Triple Power Play (Obsessed Players Club #1)

11. Ethan

ELEVEN

ETHAN

“I wanna be upfront to prevent any surprises when I come to coach.” I direct my attention to the league’s fastest skater, who’s moving like a flash of lightning across the ice. “That’s your problem right there.”

All eyes go to Jackson, and the room falls silent. Management fidgets in their seats and exchange uneasy glances. It’s expected. No organization wants to face criticism of their highest-paid player.

I step to the glass surrounding the owner’s box and reiterate my point. “Jackson is not the entire team.” I gesture to the other players. “To build a successful team , we need to grow and incorporate the talents of every player, not rely solely on one individual.”

Now it’s my turn to sweat and shift nervously on my feet. I await management’s response, anticipating some acknowledgment or understanding, but nothing comes.

I’m right about this. I know I am. Jackson’s selfish and arrogant behavior toward Aurora prompted me to dive into his career highlights. He treats his teammates similarly. He possesses God-given talent but lacks leadership and respect for others.

Adjusting my suit jacket, I take a slow, deep breath to calm my racing heart. “Jackson is gifted. His abilities are exceptional. But, unfortunately, the team is not. My job as a head coach is to develop a strategy for winning and execute change, no matter how difficult it may be. That ,” I emphasize by pointing at Aurora’s ex, “doesn’t scare me.”

And if the coaching and training staff have ignored Jackson’s issues with alcohol, they’ll be replaced. I won’t allow that on my team, and I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.

The interview ends, and disappointment hangs heavy in the air. No handshakes, no excitement, only a collective effort to evade eye contact while scrambling from the room with their heads bowed.

Fuck, I can’t return to Boston. My wife is the owner’s daughter, and the man she’s cheating on me with is the general manager.

Everyone knew of their affair—except for me.

An uncomfortable silence marks the elevator ride. I can only hope they’re reflecting on my suggestions. On the ground floor, I part ways with all but Robert, the owner.

While texting, he massages the back of his neck. “Let’s…uh…Let’s go watch practice.”

Shit, this doesn’t appear promising. I consider other teams in need of a head coach. There’s Colorado. It’s not as warm as LA, but it’s far from Boston. I’ll always be welcomed back to New York, where I played for a decade, but no way in hell am I staying that close to my soon-to-be ex. And I left New York for a reason.

Behind the bench, I watch as Jackson takes shot after shot at the goalie, making most of them. He’s one of the league’s leading breakaway artists, but if he passed the puck, the missed shots might lead to goals. He also fights with his teammates who play defense against him. But I say nothing.

After practice ends and the team gathers around, Robert clears his throat. “Why don’t we, ah, introduce you?”

“Yeah?” I ask, taken aback.

“Yeah.” A smile plays at the corners of his lips. “Let’s do this.”

A wave of relief and excitement washes over me, tingling every nerve ending in my body. Adrenaline courses through my veins, and I can’t stop smiling.

Only one 6’3” hurdle to get over.

I’m shaking hands with the assistant coach when a helmet thrown against the boards narrowly misses me.

“No fucking way!” Jackson snarls, dropping his gloves to the ice.

If it’s a fight he’s preparing for, he’s not getting one from me. Not on the first day, at least.

The goalie, Killian Rathe, and right-winger Grant Cohen, who stopped by our table to talk to Aurora at dinner, try to calm him. I can’t hear their words, but he pushes them away, unable to control his anger. Yet another instance illustrating his lack of leadership.

He’s more of a cancerous distraction—a toxic little shit who needs to be disciplined.

I give him a courteous nod. “Jackson. It’s nice to see you again.”

He sneers and mutters, “Fuck you.”

I move on to the next player, not allowing his tantrum to divert attention from the team. He can take a seat on the bench, where he’ll be staying if he keeps being a dick.

“Killian, that shutout against Cincinnati was fantastic.” I slap the goalie on the helmet and receive a hesitant smile.

“Connor, I missed coaching you at the Special Olympics this year.”

A few snickers resonate among the guys. Connor and I met through volunteer work with the Special Olympics program. He wasn’t on the team, of course, but we had a lot of fun.

I go down the line, establishing a connection with each player. When it’s all said and done, I step out of the arena, and the weight off my chest is tangible. I’m almost free. My plans are coming to fruition, and one person comes to mind.

Aurora.

Despite how things ended, something compels me to share this with her.

I let out an exhale, taking in the LA sun. I can’t fucking believe it. I’m getting out of Boston.

And maybe, just maybe, I can see Aurora again.

I’m walking into my hotel room when my phone buzzes with an incoming call from my agent. “Hey, man. Please tell me you have positive news.”

Trent’s hearty chuckle eases my tension. “You’re a rock star! I wasn’t sure you could pull it off, but boy, did you ever.”

That brings a smile to my face. “Fuck yeah! That good, huh?”

“Good? It’s fucking great! Better than great. How does a three-year contract at a guaranteed five million yearly sound?”

His words leave me speechless. My heart flutters, and I can barely string two words together. “Five million?” The shock overwhelms me, and I drop my ass onto the bed. “Per year?”

That’s five times my current salary, confirming my suspicions. Not only am I underpaid, but the Huskies were aware of Jackson’s issues and needed someone with the balls to manage him.

“Per year. Per fucking year!”

I chuckle at his exuberance. “When do I sign?”

“How about tomorrow? At the arena.”

“Perfect, because it’s not real until my signature is on that contract.”

Trent and I exchange goodbyes, and I text my lawyer, authorizing her to initiate the divorce proceedings. With a new coaching position secured and divorce preparations underway, I only need to find a place to live, pack my belongings, and leave.

Sounds simple—until I have to face my wife.

I sit on the bed, and the silence of the empty room falls upon me—a mirror image of my life. My mother is dead, and my so-called father is in prison. I have no siblings. I am utterly alone. There’s no one else to call, no one else to share in the celebration of this moment.

Hockey is my life. I grew up on the streets of New York City—hockey was my only friend, family, and dream. Once I made it, I threw myself into the lifestyle, partying and playing without making a single genuine connection.

Until a dirty hit ended it all.

The fear of being unemployed and alone propelled me into a hasty marriage. I was na?ve in believing I had struck the perfect deal—a wealthy wife, a team, and an organization all in one. But it was a facade.

Behind the veneer, I discovered a spoiled, shallow woman who only married me to satisfy her hockey-enthusiast daddy. The man she wants, the man she has been cheating with, is already married. I think she wanted a husband who was willing to ignore her infidelities, but that wasn’t me, no matter how hard I tried.

For years, I allowed her perspective to shape my self-worth. I saw myself through her eyes—a nobody from the streets, a washed-up hockey player who became one of the league’s lowest-paid coaches. I didn’t fit into her Country Club social circles and couldn’t care less about upholding a fake marriage. All I did was work.

I was miserable until about twenty-four hours ago.

And now, I’m Aurora’s ex’s head coach, and he’s the star player on my team.

It can’t happen.

Technically, I’m not the head coach yet .

And I have one more night in LA.

I drag my hand down my face. Jesus, what am I thinking?

I’m thinking about how good she felt in my arms, how eagerly she responded to me, how fucking hot she is.

These things don’t happen to me— will never happen to me again.

She didn’t ask for details about my marriage. She didn’t dig into my career, social status, or other identifying factors. She simply enjoyed my company.

I realize that’s what she’s paid to do. I’m not a complete idiot. Maybe desperate, but not an idiot.

Either way, she won’t figure out who I am. After last night, she’ll never have anything to do with her ex again. It’s not as if she’ll be attending his games.

Nobody will know. Right?

I grab two whiskey splits from the minibar and down them, one after the other. Then, setting aside my pride, I text Trent for information on booking Aurora.

He promptly sends me the website and login credentials, accompanied by a smiling purple devil emoji.

After consuming another mini bottle to ease my apprehension, I log in to his account, only to discover she’s unavailable for the next month. A fucking month? Is she that popular?

I don’t want anyone but her, escort or otherwise. Dejected and bone-crushingly lonely, I end the night tipsy, alone, and angrily jerking myself to fantasies of Aurora riding my cock.