Chapter 6 #2
“Come on, Toby,” I mutter, pausing the video.
“You had the lane.” I scribble another note into the binder in front of me.
Gap control and power play entries need work.
I flip to the next page. Defensive pairings, face-off percentages.
Zone exits. Penalty kill rotations. This is the part I love.
The part most people don’t see. Everyone thinks coaching is barking orders from behind the bench and yelling at referees when calls don’t go your way.
But it’s this. Hours spent staring at footage.
Watching the same shift twenty times until you can pinpoint exactly where things started to unravel.
Finding the cracks before they become problems. Turning weaknesses into strengths.
Dad used to tell me that coaches didn’t reinvent hockey.
They fixed little things, and eventually those little things come together and win championships.
The team knows they’re good.
The rest of the league knows it too. But good doesn’t win.
Great does.
I flip the page, and the name Woods in bold letters greets me in the low glow of my laptop.
My pen hovers over his name. Cocky. Coachable.
Thrives off praise. A smile threatens because he’s so transparent.
One compliment and he practically glows.
One small correction and he looks as if he wants to rip my damn throat out.
It’s fun. Watching him puff out his chest like an offended peacock one moment, only to beam the second I throw him a crumb of approval.
The man wears his emotions on his sleeve.
Which makes him easy. Easy to read. Easy to understand.
I flip to the next page. Sasha. My pen taps against the paper. Captain. Leader. Pain in my ass. There’s no denying his talent. He commands the ice with an ease that can’t be taught. The team follows him without question. Half the time, he seems to know where the puck is going before everyone else.
I wish I could figure him out, though. He’s a tough one to crack. One minute, he’s glaring at me like I’m the source of all his misery. Next, I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking. I won’t lie and say I haven’t fantasized about him.
About them.
Which is pathetic. I’ve known them for a week.
And somehow, my stupid brain has decided that three gorgeous men and all their broody baggage are worth occupying every spare thought I have.
I hate it. Hate that my mind wanders when I’m trying to work.
Hate that I find myself wondering what it would be like to let go, just once.
To stop carrying the weight of everything and give in to my senses.
It’s not fair, and completely my fault for falling into whatever trap my hormones have decided to lay for me.
Exhaustion is a dangerous thing. It strips away common sense and leaves you alone with nothing but your thoughts. And lately, my thoughts have been traitorous.
I find myself imagining what Sasha’s hands would feel like roaming across my flesh as he nipped at my neck.
Holden on his knees, my clit between his teeth.
And Dominic…the broody equipment manager is hot as fucking hell.
The quiet observer. The one always lingering just out of sight with those dimples and that easy smile that makes me feel like I’m in on some joke I haven’t heard yet.
I’ve imagined him too. Standing to my right, sucking my nipple into his mouth, eliciting a soul deep moan I can’t keep down, all while his pack devours me like I’m their last fucking meal.
God, I hate myself.
A knock sounds at my door, drawing my attention from my self loathing, and I nearly jump out of my skin. My hand flies to my chest as my eyes dart toward the office door.
My fucking God. I thought I was alone here. I reach over and flick on my desk lamp, not realizing just how dark it’d gotten.
“Come in,” I call out, a little uneasy. The handle turns slowly, and I almost wish it hadn’t.
Holden Woods steps into my office, his broad frame filling the doorway, all that cocky confidence wrapped in a black Cardinals t-shirt and sweats that hang low on his damn hips.
The hallway behind him is dark, leaving his face cast in shadow.
For a second, all I see are those beautiful green eyes, a little darker in the night, and the curve of a smirk that tells me he knows something I don’t.
My heart almost stops. Not because it’s Holden, but because it’s after ten at night and I thought I was alone.
“What are you doing here so late?” His shadowed smile widens, the darkness only making him look more dangerous.
“Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.”
I blink. My pulse is finally slowing now that I know I’m not about to become the topic of news headlines tomorrow morning when they find my body.
“You nearly gave me a fucking heart attack.”
“Sorry…Coach.” He says the last word like it’s venom in his mouth, his lips curling around the title as though the very idea of me being in charge leaves a bitter taste behind.
The low rumble of his voice sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine, and I hate that my body notices things like that.
Especially now. With him standing there in the doorway, half hidden in the fucking dark.
“Right. Can I help you?” I ask, clearing my throat, doing my best to abolish any signs of my unease because his noticing that detail is the last thing I need right now.
He hums thoughtfully, stepping into the office and closing the door behind him.
I watch as he takes in the office. The laptop on my desk, the game footage paused on the screen.
The whiteboard covered in arrows and scribbled notes.
The three empty coffee cups littering my desk.