Edging Coach

Chapter 1

JACK

There really was something to be said for a good lay.

Last night? Holy hell. I’d gone in expecting a roll in the hay and a couple of orgasms, and I’d gotten a hard, bed-breaking fuck.

One that left my ass aching, but also my scalp sore from the way he’d gripped my hair.

One that left my knees stinging from the way I’d dropped to the carpet at his feet when he’d ordered me.

One that left my neck tingling from the hair standing up after he’d whispered filthy commands in my ear in that soft Quebecois accent.

Fucking hell. I’d needed that. All of it. Every minute of it.

I needed more of it tonight, but that wasn’t going to happen. Not because I was too sore—but because I wasn’t going to have time.

Ah well. It had been great, and as I pulled up to the practice facility for the Abbotsford Grizzlies this morning, I was centered and relaxed in ways I hadn’t been in a long, long time.

Sore, yes, but pleasantly so. I’d be feeling everything last night’s hookup had done to me for a while, and I loved it.

Shame we hadn’t exchanged numbers or promises to do it again.

Even bigger shame that I wouldn’t have time for things like that with him or anyone else anyway.

Head coaching gigs were grueling, putting heavy demands on my time, energy, and headspace.

Plus, there’d be near-constant travel. On top of all that, I was starting with this team mid-season, tasked with unfucking the disaster they’d been under my predecessor, who’d been summarily fired the day after their sixth straight loss.

He’d left the team with a record of 14-14-8; I definitely had my work cut out for me.

So, yeah. Free time was going to be hard to come by until this season was over.

Eh, that was okay. I loved a challenge, and I was excited to be coaching again.

I parked in front of the facility, killed the engine, and took a deep breath. Time to go be a professional despite my mind and body wishing we could bask a little longer in last night’s bliss.

Time to go meet the men who were counting on me to turn their sinking ship around. No pressure or anything.

As I got out of the car, my hips and back ached, and I smiled to myself. Skating would be interesting today; at least I didn’t have to skate as hard as my players would.

Inside, Emil Tiller, the Grizzlies’ general manager, waited for me.

“Jack,” he said, extending his hand. “Great to see you.”

“You too.”

We exchanged a firm handshake, and he led me down a long, fluorescent-lit hallway. “We’re thrilled to have you. These boys are ready for a different direction, and I think you’re just what they need.”

I smiled. “Well, that’s why I’m here. There will probably be a learning curve while they adapt to me, but I’m confident we’ll get there.”

He grunted and nodded. “The sooner the better. This team misses the playoffs again, it won’t just be the coaching staff getting fired.” He glanced at me and grimaced as if he could feel that noose around his neck already.

I kept the smile in place. “Still plenty of games left in the season. We can do this.”

I really was confident we could. We’d have to dig ourselves out of a deep hole, but I’d seen teams come back from worse. Would we win our division? Highly unlikely. But I was confident I could deliver a wild card spot.

In the days since I’d been offered this job, I’d spent hours poring over footage of the team from both this season and the previous one.

The issues were obvious. Our forecheck was all right sometimes, but our backcheck was a disaster.

The goalies were solid, but no goalie could be expected to stand up to that many odd-man rushes every single game.

We had two incredibly good offensive defensemen, but the previous coach had reined them back, forcing them to lean harder into their defensive roles instead of also playing to their offensive strengths.

What an absolute waste of a couple of talented 200-foot players.

I could see mixing up some of the lines and D pairs, too.

The top line was pretty good, but the other three could use some tweaks.

The bottom defensive pairs were seriously weak.

Or, well, they had been; in the same hurricane of changes that had seen half the coaching staff fired, Emil had traded two defensemen and three forwards.

Two of the forwards had gone for draft picks, so their replacements were getting called up from the second-tier minors.

I hoped Emil and the owners were patient for at least the next week or two, and I’d told him as much over dinner last night. Hockey teams had to be able to adapt on the fly, but he’d made a lot of massive changes in a very short period of time. A learning curve was inevitable for all of us.

I was confident that the players themselves were willing to be patient, too.

Yesterday afternoon, I’d met with the captain, Ricardo Louissaint, and the two alternates, Antoine Noreau and Diderik Nyg?rd.

They were veteran players who’d been through multiple coaching changes, and they’d seemed more relieved than anything by my arrival.

Noreau—Anty, to his teammates—had told me, “Just having a coach who wants to be here will be a step in the right direction.”

That had prompted a grunt of agreement from Nyg?rd, who the guys called Gards. “Any kind of direction would be nice at this point.”

So… I was optimistic I wouldn’t get a hostile reception.

“I’ve got the boys getting ready for practice,” Emil said. “Thought it would make sense to have you all feel each other out on the ice. Following that, there’ll be a team meeting so everyone can ask questions if they need to.”

I shrugged. That wasn’t how I would’ve set it up—I’d rather talk to my players first—but I could work with it.

He pushed open the locker room door. Voices chattered and gear creaked, and someone laughed at something. Typical sounds of a team getting ready for practice.

“Gentlemen,” Emil called out. “Your new head coach is here.” As the men turned our way, he put a hand on my back. “I’d like you all to meet Jack Showalter.”

There were handshakes and hellos after that, and then they continued getting ready.

It occurred to me then that maybe his approach of practice first and ask questions later was a good one; there was no way in hell I was going to remember everyone’s names.

The guys were also putting on jerseys like I’d expect to see during training camp—the ones with their numbers and names on the backs instead of blank practice jerseys. I appreciated that.

Behind me, the locker room door opened again, and I turned around in the same instant a familiar lyrical voice strafed my senses.

“—smaller than Toronto, but I’ll manage.”

My breath hitched.

He halted.

I stared.

He stared.

And my heart went wild.

Because there I was. In the locker room of the team I was here to coach.

Face to face with the man who’d put me on my knees last night.

The lean white man with reddish brown hair, clean-shaven and gorgeous light-brown eyes. Every ache and bruise on my body lit up like Christmas lights, reminding me of the hotel carpet biting into my knees and—

And my scalp stinging in his iron fist as his perfectly average and rock-hard dick slammed into me.

Oh. Fuck.

“Devs?” The guy standing next to him—one of the other players, I assumed—elbowed him. “Hey, you good?” He peered up at me. “Oh, hey, you’re the new coach, right?”

I nodded, extending my hand. “Jack Showalter.”

“Connor Clausen.” He shook my hand. “I just got here, too. From Anaheim. Everyone calls me Claus.”

“Claus. I’ll remember that.” Trying my damnedest to keep my cool, I turned to the other guy, hand extended. “And you are…?”

He swallowed hard. Then he cleared his throat and accepted the handshake, oblivious to the goose bumps beneath my sleeve as that lightly callused and very familiar hand met mine. “Devon Jarvis. The, uh…” He coughed again. “My other team called me Devs.”

“I’ll remember that,” I croaked.

I would. I definitely would. Even though I’d already forgotten my own name.

We were both rescued by a sharp bark of, “Let’s get rolling, gentlemen!” from Emil.

Devon snapped out of it first, offered me a subtle nod, and then brushed past me.

I closed my eyes and pushed out a breath through my nose. Well, this could turn into a disaster in a hurry, couldn’t it?

Except it didn’t have to. It was a one-night stand. Devon undoubtedly valued his career as much as I valued mine, so he wouldn’t breathe a word about it to anyone. He sure as shit wouldn’t suggest a rematch.

Not even when we were staying two floors apart in the same goddamned hotel.

I wiped a hand over my face, then headed out of the locker room to get my skates from my office.

That should’ve been a clue, shouldn’t it?

When the hookup app had told me that hot, toppy guy was staying in the same building?

In the best hotel in Abbotsford, where at least two other recent Grizzlies acquisitions were staying?

But I’d been too horny to think, and his profile had whetted too much of my appetite, and now here we were—coach and player, less than twenty-four hours after he’d growled, “You don’t come until I say you come,” in my ear while I’d been this close to losing it.

I hadn’t come. Not until he’d given me permission an eternity later.

And now we were here.

Fuck my liiife.

In the interest of not losing my brand-new job, I forced myself to focus.

I laced up my skates, grabbed my stick and gloves, and headed out to the ice.

By the time I skated onto the sheet, about half the team was out there warming up.

Was Devon among them? I didn’t know, and I didn’t try to confirm either way.

Instead, I glided around the ice, watching the way the various players moved.

Most of the Grizzlies were young prospects.

From what I’d seen already in videos of games and practices, there were a lot of raw talent and high hockey IQs.

A ton of potential that just needed developing before they made the jump to Vancouver.

Typical of a farm team, but according to Emil and one of the assistant coaches (one who’d survived the recent firings), they hadn’t had the guidance they needed.

So… that was where I came in. Along with the newly hired coaching staff and the older, more skilled veteran players, it was my job to get this team back on the rails.

I’d done it before, so I was confident I could do it again.

At least, I had been until last night’s hookup had come strolling into the locker room.

I shook that thought away, grabbed a puck on my stick, and did some light puck-handling around the rink just to hold my focus. Last night was last night. Today—and going forward—was all about hockey and keeping this job.

And after today, I’d make absolutely sure I vetted my hookups a bit better before the pants came off. Lesson learned the way I learned most of them—the hard way.

A whistle blew, and I turned to see Amy Vincent, one of the assistant head coaches, summoning everyone to where a whiteboard hung on the glass. The team skated over to her, and everyone took a knee. I stood at the back.

“We’re going to get started in a minute,” she told everyone. “First things first, I’d like to introduce your new head coach”—she gestured past them—“Jack Showalter.” She apparently didn’t realize Emil had already made introductions but that was okay.

Heads turned, and the guys tapped their sticks on the ice. I smiled and offered a nod, pretending not to notice when I absolutely zeroed in on Devon. Or what a juxtaposition it was, seeing him kneeling while I stood.

Get a grip, Showalter. Fuck.

Amy continued, “We’re going to run a practice as normal so Coach can have a look at how we operate. Tomorrow’s morning skate, he’ll take over.”

More stick taps. The vibe among the guys felt optimistic and upbeat—they exchanged smiles, and no one seemed to be scowling, rolling their eyes, or otherwise telegraphing that they weren’t happy.

From the sound of it, they echoed the sentiments of their captain and alternates—they’d been as frustrated as their GM, and they were ready for change.

I just hoped like hell I could focus enough to bring them that change.