Chapter 12
Beckett
I’ve been in the PT room for almost fifteen minutes, too nervous to focus on hockey. I wasn’t this nervous before my first pro game.
It’s not the dancing; I can handle performing in high-pressure situations. I’ve already had to do this dance in front of people once. What’s another time?
Plus, we’ve practiced. We’ve practiced the shit out of this dance.
In my apartment when we’re in town, and once each in Arizona and Texas.
Turns out, hotel staff are almost scarily willing to open up an empty ballroom when two grown adults tell them they have to practice a dance for their charity competition.
Dallas might’ve been because the woman knew Finley, based on the double take she did when we asked.
Though she did call her Blane, so maybe not a huge fan.
We’ve got this from a dance perspective.
So, the nerves I’m feeling? That’s all Coach Finley Blake.
The woman I can’t seem to stop fucking thinking about.
The one whose eyes have to be the same damn color as Yeti blue, so I swear I see them everywhere I look.
I’m afraid I’m losing control, and this final dance might be too much.
Or maybe not enough. And it’s the fact that I can’t tell that has me questioning everything.
“I can’t believe we have to do this,” Finley says as she walks into the room, her long dark hair bouncing in her ponytail with each step.
She’s wearing a pink Yeti shirt with black yoga pants, showing every single muscle in her legs.
They weave up her body and around her hips.
The hips I’m going to have my hands on very soon.
We’ve watched Dirty Dancing about five hundred times now, and the pink shirt from the team store was as close as she was willing to get to the dress in the movie.
The amount of thought that woman puts into her attire to make sure she’s both feminine enough but not too feminine to be a head coach is…
disgusting, frankly. Society should really get its shit together.
I continue stretching, making sure my body is warm and ready for this. I can’t be off my game, and damn it, if Coach Blake doesn’t knock me off-balance more than any woman I’ve ever met.
“I can’t believe it’s been two days since we’ve been able to practice together,” I gripe. Sure, I would’ve liked to practice together a few more times, but really, I just miss spending time with her… as a friend.
“Turns out, having highly demanding jobs doesn’t mix well with participating in silly competitions.”
I nod. “Li and Larsen resorted to practicing in Li’s room when we were in Dallas. I tried to get Larsen to spill what they’re doing, but they’re being secretive shits about the whole thing.”
Finley bounces on her toes a few times. “I’m ready for this whole thing to be over with.”
“Same,” I agree, though it’s not entirely true. I may not want to be doing these events all the time, but I’m not ready for our time together to be over.
“Hey!” a petite woman I don’t think I’ve ever seen before calls as she walks into the PT room. “Sabrina asked me to get you both. It’s time.”
“Oh my gosh, Charlotte, how do you always know to turn up for these things?” Finley asks.
“Besides the fact that knowing what’s going on in Denver is literally my job?” Charlotte replies as we all walk down the hall together. “I also got a text from Lefevre.”
“Sit with us?” Finley asks as we walk in, and I realize this petite woman, who looks like her entire outfit was designed specifically for her, must actually mean something to Finley. She’s never mentioned her before, but she must be a friend.
We’re last to perform, as requested, so we settle into a row in the back, as far as possible from the hoard of PR team members holding cameras.
Sabrina doesn’t take long getting everything going, and she quickly hands the microphone to the owner to say a few words. I appreciate this man’s dedication, when the majority of owners would just let their team run everything and only show up for the most important moments.
Once Ken is done with his remarks, Li and Larsen start us off, running onto the stage like they’ve just won a championship.
They start dancing a mashup, according to Charlotte, of the most popular dances on social media.
The speakers are blaring, and Larsen has hip-thrusted more times than I ever needed to see.
“Ouch.” Finley curls toward me to cover her face as the two collide mid-jump.
J.D. and Rob are next, doing a comedy sketch where they each pretend to be the other one giving pre-game locker-room speeches.
J.D. does a monotone, Santa-coded version of Rob, and Rob absolutely kills it with a wild motivational rant.
I’m not sure the fans will get the “synergy” references, but the team is here for it.
Lefevre and Doctor Pearce do something that’s half magic, half chemistry, and completely impressive, especially when they make a puck levitate with magnets.
They leave the stage to be replaced by Bjork and Volkov, rocking cutoff jean shorts with jean vests and their long blonde hair hanging in their eyes. Loud rock music blares, and they start to sing in both Swedish and Russian.
“Well, how ’bout that!” Finley says. “Did you know those two could sing?”
It’s so cute when her midwestern comes out that I can’t help but smile. “Yeah, we sit around the locker room doing sing-alongs all the time,” I reply, chuckling when she elbows me.
Everly and John take to the stage next and pull out four huge stacks of cups with the Yeti mascot on them. On beat with their pop music, they start stacking the cups.
There’s an awkward silence in the place until Finley lets out a loud whistle and yells, “Yeah, John!”
The team takes their coach’s signal as an order to cheer and ups their noise game—starting an “Everly” chant when she almost knocks a cup over. As their song comes to an end, they slide the cups down, collapsing the massive pyramid they created in just a few movements.
Well, shit, that’s everyone but us.
***
“(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” starts, and the crowd goes wild as the lights dim. My eyes meet Finley’s as she stands in the center of the stage, shoulders thrown back. I slowly walk toward her, even doing the little finger quirk before I reach her. Her eyes meet mine, something sparking in them.
I pull her close before dipping her low. Her back bends until her long ponytail sweeps across the floor.
The boys in the seats lose their ever-loving minds, and the pleased smile that crosses Finley’s face is a real one.
We don’t do the forehead part, the one where our gazes are supposed to connect with fire and passion—my dance instructor’s words, not mine. We’re walking a fine line when it comes to professionalism, but I know it’s going to bring home a victory.
I twirl her out of my arms and quickly pull her back in, in a reflection of the dance we’ve been doing lately, the one where we get one step closer before quickly taking two steps back.
Watching her eyes as we cha-cha, I do my best not to mess this up. It’s where I’m most likely to stomp on one of her toes. Her smile softens slightly as our eyes meet, and warmth grows in my chest—fuck. What am I doing? She’s my fucking coach.
We turn, her left arm coming to rest on my shoulder as we shift into that portion of the dance.
When we come back together, Finley scans my face before quirking an eyebrow.
Knowing I can’t explain the sudden unease curling around my core, I subtly shake my head.
I don’t know what’s happening to me right now.
She squeezes my bicep with her left hand, holding on long enough to tell me she’s there. That maybe, just maybe, she understands.
As we dance across the stage, she dips her head back and then flings her hair up, the move I teased her about relentlessly for not even trying.
I know she did it just for me.
It’s going well, we’re making our way through the middle, our steps perfect, everything aligned.
Her giving a step, then me giving a step.
The excitement in the room is building. They know what’s coming.
But they’ve forgotten the best part isn’t the big lift at the very end.
It’s the little hip thrust section that’s as close as I’ll ever get to more with Coach Finley Blake.
She looks completely put out during the whole section, but she does it, even going so far as to yell out, “Sprints until you puke to anyone who ever mentions this again!” midway through.
I’m surprised Larsen didn’t catch fire the way her eyes were laser-focused on him as she said it.
Our first lift happens, the one where she kicks her legs into a split and holds them at waist height while I spin her around, and—shit.
She jumps a little higher than usual, and her warm breath hits my neck, causing every ounce of blood in my body to flow south.
Sexy dances and even sexier coaches do not mix. Should not mix.
I get myself under control enough to set her down, sneaking in the hand kiss from the movie that she vetoed in practice.
And then I jump my ass off the stage, knees up in a full cannonball pose, desperate for the distance between our bodies, yet missing her touch the moment I leave her.
Instead of dancing around the auditorium like Patrick Swayze does, I pull Larsen up, twirling him around just like I did to Finley.
The room loses it.
Coach does her part, smiling and dancing on the stage, and I hate that I want her smile back to being only for me.
After dancing with all the players in the front row, I jump back onto the stage and nod once. Finley returns the gesture before running to me, nothing but calm determination on her face.
Then, she jumps.
My hands find her hips. I power out of my squat, my arms extending overhead as I press her to the sky. I hold her there, her weight nothing compared to the heat of her body pressing into my palms, and it feels right.
Her arms go out, the overhead light illuminating a halo around her head as I stare up at her. She looks like an angel, and for one second, I let myself feel it: the longing that has been growing since the day I set my eyes on Coach Finley Blake.
And, fuck. I am so screwed.
I know we finish the dance, but I couldn’t tell you a single thing that happened after the lift. Not a single one.