Chapter 21 Wheels Up （Eden）
WHEELS UP (EDEN)
The cold fingers of December air sneak under my coat the second I step out of the Uber. Teterboro isn’t glamorous—it’s gray tarmac, the smell of jet fuel, and men in puffy team jackets hunching against the wind while their breath steams in the air.
I tug my coat tighter as I enter the terminal and scan for a familiar face.
The Defenders are scattered in loose knots, laughing, shoving, tossing a puck back-and-forth, rowdy and restless.
Only one of them is still, leaning against the side with his hood up, headphones on, and his suitcase tucked neatly against his right leg.
Nate. Not talking, not smiling—watching.
He doesn’t move when I start approaching. But I feel him tracking me all the way in.
Inside, the terminal is a cocoon of heat and humming fluorescents. The Defenders’ gear bags are lined in military rows, each tagged and waiting for loading. A man in a team beanie, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp, spots me.
“Carver, right? Mercer, head athletic trainer. Russo’s yours this week. Keep him out of trouble and out of the rack. Back-to-backs, give him primers, isos, tissue work. If he reaches for a barbell, take it away.”
I nod, clutching my bag tighter.
“Circle up!” Coach Novak’s bark cuts through the chatter. Players shuffle in, broad shoulders and easy grins forming a loose huddle. I hover on the edge, half hidden.
“This is Eden Carver,” Coach announces. “Team PT for the week. She’s here for Russo’s hip, but if any of you pull something, she’ll patch you up. Try not to make her regret coming with us.”
There’s a ripple of greetings, some smirks, the usual cocky murmurs.
A woman steps up beside me—sleek bob, laptop bag slung over one shoulder. “Rowan,” she says under her breath, mouth curving. “PR.” She tips me a wink, nodding toward Novak. “Now watch this.”
Coach sweeps the room, jaw set. “Listen up. We’ve got another young woman traveling with us this week, so I’ll say it before you get any stupid fucking ideas. Hands off. The women who work with this team are off limits. You cross the line, you sit. Clear?”
A low whistle from Wesley. “You know it’s the twenty-first century, right, Coach? They can handle themselves without the dad routine.”
There’s a ripple of chuckles, but Wesley’s not done. “Besides, little late for the warning, isn’t it? One of your sons-in-law is our captain, and your other daughter’s got twins with O’Reilly.”
That earns a chorus of “oohs” and laughter from the guys. Even Finn smirks, shaking his head. Adam just folds his arms, clearly not planning to comment either way.
Coach exhales through his nose, then glances at me and Rowan.
“He’s not wrong. I know it sounds paternalistic, and if either of you took offense, I apologize.
But I’m still saying it. Because I know these idiots, and I’m not dealing with whatever soap opera comes from anyone crossing the line. So, off limits.”
His gaze sweeps the players again before landing back on us. “And if any of these guys give you trouble, you come straight to me. Got it?”
Rowan hides a laugh behind her hand, clearly entertained. I, on the other hand, am completely aghast. The whole thing is straight out of a bad workplace training video. I can’t stop myself from stealing a glance at Nate.
He’s not looking at Coach. He’s looking at me. And he’s smirking, eyes lit with a dare. The call to board breaks us apart. I follow Rowan up the steps. By the time I enter the airplane, Nate’s already dropped into his seat—window, aisle empty—and the duffel guarding the space beside him.
“Move that,” he says when I reach the row, nodding at the bag. “You’re sitting here.”
I hesitate. “Pretty sure I’ve seen guys sprint for this seat before you even got off the bus. You stealing someone’s lucky spot?”
His mouth curves slow. “It’s mine. Window seat, aisle empty. Always.”
From two rows back, Wesley calls out, “Hey, Russo, what the hell? You dropping your superstition?”
“Upgrading it,” Nate fires back without looking away from me. “Got myself a better good luck charm.”
He shifts his duffel into the overhead and drops back down beside me, long legs taking over most of the foot space.
“You good with turbulence?” he asks, that faint rasp curling over me.
“I’ll manage,” I mutter, tugging my sweater closer. “Not my first flight.”
“Didn’t say it was,” he rumbles, settling his arm on the shared rest until his elbow nudges mine. “Just wanted to know if I’m holding your hand when this thing shakes.”
I glance at him. His eyes stay on the seatback screen, the corner of his mouth tipping.
“I don’t need hand-holding,” I whisper.
“That’s a shame,” he says easily. “I’ve got big hands.”
Heat snaps low. My brain does unhelpful math—span, grip, everywhere those hands were yesterday. I swallow. “Use them to hold your coffee, Russo.”
The engines spool, vibration rolling through the cabin. My tray table chatters; his thigh brushes mine and stays. The manspread is deliberate. He isn’t moving.
“Russo.” I hiss his name, but it comes out thinner than I want.
He finally looks at me. Calm and unbothered. That slow, wolfish half-smile that says he’s in no rush because he already knows the ending.
“You’re tense.” His fingers brush over the back of my hand resting on my thigh. Just a brief sweep, but enough to spike my pulse.
I snatch my hand back, crossing my arms, but his touch lingers on my skin.
“Relax,” he drawls, settling deeper into his seat. “It’s a long flight. I’ll keep you entertained.”
He flips his tray down and taps the elastic on my wrist. “Lend me the hair tie?”
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
I slide it off. He fishes a plain band from his pocket, threads it onto my hair tie, and holds the elastic taut between us.
“Watch.”
The ring climbs—slow, steady—then stops a breath from my fingertip.
“Say when,” he murmurs.
My pulse trips. “When.”
He halts exactly there, eases the ring free, and drops the tie back into my palm. “Good. I stop when you tell me to.”
I curl my fingers around the elastic and try to remember how to breathe. He settles back, smug and quiet, thigh still anchored against mine.
A few rows back, Wesley calls something about in-flight movies, and the moment snaps. But Nate stays leaned into my space, one arm heavy along the rest, his thigh still pressed against mine, a steady reminder all the way to Montreal.
By the time we roll up to the hotel, December air bites through my coat, breath fogging white.
The guys are chirping in the lobby, loud enough that the desk clerk notices but pretends not to hear.
Wesley reaches for my bag; Nate materializes, cuts him off with a quiet glare, and takes the handle before I can answer.
Wesley’s brow ticks up, mouth curving. He lifts his hands in a wordless surrender and falls in step, amused and silent.
We check in. The clerk slides over a key card, room 812. When we step into the elevator, Nate presses eight. Our rooms are across the hall. His key card beeps first. “Handy,” he murmurs.
“Coincidence?” I ask.
“That’s cute, Trouble.”
I barely have time to kick my suitcase against the wall before there’s a knock. Two sharp raps, no hesitation.
When I open the door, Nate’s leaning on the frame, hair pushed back, Henley stretched indecently across his chest, his coat folded over one arm.
“Dinner,” he says curtly.
I blink. “Now?”
“Team’s heading out in five.” His gaze skims over me, lingering long enough to trip my pulse. “Grab your purse. Maybe add a sweater; it’s freezing out there.”
I fold my arms. “Thanks for the fashion tip.”
“Just looking out for you, Trouble.” He pushes off the frame and strolls down the hall. “Meet you in the lobby.”
By the time I hurry downstairs, the guys are already filing through the hotel doors in a noisy pack—laughter, chirps, someone shouting about the salmon Coach swears by. I quicken my pace, pulse spiking. Great. Late to my very first team dinner.
Perfect impression, Eden.
“Relax.”
The word drifts from the reception desk, where Nate’s leaned against the counter, leisurely scrolling through his phone. His eyes flick up, catching mine. “You’re fine.”
I glance toward the doors again. “They’re leaving—”
“You’re good,” he cuts in smoothly, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Come on.”
I trail after him, still half panicked, until we step into the cold night. The team veers left, rowdy voices echoing down the block. Nate doesn’t follow. Instead, he slides his hand around mine, tugging me right.
I freeze at the contact—warm, grounding, way too intimate. But before I can protest, my body betrays me, falling into step beside him.
Confusion knots in my chest. “Wait, you said—”
“I said the team was heading out.” His grin tilts as he steers me toward a glass-fronted restaurant glowing soft and golden against the snow. Linen tablecloths. Candlelight. Not a single hockey player in sight. “Never said we were joining them.”
I hover in the doorway, nerves buzzing under my skin. This isn’t a team dinner; it’s just the two of us.
My throat tightens. “Nate…didn’t you hear Coach at the airport?”
He doesn’t flinch. Just holds the door wider, steady and sure. “Who says I am planning anything untoward? Besides, let me worry about Novak.” His gaze catches mine.
The protest dies on my tongue. Against my better judgment, I step past him into the glow of the restaurant, heart hammering.
The hostess beams the second she sees him. “Mr. Russo. Table’s ready.”
My head whips toward him. “You made a reservation?”
“Of course I did.” He doesn’t even blink. “Did you think we were going to a sports bar?”
Yes. Exactly that.
The hostess leads us to a corner table tucked half behind a velvet curtain, private enough that the city outside feels a million miles away. Nate pulls out my chair, waits until I’m seated, then takes his spot across from me.
Two glasses of sparkling water appear, condensation beading down the sides. My brows lift. “Did you order already?”
“Always do,” he says easily, eyes locked on mine. “Figured you’d want it cold, no lemon.”
I blink. “How would you know that?”
His mouth tips. “I pay attention.”
The waiter disappears, leaving just us and the low hum of jazz. Nate leans forward, forearms braced on the table, voice dipping low.
“Relax, Trouble. It’s dinner. Good food. A little quiet. Maybe I’ll even make you laugh.”
I grip the stem of my glass, trying to play it off, even as my pulse skips. “You tricked me.”
“Semantics.” His mouth curves.
And just like that, I realize I’m on a date.