14. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen
Family Emergency—Shep Landon left practice early today. Updates to come. ~Renegades Rinkside
Merri
For the fourth time in twenty minutes, my gaze drifted to the empty doorway of my shared office. The morning stretched ahead, cold and quiet and empty without his rude ogre presence. Plenty of time for me to focus, to analyze plays, to be the competent professional I claimed to be.
Grand plan.
Pitiful results.
My brain spun in circles around two words: family emergency.
Shep had vanished from practice without explanation. Not my business. Not my business at all.
But I couldn’t help but wonder what was going on with him. The silent treatment from Wilson? I got it. I understood. I’d suck it up and persevere and eventually he’d see I was here for the duration and had learned my lesson.
The cold shoulder from Landon? Should be equally understandable. I’d pushed him away, right? Nixxed even the idea of anything happening between the two of us.
At least, anything beyond two of the hottest kisses of my life.
I pushed my lips together and jabbed at my keyboard, determined to focus on the pile of game footage demanding my attention. The New York footage needed sorting, coding, categorizing.
My fingers paused over the keys. Some Thunder footage still lurked in my queue, too. Scenes from that visitor’s box burned through my mind. Woodsy cologne, heated kisses, and his hands… Those strong, powerful hands—
“No.” The word burst into the quiet of the office loud enough I startled myself. I wiggled my mouse and woke up my monitor. “Not thinking about that man. Nope. Not gonna. I am here to work.”
Thank goodness Wilson had already stomped off to wherever he spent his Wilson time and left me to have my knuckled-headed self-convos alone.
Five minutes of actual work. Totally doable. Five minutes without thinking about Shepherd Landon and his honey-sweet drawl. Or the savage cut of his jaw. His soft, supple lips—
“No, no, no.” I bounced up from my chair. A walk. Walking was obviously the answer. I just needed to clear my head. Get back on track. Get that old circulation going…
The corridor stretched ahead, my navy heels click-clacking against polished concrete, the ruffles of my long yellow dress dancing around my feet as I barrelled forward.
The practice facility buzzed with energy—equipment staff hauling gear, trainers headed to their domain, the distant thunk of weights from the gym.
I ducked around a mop bucket and nearly knocked over a whiteboard outside the media center as I made my way through the halls. Voices spilled from the player lounge as I approached a corner. Forward Charlie Taft’s distinctive tone rose above the others.
“—and now he’s gone. No warning. No explanation. Nobody else thinks that’s weird?”
I paused just outside the doorway. Through the open door, I spotted Charlie perched on the arm of one of the oversized club chairs, gesturing with a Ping-Pong paddle.
“Not everything’s a conspiracy, Taft.” Novak moved away from the Ping-Pong table, bouncing a ball against his own paddle.
“Yeah? First the slump, then suddenly he’s scoring like crazy, now these mysterious disappearances—”
“Dr? hubu.” Novak’s curse snapped through the air. The ball he’d been bouncing flew at Charlie’s head. “You see what happens when you say stupid things?”
My heart hammered against my ribs. The organization didn’t need Charlie’s speculations getting out. The locker room was sacred space and the press would leap on any hint of discord. But family emergency or not, Shep’s absence had nothing to do with—
“Well, well. If ain’t Coach Sunshine herself.”
I startled at Charlie’s voice. He stood in the doorway now, trademark smirk firmly in place. Behind him, Novak and AB had moved to lounge in dark blue club chairs, a Ping-Pong video game paused on a screen on the wall.
“Reviewing game footage?” I stepped into the room, arms crossed. “Or just playing virtual sports?”
“Training aid.” AB’s grin flashed bright against his dark features as he held a controller up high. “Helps with hand-eye coordination.”
“Uh huh.” I eyed the screen. “And I suppose the high score list is a motivational tool?”
“Exactly!” Novak spun in his chair. “Speaking of which, you still owe us a rematch after that Ping-Pong massacre with Landon.”
“Please.” Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “That was a fluke.”
The table that started everything beckoned.
“Care to test that theory? We’ll call it aerobic exercise.
A better alternative to a bunch of professionals gossiping the afternoon away.
” I snatched the paddle out of Novak’s hand.
Anything to change the subject from Shep and Charlie’s ridiculous insinuations.
“Just asking questions.” Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve spent time with him lately, Wylie. Notice anything… off?”
My pulse jumped. He meant the Ping-Pong match everyone had witnessed.
The air hockey game at Rails n’ Ales that Penni’s gossip column had splashed all over social media.
But no one knew the real reason behind that night—about my desperate need to reclaim my blue-haired friend, about competing over a silly Funko Pop that meant more to me than I’d ever admit to this room full of hockey players.
How pathetic would that sound? Video coach needed her lucky charm to function? Mom’s voice echoed in my head, reminding me that everyone had their ways of coping. But coping methods were private things, not ammunition for locker room speculation.
I pushed a cheeky smile to my face. “Notice you’re awful concerned about a teammate’s personal business, Charles.”
I gripped my paddle tighter, remembering that night at Rails n’ Ales.
Heat fluttered under my blue cardigan at the memory.
No patronizing easy volleys or “let the lady win” nonsense from Shep that night.
Pure competition blazed between us, every shot a challenge, every point earned.
His blue eyes had sparked with the same fire that raced through my blood.
Even after I crushed him, he’d been all Southern charm and grace. Well, until he pulled his sneaky little theft of my Pop.
I swished the ruffles of my long skirt. The way he’d treated me like an equal, someone worth his full competitive spirit… And sweet heaven, when that dimple flashed with his drawled promises of off-roading adventures, my analytical brain short-circuited completely.
“Just saying,” Charlie’s voice dragged me back. “First that Ping-Pong match, then Rails n’ Ales—what exactly were you two doing there anyway? Penni’s column made it sound pretty cozy.”
I bounced on my toes, channeling my inner sunshine. “What can I say? Landon seems mighty attached to that cap of his. But I do enjoy my hard-won trophies.” I spun toward the others, ponytail swishing. “AB, you’re with me.”
“Aw, yeah!” AB’s grin lit up his whole face.
Charlie’s jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. “Teaming up with our resident good luck charm?”
“Resident good luck charm?” The words burned through my sunshine facade.
My fingers whitened around the paddle. First, Wilson’s cold shoulder?
Now Taft dismissing me as nothing more than a good luck charm?
The logical side of my brain knew I was overreacting.
We were playing a game. It was just a turn of phrase.
But the sensitive side of my brain, the part that was tired of perpetually proving myself? That side bristled.
AB unfolded his massive frame from the chair. “Actually, pretty sure Coach keeps me around for my devastating backhand, not my devastating good looks.” He winked at me as he claimed his own paddle.
Novak grinned and beckoned Charlie over. “Come on, kámo?e. Let’s show them what real players can do.”
Charlie squared his shoulders, his gaze drilling into me like I might leak team secrets to ESPN any second.
Ironic considering the conversation I’d interrupted.
“Fine. But when we win, we’re done with that shit house music you torture everyone with every game, AB. I’ll be choosing the game playlist.”
I smoothed my skirt with my free hand, coating my voice in sugar. “Bold of you to assume you’re winning.” Time to remind these boys why Coach Trasier trusted my judgment. “Game to eleven?”
Charlie’s white-knuckled grip on the paddle mirrored his recent on-ice performance—rushed shots, forced plays, the desperation of someone with something to prove.
I’d spent hours studying that tension in his game footage, the same rigid posture that sent pucks sailing wide of the net now threatening to snap his Ping-Pong paddle in half.
I’d been around hockey long enough to recognize a player battling to hold on to his position on the team. And feeling undervalued. If Taft didn’t come to grips with his emotions, he’d be donning a new jersey next season.
“That death grip’s not doing your scoring any favors, Charlie. On or off the ice.” I bounced the little white ball against the table as Novak laughed and elbowed the younger forward. “You think you can handle the paddle better than your stick?”
AB snorted beside me as Charlie’s scowl deepened.
All those hours studying the Renegades roster before taking this job rushed back—Charlie’s breakout season during Shep’s drought, reporters dubbing him “the next great hope,” speculation he’d finally escaped Landon’s long shadow.
Then Shep broke his slump—with my Pop—and the sports gurus forgot about Charlie Taft’s moment in the sun.
“Ready to serve?” I twirled the paddle like a tool, daring him to challenge me.
“Just serve the damn ball,” Charlie muttered, bouncing in a half-crouch, all the posture of a pro waiting for the serve, but the tension still poured off him.