6. Cole
Cole
The massage table is heated to the perfect temperature, but I can't relax. Hillary works her hands along my shoulder blades, trying to work out the knots that formed during this morning's practice, but my mind is elsewhere.
On Harper. On that kiss.
Christ, the way she tasted. Like coffee and heat. That raw, desperate moan that left her throat when I kissed her. The one that’s been on a loop in my head for two days.
The way her hips moved, grinding against me like she couldn't help herself. She wanted me just as badly as I wanted her, and that knowledge is driving me insane.
“Your shoulders are like concrete blocks,” Hillary says, digging her elbow into a particularly stubborn knot. “What's got you so tense?”
If only she knew. “Just thinking about the season opener.”
“Mmm. Well, try not to think so hard. You're making my job harder.” She moves to work on my lower back.
I try to focus on the pain of the deep tissue work, on the game tape I reviewed this morning, on anything other than the fact that my best friend’s little sister is currently turning my brain and my body into mush.
It’s no use. The more I push her away from my mind, the more the memory of Harper becomes more vivid. The feel of her body against mine. The damp heat of her through her shorts.
Then, to my horror, my dick swells.
No. No, no, no.
I press my hips down harder into the table. Make it stop. This is a new circle of hell. I am the captain of the New York Renegades, and I’m getting a semi during a post-practice massage because I can’t stop thinking about Harper Hayes. Fuck me.
“Alright, flip over. I need to work on your hip flexors,” Hillary says.
My blood runs cold. There's no way in hell I'm flipping over right now, not with the semi I'm sporting just from thinking about Harper's mouth.
“I'm good like this,” I mumble into the face cradle.
“Cole, I need to work on the front.”
“Really, I'm fine. Just keep working on my back.”
Hilary pauses, then lets out a chuckle. “Oh, I see. Having a little circulation issue, are we?”
My face burns against the face cradle. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Honey, you're not the first professional athlete to get excited during a massage. It's all that blood flow from lying face down. Perfectly normal.”
Except it's not the blood flow. “I'm staying right here,” I say firmly.
Hilary laughs. “Suit yourself, Captain. I've got other clients to see.” She pats my shoulder condescendingly. “Take your time.”
The door closes behind her, and I press my forehead harder into the cradle. This is humiliating. I'm the captain of this team, and I'm hiding face down on a massage table because I’m hard from thinking about my best friend's sister.
What the hell is Harper doing to me?
An hour later, I'm alone on the ice, working through drills with a fury that would concern my coaches if they saw it. The cold air bites at my face as I push myself harder, faster, trying to skate away from thoughts of green eyes and soft curves.
But even out here, in my element, I can't escape her.
I slam a puck into the net so hard it ricochets off the back and nearly takes out my shin.
Focus, Maddox. Season starts in ten days.
After my workout, I shower quickly and change into my best navy suit for the media interview in the conference room.
“Cole.” Jennifer waves me over to where several reporters are setting up. “Ready for this?”
I straighten my tie and nod. “Absolutely.”
The first reporter jumps right in. “Cole, the big opener against Boston is coming up. What’s the mindset of the team?”
“Focused,” I say, my voice even. “We’ve addressed last season’s weaknesses. We’re ready to compete.”
“Confident you can make a playoff run this year?”
“That’s the goal. It’s always the goal. We have the talent. Now we execute.” I answer on autopilot. Strong. Confident. Unflappable. If they only knew I’d been rendered a flustered, hormonal teenager by a five-foot-nothing event planner just hours ago.
The questions continue for twenty minutes. All things I can answer in my sleep. Then one reporter in the back raises his hand.
“Cole, there were reports that Novak was photographed leaving a socialite’s penthouse at six AM the morning before your playoff elimination game. Do you think his off-ice activities contributed to the team's loss?”
My jaw tightens, but my expression remains neutral. “Novak's personal life has zero correlation with team performance. I can give you his shot accuracy, face-off percentage, and plus-minus from that game if you want actual relevant statistics.”
The reporter tries to follow up, but I'm already moving to the next question.
Inside, irritation burns in my chest. Not at the reporter, they're just doing their job, but at Nova for putting us in this position in the first place.
I remember cornering him in the locker room after the loss. When I'd brought up the front-page photo from the previous night, he waved it off, giving me the same response I just gave the reporter: his personal life has zero correlation with the team's performance.
Still, I'm glad when the interview finally ends and I can go home.
The apartment smells like Chinese takeout when I walk in, and I find Harper at the dining table, surrounded by her usual chaos of papers. She looks up when she hears my footsteps, and a guarded expression comes over her features before she grins.
“Wow. Suit and tie. Media day?” She gives me a once-over. “It’s a good look. Very commanding captain.”
I usually shrug off compliments. They’re part of the uniform. But this one, from her, lands differently. A stupid, unwarranted surge of pride hits me. “Thanks,” I manage, my voice gruffer than intended.
I shrug off my jacket, needing to do something with my hands. “How are preparations for the kickoff party going?”
The light in her eyes dims instantly, replaced by a flicker of stress. She runs a hand through her hair. “They were going great until about two hours ago. The Rainbow Room is suddenly giving us the runaround. It’s a mess.”
“Can I help? I might have some connections.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, and she immediately looks contrite. “Thank you, but I'd rather handle this without help.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Sore point?”
She sighs. “I've always wanted to make it on my own merit. Not because of who I know or who my brother knows.”
I study her face and see something I recognize in myself. The same drive that pushed me to captain this team, the need to prove yourself worthy of the position. “Tell me about your company.”
“I started Hayes & Company Events five years ago with money I saved waitressing through college. Jessica, James, and Amber are my only full-time employees.” She gestures at the papers around her. “This Renegades contract is the biggest thing we've ever landed.”
I'm impressed despite myself. Building a business from nothing, especially in New York's competitive event planning market, takes balls. “That's really impressive.”
Her features soften. “Thanks. It's been a lot of sleepless nights, but we're finally starting to get somewhere.”
“How's practice going?” she asks, clearly wanting to change the subject. “You ready for the season?”
“As ready as we can be. The team looks better than we have in years.” I sit down across from her, something I wouldn't have done yesterday. “This is our year to make the playoffs.”
“No pressure there,” she says with a smile.
“I work better under pressure.”
“Yeah, I'm starting to figure that out about you,” she says, locking gazes with me.
There's something in the way she says it, like she's seeing pieces of me I don't usually show people. It makes me squirm.
“Speaking of pressure,” she says. “I talked to my contractor the other day.”
I can tell by her tone that this isn't good news. “And?”
“The damage is worse than we thought. Six to eight weeks’ minimum, maybe longer if they run into complications with the building's plumbing.”
Six to eight weeks. Two months of Harper in my space, making me think about things I shouldn't be thinking about. I should be annoyed, maybe even ask her to find alternative arrangements. Instead, I hear myself saying, “You can stay as long as you need.”
Harper's eyes widen, and she searches my face for some sign that I don't mean it. “Cole, that's a long time. I don't want to impose.”
“You're not imposing.” The lie comes easily, even though we both know it's not entirely true. “It's a big apartment. We can make it work.”
The moment stretches between us, and the memory of our kiss springs to my mind. I should say something about it, address what happened, but the words stick in my throat.
Harper must feel it, too, because she suddenly looks uncomfortable. “Thank you. I'll try to stay out of your way.”
I should go. But I don't want to leave. I want to sit and just talk. “I should let you get back to work,” I say instead, standing up.
“Yeah, I've got a lot to catch up on.”
I'm halfway to the door when I stop. “Harper?”
“Yeah?”
“About the other morning—”
Her body goes rigid. “Don’t.” She doesn't look up from her screen. “Just don't.”
“Right.” She’s probably right. That kiss is best forgotten. It was three o’clock in the morning, and we were both sleepy and out of it. Even if it’s all I’ve been able to think about since.