Chapter 20 Sergio
SERGIO
The rink is freezing at six in the morning. Perfect. I need ice and frost and something to kill the fire that's been burning in my gut since Jessica walked into my house wearing my brother's henley and smelling like everything I've ever wanted.
She's in my truck right now. Passenger seat.
Knees pulled up, bare feet on the dash because she kicked off her shoes the second she got in.
Nacho's grey hoodie swallows her frame, but it can't hide the swell of her hips where the fabric bunches.
Can't hide the curve of her thighs in those black leggings that should be illegal.
I keep my eyes on the road. Mostly.
"You're quiet," she says.
"I'm always quiet."
"Quieter than usual."
I grunt. She's not wrong. But if I open my mouth right now, I'm going to say something stupid. Something like I've been thinking about your mouth since three AM or the way you laughed in my kitchen made me want to pin you against the counter and taste you.
Can't say that. Won't say that.
Best friend's ex. Heat coming. Vulnerable.
Control, Negrorio.
I pull into the rink parking lot and kill the engine.
"This is it." I'm out of the truck before she can respond. Need distance. Need air. Not her scent.
She follows me to the side door, those bare feet now shoved into sneakers she didn't bother to tie. Her ponytail swings with each step. I watch the way her ass moves under that hoodie and remind myself that I'm thirty-two years old and not a teenager who can't control himself.
Doesn't help.
I unlock the door and flip on the lights.
The rink sprawls out before us. Empty bleachers. Fresh ice. Banner from our championship hanging crooked because nobody's fixed it since Martinez graduated.
"Wow." Jessica steps past me onto the rubber matting. Her head tilts back, taking it all in. The fluorescent lights catch the curve of her throat. I want to put my mouth there. Want to feel her pulse jump under my lips.
"Equipment room's this way."
I walk. Don't wait to see if she follows. I know she does. Can hear her footsteps. Can smell her scent trailing behind me like a promise.
The equipment room is chaos. Sticks piled in corners. Helmets scattered across shelves. Skates in bins that haven't been sorted since last season.
"I need inventory." I grab a clipboard off the wall and shove it at her. "What's broken. What needs replacing. Everything documented."
She takes the clipboard. Our fingers brush. Heat shoots up my arm and straight to my groin.
Her breath catches. She felt it too.
I step back. Put space between us.
"Practice starts at seven. Team arrives in forty minutes."
"Got it." She's already scanning the room, that sharp brain of hers clicking into gear. I can almost see her sorting everything into mental categories. "Helmets first?"
"Your call."
"My call?" She looks at me, surprised.
"You're running this. I'm coaching. Two different jobs."
Something shifts in her expression. The uncertainty fades. Her shoulders straighten.
"Okay." She pulls a pen from somewhere—the hoodie pocket, maybe—and starts writing. "I'll have preliminary numbers by practice."
I nod and get out of there before I do something stupid. Like tell her she's magnificent when she's focused. Like admit that watching her take charge does things to me that have no business happening at six in the morning.
The team arrives in waves.
Connor first, because the kid has no concept of fashionably late. Then Tyler and Marcus together, shoving each other through the door. Danny Wheeler last, dragging his bag like it weighs more than he does.
Seventeen boys. Ages fourteen to eighteen. Loud as hell and twice as obnoxious.
I love every one of them.
"Morning, Coach!"
"Practice in twenty. Gear up."
They scatter toward the locker room. I head to my office to grab the practice plan, and that's when I hear it.
Laughter.
Not teenage boy laughter. Something warmer. Softer.
Jessica.
I follow the sound to the equipment room. She's got Marcus cornered by the helmet shelf, clipboard in hand, pen pointed at him like a weapon.
"Three helmets, Marcus. You've cracked three helmets this season. That's a record."
"I have a hard head."
"Clearly not hard enough, or they wouldn't be cracking." She makes a note on her clipboard. "I'm putting you down for reinforced. The good kind. With the extra padding."
"Those are ugly."
"Those will keep your brain inside your skull where it belongs."
I lean against the doorframe and watch. She hasn't noticed me yet. She's too busy cataloging Marcus's destruction, hips cocked to one side, that pen tapping against her bottom lip.
God, her mouth. Full and soft and pink without any lipstick. I think about it more than I should. Think about what sounds she'd make if I bit that bottom lip. If I sucked on it. If I—
"Coach." Connor appears at my elbow. "You okay? You look weird."
I straighten. "Fine. Get dressed."
"Who's the lady?"
"Team admin. Her name is Jessica."
"She's pretty."
My hand tightens on the doorframe. "She's helping with equipment. Go."
Connor grins like he knows something I don't and disappears toward the locker room. Little shit.
Jessica finally spots me. Her cheeks flush pink.
"I found gum in the penalty box."
"Marcus."
"That's what I figured." She holds up her clipboard. "Six helmets need replacing. Four pairs of skates are past safety date. Someone's been using a stick that's literally held together with tape and prayers."
"Tyler. He's superstitious about his gear."
"Superstitious or cheap?"
"Both." I push off from the doorframe. "You're fast."
"I like systems." She shrugs, but I catch the pleased curve of her lips. "Everything has a place. Finding it is the fun part."
Callum called her obsessive. Said she color-coded their grocery lists like a freak.
Callum was a fucking idiot.
"Come meet the team."
The locker room goes quiet when we walk in.
Seventeen faces turn toward us. Seventeen pairs of eyes land on Jessica and stay there.
She freezes beside me. I feel her tense. Feel her wanting to shrink.
No. Not here. Not with my boys.
I put my hand on the small of her back. Light pressure. Steady. I've got you.
"This is Jessica. She's handling team admin. Schedules, equipment, travel. You have questions about that stuff, you talk to her. Not me."
Silence.
Then Connor, because of course it's Connor: "You're the raccoon lady."
Jessica goes rigid under my palm.
"The one who called in every deputy in the county for a trash panda. My mom told me."
I open my mouth to shut him down, but Jessica beats me to it.
"In my defense, it was a very aggressive raccoon."
Connor grins. "My uncle got bit by one once. Had to get rabies shots. In his stomach."
"That's horrifying."
"He deserved it. He was trying to pet it."
"Why would anyone try to pet a raccoon?"
"He was drunk."
"That explains nothing and everything at the same time."
The tension breaks. Boys start laughing. Tyler snorts so hard water comes out of his nose. Even stoic Danny cracks a smile.
Jessica's shoulders relax under my hand. She steps away from my touch—I feel the loss immediately—and moves toward the benches.
"Okay, show of hands. Who else has cracked a helmet this season besides Marcus?"
Three hands go up.
"Who's still using equipment from last year that probably doesn't fit anymore because you've grown four inches?"
Five more hands.
"Who's been hiding gear issues because they didn't want to bother Coach?"
Every hand in the room.
She looks at me, eyebrow raised. "We have some work to do."
I should be annoyed. Should be defensive. She just exposed problems I should have caught months ago.
Instead I'm fighting a smile.
"Get started after practice. I want a full report."
"You'll have it."
She says it like a promise. Like a challenge. Like she's daring me to doubt her.
I don't. Not for a second.
Practice is brutal.
I run them hard. Drills until their legs shake. Scrimmages until they're gasping. Conditioning that makes Connor whine and Tyler threaten mutiny.
Through it all, Jessica watches.
She's set up at a folding table by the boards, laptop open, that ridiculous clipboard beside her. I catch glimpses between whistles. The furrow between her brows when she's concentrating. The way she mouths numbers to herself as she types. The flash of satisfaction when something clicks into place.
She's in her element. This is what she's good at. Not carpentry or clinic filing or dispatch work. This. Systems. People. Making chaos into order.
I blow the whistle. "Water break. Two minutes."
The boys flood toward the bench. Jessica's already there, handing out bottles, asking questions I can't quite hear.
I hang back and watch.
Danny Wheeler approaches her. The kid's fourteen, smallest on the team, hasn't scored a goal all season. He's got that look—shoulders hunched, eyes down. The look of someone expecting to be dismissed.
Jessica crouches to his level. Her hand rests on his arm. She says something that makes him lift his head. Something that makes him nod. Something that puts a spark in his eyes that wasn't there before.
My chest tightens.
This. This is what Callum tried to kill. Her ability to see people. To make them feel valued. To find the cracks and fill them with light instead of criticism.
She rises and catches me watching. Tilts her head. What?
I shake my head. Nothing.
Everything.
After practice, she pulls out cookies.
I don't know where they came from. Don't remember her baking. But there's a massive container of chocolate chip cookies appearing from her bag like magic, and my team descends like wolves.
"Holy shit, these are amazing."
"Language, Tyler."
"Sorry, Coach. Holy crap, these are amazing."
Jessica laughs. The sound hits me square in the chest. She's got flour on her cheek—how did I not notice that before?—and her ponytail is half-collapsed, and she's surrounded by sweaty teenage boys fighting over baked goods.
She's never been more beautiful.