Chapter 5 #2
Me: Made it. We didn’t crash. Still no smile from the coach, but he nodded and said a few words, so I’m calling that progress.
She replied three minutes later:
Sam: So precious! You broke through the zero-expression fortress. You might’ve just gotten yourself an admirer. \*laughing emoji\*
I laughed and tossed my phone onto the crisp white duvet.
The room made you sit up straighter even when you were alone, whispering sweet nothings to your reflection.
Eucalyptus-scented soaps sat on the sink in serenity, lined up as soldiers.
The thick blackout curtains promised comforting oblivion.
I pulled them open, and the Ball Arena stared back.
Massive, polished, and already intimidating from across the street.
Tomorrow, I’d walk into it with my team.
My chest did a slow flutter, and I was freaking loving it.
I freshened up, slipping into my baby-blue button-down and navy bottoms. Simple and tucked in, it made me feel armed for a room full of men. Then I headed down for the team meeting. I locked my face into my ‘effortless competent’ vibe as I approached the conference room.
Outside the door, I stopped, doing a quick mental pep talk. Then it opened, a player slipped past me, and I took it as my cue and walked in. Inside it was filled with players, lit screens, and chattering staff. No one paid attention to me, which was good.
I swept the room for somewhere to sit. I didn’t know anyone yet, but I knew I was reporting to Coach Murphy. Dane, the assistant coach with the jaw of a prizefighter, sat to his right, and—oh, for the love of all that’s convenient—there was an open seat on Murphy’s left.
Just my luck. Absolutely not stressful.
I slid into the chair, aiming to pass as someone who belonged, even inches from the very composed (and very attractive) head coach. I set my DevPad down, smoothed my pants, and crossed my legs with practiced calm…and my foot bumped straight into his leg.
My head snapped toward him. “Excuse me,” I muttered, cringing.
He looked over, one brow raised, likely weighing whether to smirk or add it to a ‘Melanie’s Mishaps’ file.
I straightened, gave what I hoped was a confident, nonchalant nod. If kicking him was part of my sophisticated settling-in routine, I was on top.
“Strong opener,” he said under his breath, and then, a miracle: the corner of his mouth lifted, a slow joke that was just for me.
A tiny, exclusive club of two.
Global warming ticked up half a degree. Honestly, the only reason he didn’t smile was probably out of concern for the rising sea levels.
“Settling in okay?” he asked.
I nodded, clutching my pen. “So far, no disasters.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.” His gaze held mine for a beat, and my pulse quickened. A flush crept up my neck, blooming across my cheeks before I could look away.
The meeting kicked off with tactical breakdowns, video highlights, and matchup analysis.
I took notes, trying to ignore the fact that my pulse reacted every time he leaned forward to point something out on the screen.
When he did, I caught the scent of his cologne—sharp citrus and wild sea breeze all in one.
This was serious sensory overload for a first meeting.
Afterward, we headed to Ball Arena for the walk-through. The team filed onto the shuttle, voices hushed, shoulders a little tighter. Inside the arena, players took slow laps, stretching out their legs. A few lingered by the equipment, adjusting gear or chatting with trainers.
The air was brisk and colder. I hadn’t realized we’d be out here this long. I hovered behind the bench, my designated spot per Maria’s instructions, trying not to regret my sensible slacks.
Coach Murphy approached, hands in his pockets, gaze locked on me. “Comfortable?”
I straightened and might have shivered slightly, but I gave him a thumbs-up. “All good.”
His eyes did a slow, deliberate scan of my blouse, down to my slacks, and back to my face. My pulse gave a little thump-thump.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked away. I tracked him with my eyes, confused. He bent over a duffel bag and came back holding a jacket. Dark team colors, oversized, definitely not mine.
He held it out, his expression unreadable. “You look cold. Hockey rinks aren’t heated.”
I hesitated long enough for him to notice.
“It’s clean. Promise.” His tone held a hint of amusement.
I took it, the fabric surprisingly soft. “Thanks.”
I slipped it on. Warmth hit fast, and so did something else, a strange, undeniable surge of something. His cologne clung to it, making me straighten for reasons that had nothing to do with posture.
He watched, a slow, knowing smirk formed at the edge of his mouth—the kind that said he’d noticed exactly what the jacket had done to me.
“We’re on neutral ground at the rink,” he said, “For future reference, no need to suit up. Save the slacks for the office.”
I glanced down at my perfectly tailored pants. “So this isn’t business-casual ice?”
His lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but enough to tick global warming up yet another half degree. I hated how much I noticed it.
“You should stay warm. Wouldn’t want you freezing during drills,” he said, already turning away.
I pulled the jacket tighter, my heart fluttering again. This time, zero percent from cold. Maybe I wasn’t nailing this job yet, but I wasn’t frozen out either. And that felt like a win.