Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Jules
My sister Blair is my best friend, and her sense of humor is even more irreverent than mine.
“It got a whole lot funnier once I looked him up online. He’s a zaddy.”
I pour my glass of wine to an appropriate fill line and then keep pouring. “You always know how to make me feel better.”
“Come on, Jules. That photo of you looking tragic is my new phone wallpaper. I needed something to make me smile every time I see it, and you with mascara running down your face will do nicely. Sending me that selfie was a great call.”
I went to the bathroom after Coach Turner left me in the break room earlier, and I wanted to change my identity and start a new life when I saw my reflection in the mirror.
I thought I’d had the worst possible day, but no.
I was mortified knowing I had stood there getting warm all over when he called me beautiful, when my eye makeup was on my cheeks.
“That mascara is getting a scathing review.”
“Are we ... sharing that glass of wine?” she quips.
I flick a glare at her. “We are not.”
“Only a little for me. I have a big test tomorrow.”
Blair is in nursing school, and she spends more time studying than she does attending classes. She worries about disappointing me, no matter how many times I tell her it’s impossible.
“If you need to study, I understand,” I say. “I can watch a movie with the boys when they get home.”
Blair has two sons, Eli, seven, and Cooper, five, and they all moved into my tiny two-bedroom apartment when she couldn’t afford her own four years ago. Her ex, the boys’ father, is a deadbeat who took off right after Coop was born, and she struggled to make ends meet even before he left.
Then everything changed when my influencer accounts took off three years ago. I now make more money than I ever dreamed of—more than my new job with the Crush pays—and I was able to buy us a four-bedroom house, support all of us, and put Blair through nursing school.
“No, it’s okay. I’m going to study for an hour when the boys go to bed. I need to help Eli with math homework after his swim.”
She’s a great mom. We have an unconventional family—my nephews’ teachers have assumed we’re a two-mom household at school events—but I wouldn’t change a thing.
I’d like to have a part-time man in my life for dinner and sweaty sex every week or two, but that’s it.
Blair, Eli, and Coop are my family, and that will never change.
“You’re right.” I sigh heavily and hold the wine bottle over the sink, where I try to pour some of the wine from my glass back in. “I don’t want to be hungover tomorrow either.”
“You’re beautiful. Get the hell off that dating app and consult my spreadsheet. There are lots of single Crush players.”
After I got my job with the Crush, my sister made a spreadsheet of the entire player roster.
She regularly combs through social media like a private investigator to find out if they’re married or dating anyone.
The spreadsheet includes hockey stats and details about each player she’s found online.
She’s proud of it, but it feels stalkerish to me.
“Magnus Lundgren is holding on to the number one spot on the spreadsheet,” Blair says.
“If he makes the roster, you need to get all over that. He’s thirty-one, spent his first big paycheck buying his mom a house, and he knows how to knit.
He could make you sweaters. The only field I coded red for him is that he still uses a flip phone by choice. ”
“I keep telling you I don’t want to date any of the players. It would undermine me professionally, and my boss said it’s strongly discouraged.”
“What about the zaddy coach who thinks you’re beautiful?”
My stomach does an excited flip, but I shake my head. “He was just trying to make me feel better. And the only reason he came to talk to me was because he’s pissy about me filming the players.”
“He said you’re a ten, Jules. That’s more than just making you feel better.”
I glance at my watch, moving on. “I need to go pick up dinner. Get some bail money together, because I can’t be held responsible for my actions if Casa Mariachi forgets my extra sour cream this time.”
“You need to check the bag before you leave.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t want to be one of those people.”
“Check it in the car, then. The boys had tacos without meat last week, remember? I have the order in the app, and I checked no lettuce, but they got tacos with only cheese and lettuce.”
“I’ll check it in the car.”
I look at my glass of wine, only thinking about it for a second before I pour it into the kitchen sink.
“You went from about to guzzle an entire bottle to none for me, thanks pretty fast,” Blair says.
“Yeah.” I sigh heavily, watching the dark liquid flow down the drain.
A few seconds of silence pass. I can’t look at her, and after the day I’ve had, I just don’t have the energy to make excuses about why I decided not to have any wine. We both know the reason.
My heart races, and I’m torn. I want to do something—anything—to occupy my mind, but I also want to get into bed and stay there until tomorrow morning.
“Hey, what did we promise?” My sister’s clear, strong voice pulls me out of my own head.
I lock eyes with her and nod. “I’m good.”
“Want me to go get the food?”
“I’ve got it.”
I grab my keys from the counter and leave, knowing Blair understands. I’ll blast some music on my drive and be myself again by the time I get back home.
The next morning, I square my shoulders and walk into the home locker room. It’s funny—I get hundreds of comments on my socials every day, nearly all glowing compliments, and I know I know what I’m doing, but I’m still nervous.
I don’t just want to do this job for the Crush—I want to, well, crush it. My inner people pleaser wants everyone from the team to think I’m good at this job. Metrics don’t lie, but I’m not satisfied until I’m getting in-person validation, too.
There aren’t any players in the locker room because there was no practice today. Which is good, because while I’ve done a flawless job of avoiding seeing penises so far, I know the day is coming when I accidentally look directly at one.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a penis fan. But I don’t want to react to one that’s bigger or smaller than average, or crooked, or accompanied by a nutsack waxed so smooth it looks like a freshly hatched bird.
Coach Turner’s door is open, and he looks up from his desk to find me standing there.
“Good morning,” he says.
I swear my uterus contracts just from the sound of his deep, gravelly voice. I clear my throat, trying to ignore my thoughts of him saying that while next to me in bed, his warm chest against my back as he kisses my shoulder.
“I’m a professional,” I blurt.
Oh god. My internal reminder just flew out of my mouth.
He arches a brow, looking amused.
I force myself to recover. “Sorry, I have a thing where I’m always composing emails in my head. Good morning, Coach Turner.”
“Noel.” He stands and picks up the stainless travel mug from his desk. “Ready to go?”
I just nod, not trusting myself to speak.
He’s looking very coachlike today, wearing a dark-gray quarter zip with the team logo on a small pocket, black track pants, tennis shoes, and a black baseball cap with the team logo.
When he gets over to the doorway and holds a hand out, inviting me to go first, I pick up a faint hint of his cologne.
Damn. It’s Creed Aventus. I recently did reviews of popular men’s colognes for women to buy their partners as a gift, and the smoky, earthy cologne with subtle notes of pineapple was my favorite by far. It smells like a rich man flying you to a secluded beach for a bonfire and mind-blowing sex.
I walk toward the locker room door, which he holds open for me.
“Feeling better?” he asks when we step into the tunnel. “To your left. We’re going to the staff lot.”
“I’m good. Sorry about that.”
“No need to be.”
Eager to change the subject, I glance over and up at him. He’s clean-shaven. I picture him post-shower, a white towel wrapped around his waist as he shaves in front of his bathroom mirror.
“So I was wondering if I could interview you sometime on camera. It would be really easy. I want to do a thing called Tuesdays with Turner. I’d ask you about games, the players, that kind of thing.”
“Sure.”
That was a lot easier than I thought it would be, so I press my luck. “I understand if it’s not possible, but I’d like to accompany the team on any road trips I can.”
He furrows his brow. “You sure about that? They’re usually a grind. Not enough sleep, a different time zone every day, and when we lose, we’re a bunch of moody bastards. Pardon my language.”
I smile, remembering the number of times I said fuck to him yesterday. “I think we’re past that, Coach.”
“Call me Noel.”
“I can fly commercial so I’m not in the way. And I’ll book my own travel.”
“We’ve got room for you on the plane. Ask Jane to add you to any trips you want to come on; she sets up the travel.”
“Thanks.”
He opens the door to the staff lot and we walk out, the light fall breeze marking the change from hot weather to mild. His car is a dark maroon Range Rover, and he opens the passenger-side door for me.
“Here,” he says as I take my camera bag off my shoulder.
He moves to put my bag in the back seat and walks around to the driver’s side. I take a deep breath, preparing to pretend I’m unfazed by him.
Who am I kidding? I’m fazed. When I glance at one of his big hands wrapped around the steering wheel, I’m imagining what that hand would look like wrapped around my ponytail.
I focus on my phone, scrolling through comments on my recent posts.
“The keyboard warriors are salty today,” I say softly. “This guy says Carter let himself go in the offseason and now he looks like his pig’s twin brother.”
Noel’s lips quirk with a smile. “Tell him I’ve got a stick he can use if he wants to come show Carter how it’s done.”
I grin. “I actually love brands that push back on social media. They’re very popular.”
“Write it. Tell him the offer’s open anytime.”
I only hesitate a second before writing out a response to the comment, making it a little cheeky to avoid sounding defensive.
The drive to Templeton takes less than five minutes, and as soon as Noel parks, I get out and grab my camera from the back seat.
When we walk into the front doors of Templeton, I look around, a little awestruck. It’s modern and filled with natural light from rows of windows above, the walls covered with photos of the team now and over the many years of its history.
Templeton was intended to be the team’s main practice facility, but Noel likes practicing on the home ice. Both the arena and Templeton have weight rooms and training facilities.
Some of the kids are already there, even though the event doesn’t start until eleven a.m. One of them runs up to Noel and throws her arms around him, her head barely clearing his waist.
After the hug, he squats down so he’s at eye level with her, his intimidating scowl replaced with a warm smile. Whatever he says to her makes her light up.
I shoot a few photos, checking them out on my camera screen when someone says, “Hey, Jules.”
It’s Isaac, who walks over and hugs me.
“Hey, hi.”
“How’s it going?”
“Good, thanks.”
His gaze moves down my body as he takes in my dark-gray pants and jacket. I’m wearing a light-blue cami under the jacket and black heels.
“You look nice,” he says.
“Moss!”
We both turn toward the deep, booming voice. It’s Noel, who’s scowling at Isaac and waving him over.
Isaac grins at me. “Gotta go. Catch you later.”
I watch as he approaches Noel, who chews on him. I can’t hear what he’s saying, and I fight my urge to move closer so I can.
I remind myself yet again that I’m a professional. I have work to do.