Chapter 5
Chapter five
Mel
The suitcase yawned open on my bed, exposing just how clueless I really was. Probably because my packing strategy involved bringing everything with me and hoping for the best.
“Whoa! You bought new luggage!” Sam said from the doorway, holding an aggressively pink smoothie.
“Yep. Zipperless, click and roll.”
She walked in and inspected the sleek matching set. “You didn’t want to be known as the back-office girl dragging our busted ones. Nice.” Then she leveled a look at me. “Now you get to wear leggings and look hotter than the hot athletes. Basically, my Pinterest board come to life.”
“This is a work trip,” I muttered, holding up two nearly identical pairs of black slacks. “And they’re not hot. They’re colleagues—sweaty, helmet-wearing colleagues—who are desperate to win the Cup.”
Sam snorted. “Mel, you’re flying with a professional hockey team. If that’s not the start of fun, romance, and a deeply questionable locker-room selfie, I don’t know what is.”
“It’s the beginning of an HR case study, if I listen to you.”
She flopped onto my bed without regard for the fact that I was packing with the precision of a neurotic flight attendant, having only had two hours of sleep and a deep-seated fear of wrinkled blouses.
“You’re overthinking again. It’s not like the Oscars called to hand you a lifetime achievement award for packing.”
“I’m being prepared. There’s a difference. One avoids public humiliation; the other earns me an Oscar with a smile and a perfectly folded sock.”
Sam picked up my carry-on and gave it a shake. “Okay, well, you’ve packed three identical pairs of slacks and enough granola bars to survive an avalanche. So far, your ‘fun sponge’ aesthetic is working.”
I shoved a fourth blouse into the bag, ignoring her entirely valid point.
“You didn’t see his face when Maria told him I’m the support staff during team travel.”
“Who? The coach?”
“Mm-hmm.” I flopped next to her. “He didn’t even give a default coworker smirk, just the nod of a corporal who’s seen it all.”
Sam sipped her pink smoothie with the satisfied look of someone revving up for a smug moment. “Maybe that’s how his face sits. Some people are born with a resting grump face.”
“Then he needs to borrow someone else’s. At the very least, when you meet a colleague, you smile. It’s in the employee handbook, probably.”
Sam wiggled her brows. “Maybe you threw him off.”
“Yep, with the DevPad I clutched as if I were hiding offshore accounts.”
“Exactly,” she said, gesturing to my face. “You have those Apache almond-shaped eyes, and you came swinging with electronic-clipboard confidence. All that probably threw him off.”
I groaned. “He’s clearly not thrilled to have me on the trip. I’m pretty sure I heard a faint sigh as he walked away.”
“You’re not there for him. You’re there for you, your career, and free hockey VIP passes.”
“Sure, but he’s my boss during travels.”
“Oh, now he’s your boss. You conveniently left that out.” She gave me a look. “I’ll be over here rooting for sexual tension and secretly packing your cute jeans.”
“Sam.”
“Someone’s gotta stir the pot and sprinkle some love dust. Might as well be me,” she continued, laughing and nearly knocking my neatly folded jammies to the floor.
“And if he so much as looks at you with anything beyond professional indifference, that’s a hot kiss in the making. I’m putting it in my wedding toast.”
“Sam!” I warned again, even as her words landed like a dropped pin in my brain. Tiny inconvenient hype pulses followed.
The truth was, it’d been forever since anyone sent fizz through me that way.
Talk about instant attraction. I hadn’t felt that stomach-flip, heart-flutter feeling in years, not since before my engagement crashed.
I wouldn’t admit it out loud (yet), but Coach Murphy’s unreadable eyes and ridiculous jawline had already moved in rent-free in my nervous system.
“Sounds like the boss on the road may be a tingle-inducing, palms-sweating type?” Sam asked.
“Don’t say tingle-inducing while I’m packing my socks.”
She smiled. “Okay, let’s try this. So, Coach Grumpy’s stuck in your head, isn’t he?”
“He’s not grumpy. He’s ...,” I trailed off, reaching for something tactful. “...economical with his facial expressions.”
Sam laughed. “How does that qualify him for the summer issue of Gentlemen’s Quarterly?”
I blinked at her.
She grinned. “I observe. You have a nervous vibe that says, ‘please don’t flirt with me while I’m orienting’ and also ‘I’m definitely not panicking over how attractive you are.’”
“All that anatomy and physiology have messed you up.”
“Maybe, but I know ‘heart palpitations from afar and hummingbird swarms when he’s near’ when I see it. Classic symptom.”
A laugh cracked out of me, finally cutting the tension in my chest.
“Wrong career, Sam. You should’ve gone into fiction. You’re wasted on human organs.”
She stood and tossed a top at me. “Pack something cute. You might end up beside him, and next thing you know, the functional adult elbows out the walking disaster.”
“Says a girl who’s buried fun under research and books,” I called after her as she slipped out of my room.
Yep, I was nervous, and no, I didn’t think Coach Murphy was planning to make this trip fun. But for once, my life wasn’t stuck, and that was a surprising thing.
The Tahoe West charter felt less like a work trip and more like a very professional, very intimidating field trip. No TSA lines, no miles-long walk to boarding. I climbed the stairs, hyperaware of the team around me and silently whispering, Don’t trip, don’t trip.
At the top, Coach Murphy gave me a brief nod, with a noncommittal facial twitch that weirdly still managed to be attractive. “Morning.”
“Morning,” I returned, probably too brightly.
He passed by without breaking stride, taking a seat a few rows ahead.
I exhaled a gust of relief. He was close, but not a seatmate.
I landed one row ahead of the equipment manager and across from Paxton, our goalie. His hoodie was up, probably hiding from the paparazzi—me. Good. No forced small talk, and more importantly, not sitting next to Coach Calm-and-Scowly.
The plane had all the hallmarks of luxury: gray leather seats, plenty of legroom, and a general air of “we’re important.
” I slid into my seat, tucked my bag under, and exhaled.
I had a window, a DevPad, and a buffer zone between me and potential embarrassment.
Also, a direct line of vision to his shoulders, which objectively should not be allowed in that shirt.
My relief lasted maybe five seconds before it hit me: I was actually doing this.
I was on a plane with a professional hockey team and in the freaking playoffs.
Seventy-two hours surrounded by NHL players, trainers, and coaches, all of whom probably knew each other’s deeper secrets, while I was still trying to remember their names.
It was time I passed for someone who belonged by bluffing well.
I reached for my laptop, but my brain decidedly wasn’t built for player reports at cruising altitude, so I closed it and sent Erica a long message instead:
Me: Hey you! You were right. Sometimes life throws a puck at your face. Literally. And you hope it lands as soft as a throw pillow.
I’m on a plane with an entire hockey team right now. Yeah, seriously. Maria (the GM) is great, and the job is weirdly perfect in a way that makes me feel like I walked into someone else’s movie.
The head coach, he hasn’t smiled once. Pretty sure I radiate “malfunctioning office equipment” when I’m around him, and that’s fine by me.
Anyway, we’re headed to Denver. Remember how we used to stress eat? I wish you were here to talk me down or at least share the emergency bag of carbs I brought with me.
How are you surviving the rainy season in Thailand? Send me a picture of anything that breathes peace.
Miss you.
I closed my eyes, and soon the captain announced we were starting our descent. Two hours had flown by in a blur of illicit shoulder gazing involving one man in particular. I barely had time to take a nap or skim a single protocol sheet.
As we landed, the mood shifted. The relaxed travel mode gave way to silent pre-mission moods. Phones came out, bags slung over shoulders, and every player had their furrowed brows and game faces on. I blinked against the bright Colorado sun as I followed the group onto a private shuttle.
The hotel was what I expected—modern, polished, and intimidating.
Valets waited at the front, and the glass doors gleamed in that NHL trophy-case way.
Inside, it smelled of money. The concierge handed me a room key, and I gave a calm, professional nod, channeling tips from that late-night Google search on how to not look like the new girl with a hockey team.
Though honestly, I still read as a newbie.
The elevator ride to the eleventh floor was silent, filled only by the soft hum of machinery. My pulse jumped when I caught Coach Murphy’s reflection in the mirrored wall behind me. Poker-faced, hands loose at his sides, he was staring straight at me.
“Travel okay?” he asked, his question meant only for me.
I turned slightly. “Yeah, smooth enough,” I said, feigning composure, as if I hadn’t replayed our accidental bathroom collision for the entire flight.
The doors slid open, and the occupants spilled out, peeling off in different directions. I turned right, and Coach Murphy did the same. Our suitcases rolled in sync across the brown carpet, each wheel click sounding way too loud.
I stopped at my door. Two doors down, he did the same. Great. My own personal no-smile zone practically next door.
His hand hovered over the keycard, then he looked back—at me. I froze. Caught watching. Heat rushed up my neck; I fumbled with my keycard and ducked into my room, shutting the door with a quiet click. Note to self: don’t stare at the coach and get caught.
I tossed my handbag onto the bed and grabbed my phone to text Sam: