a while since he’s felt this keyed up over someone. And he hates it. He needs to be focused on hockey, not on some woman who’s only in town for a couple of days. But here he is, walking into this meeting daydreaming about a sexy-as-sin brunette instead of whatever the hell Coach Dick is about to say.
Pushing the thought aside, he yanks open the arena’s side door and heads down the hallway toward the offices. The familiar scent of sweat and rubber from the weight room fills the air, taking him back to reality. Hockey first. Everything else is a distraction.
The door to Barbier’s office is cracked open, and Jake takes a steadying breath before stepping inside. The silver-haired man sits behind a cluttered desk poring over game sheets, his usual scowl in place as he glances up.
“MacDonald. Sit.”
Jake does, and even though his pulse is kicking up a notch, he leans back like he’s got all the time in the world. He says nothing, just waits. If Barbier wants to tell him he’s done, he can look him in the eye and say it.
After a few moments of tense silence, Barbier looks up, studying him. “You think you know why you’re here?”
Jake shrugs. “Figure you’re about to tell me I’m riding the pine.”
Barbier snorts. “If I was scratching you, you’d already know. Would’ve heard it loud and clear on the ice.”
That doesn’t exactly ease the tension in his gut. “Then what’s this about?”
The coach leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “I called you in because we need to have a conversation about your role on this team.”
Jake stays silent, waiting.
