Chapter 9
Lion’s Den
West
Ten a.m. on an island doesn't feel like ten a.m. anywhere else. The sun's already high, the pace is unhurried, and nobody expects anything from you yet.
I'm outside on the terrace, shirtless, doing a slow hip rotation that used to be part of my daily warm-up.
Wide stance. Knees bent. Core tight.
It's the kind of movement that looks lazy and feels anything but. The kind that keeps a hockey center explosive, dangerous, and effective at thirty-four.
I roll my hips forward. Pause. Back.
Everything should feel loose. Balanced.
Instead, my body is very aware of how much action it's been getting lately—and exactly who it's been getting it from.
I exhale through my teeth and decide this is a terrible line of thinking to have while shirtless in the sun.
I glance toward the bedroom, and Jane's standing there, watching me through the wide windows.
I keep my stance wide.
Roll my hips once.
Then again. Slower. And more deliberate.
The movement is lewd enough to be a suggestion, subtle enough to pretend it's still a stretch.
Her gaze drops.
Satisfaction hits fast and low. Prescott 1: Cooper 0.
I add a few more shallow thrusts, just to be obnoxious. Just to remind her who's her daddy. I laugh at my own dirty thoughts.
Then I see her smirk as she reaches down, lifts the hem of her shirt, and flashes me through the glass. Two full bounces. Quick. Shameless. Gone before I can even process it.
My brain short-circuits.
By the time I recover, she's already making a sharp slicing motion across her throat—pure menace, zero regret.
Behave.
I laugh, breathless, because I absolutely did not see that coming.
She turns away like she didn't just declare war.
My body immediately files a formal complaint and requests a rematch.
I straighten up, rolling my shoulders, and head inside.
Jane's in the kitchen area, innocently making coffee like she didn't just weaponize her chest.
"That was obscene," I say.
"What was? Your stretching?" Pure innocence. She doesn't even look up.
"You know what."
"I have no idea what you're talking about." She pours water into the coffee maker. "I was just adjusting my shirt."
"You bounced."
"Did I?" She glances at me, eyes wide. "Must have been gravity."
"Twice."
"Physics is unpredictable."
I cross my arms, leaning against the counter. "Don't start a fight you can't finish."
"Oh, I can finish." She hits the button on the coffee maker, then looks at me over her shoulder. "Maybe even by myself."
That does it.
I come around behind her, sliding my arms around her waist, pulling her back against me. "Is that right?"
"Mm-hmm." But her breath catches when I brush my lips against her neck.
"You sure about that?" I let my hands drift up, palming the delicious weight of those gravity-defying orbs. "Because I have some thoughts on the subject."
Unfortunately, my phone chooses this exact inopportune moment to ring.
I take one look at the caller ID and recognize it.
“I need to take this,” I give Jane a quick kiss on her cheek and then I’m already stepping toward the terrace.
“You pick the worst possible time to call,” I bark into the phone.
Then I listen.
“I hear you.”
I lean against the railing, letting their words settle.
“No. I hear you.”
I glance out at the water, letting the sun hit my shoulders.
“I’ve had a few other conversations already. Development, assistant roles.”
I shift my weight, jaw tightening.
“Head coach,?” I repeat, quieter now.
“That’s a serious offer.”
The tide is going out.
“Yeah. I understand the timing by July first…”
I stop myself.
Law was my fallback. The safety net my parents insisted on. But hockey? Hockey's the thing I chose. The thing I'm good at. The thing that makes sense.
And coaching means I don't have to leave the game. Don't have to sit in a conference room talking contracts and arbitration while my body falls apart from missing the ice.
“Send me the details,” I say. “I’ll give it real consideration.”
We end the call.
I stand there, phone still warm in my hand, staring at the ocean.
Hump day on the island suddenly feels less like a midpoint and more like a fork in the road.
My pulse thrums with something I haven't felt in years. Not since my first call-up. Maybe not even then.
This feels bigger. Truer.
Hope.
A future I choose. Not inherit. Not perform. Choose.
Coaching. Building. Hockey on my terms.
I could do this.
The thought settles in my chest, warm and solid.
The terrace door slides open and Jane shuffles out.
“West Prescott, your face is doing things since you hung up."
“What things?”
“Happy things." She takes a step closer, her bare feet silent on the warm tile.
“Hopeful things. It's very unsettling. I thought your face only had three settings: broody, judgmental, and horny."
I choke on nothing. “Horny, huh?”
She stops inches away, tilting her head back to look at me. Her eyes narrow. "Yah, your horny face. It's a good face. But this is different. This is... I don't know… Excited?"
“Just hockey stuff,” I deflect, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
Her skin is warm, and impossibly soft. “Trade rumors. Contract extensions. The usual end-of-season noise.”
It’s not entirely a lie. Just… incomplete.
“Fine. Be mysterious. But I’m onto you.”
I dip my head, brushing my lips against the sensitive spot below her ear. She shivers, a full-body ripple I feel against my skin. “How about that coffee?”
“Coffee is acceptable,” she murmurs, tilting her head to give me better access.
“As a prelude to croissants. And maybe… post-croissant activities?” Her hand slides down my back, fingers teasing the waistband of my sleep pants.
My phone buzzes again in my pocket. Insistent. Jarring. We both freeze.
Jane sighs dramatically, dropping her forehead against my collarbone. “Your phone has the worst timing. It’s like it knows.”
She pulls back, gesturing towards my pocket. “Go on. Answer your ‘hockey stuff’. I’ll start the coffee.”
Mom: West. We need to talk. Urgently. Brunch. Our casita. Eleven-thirty AM sharp. Bring… your girlfriend? DO NOT BE LATE.
Aunt Milly: Heard a fascinating rumor at water aerobics, dear boy. Something about you fathering a secret love child named Mason with a delightful young woman who also claims you’re batting for the other team? Bring the girl. This should be better than bridge.
I run into the casita to share the news.
“Brunch with the Prescotts? Battle stations! Code Red! DEFCON 1!” Jane practically vibrates with panic.
“West! This is an inquisition by your legal family. A tribunal! And my head on the spike!”
Jane starts pacing, “I need intel now. Deep intel. What are your parents’ hobbies? Weaknesses? Favorite flowers? Do they prefer subtle flattery or full-on groveling? Tell me everything!”
"Oh West, how did we get here? Am I supposed to meet them as your fake girlfriend now after being the biggest saboteur to the last Prescott heir?"
"You didn't sabotage anything. You helped me out of—"
"I'm short-sighted—good at putting out fires, really bad at establishing fire lines and containment." She shakes her head. "I didn't think about them actually wanting to MEET me."
Jane presses her palms to her cheeks. “Okay. Deep breaths. Wardrobe. I need armor. Or at least something that screams 'responsible adult who definitely doesn't have a team of male hockey players as her harem.” She bolts for the bedroom.
I follow, leaning against the doorframe as she flings open her suitcase with the focused intensity of a general preparing for battle. Dresses, skirts, and tops fly out in a colorful arc, landing haphazardly on the bed.
She holds each article of clothing against herself, her expression a pure, adorable crisis.
She’s trying so damn hard. Trying to perform. To be the perfect, polished girlfriend she thinks my parents expect. To fix the chaos she unleashed, even if they were all for me.
The realization hits me like a puck to the gut. She shouldn’t be performing. The chaos, the scrappiness, the glorious, unvarnished realness of her… that’s what disarmed me. That’s what’s burrowing under my skin, past all the defenses and the ‘clean break’ agreements.
Watching her try to contort herself into some acceptable box for anyone feels… wrong.
I push off the doorframe, walk over and pull her into a reassuring hug. “Jane, you don’t need an armor.”
She blinks. “I… don’t?”
“No.” I reach out, plucking the coral dress from her hands and tossing it gently back onto the pile. “Just… be you. The woman who tells Veronica Vance I’m on my own journey. The woman who sells her car to keep the lights on. The woman who…”
I pause, the words ‘ruined me last night’ hovering dangerously close.
“…who isn’t afraid to kick a hornet’s nest if it needs kicking.” I meet her gaze. “Be that. That’s all they need to see. That’s all I want them to see.”
Her expression softens, the panic receding, “Just… me? Chaotic, stress-eats-when-nervous, and ah—"
“The word you’re looking for is ‘crazy’.” I laugh. “And YES. Especially that you.”
I watch her do that worry thing with her bottom lip and I want to bite it.
Focus, Prescott.
"You were spectacular, Jane."
"So, what's the play?" she asks. "Do we double down? Walk it back? Pretend it never happened?"
"We tell the truth."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "The truth?"
"A version of it." I tug her back into my arms, needing the contact. "We're together. You're my new girlfriend. The rumors were tactics to keep the other women at bay while we navigate our new relationship."
"Your mother's going to hate me."
"Unlikely."
"She's going to think I'm a gold-digger."
"Maybe."
Jane tips her head back, assessing me. "And you're okay with that?"
"I don't care what she thinks." The words come out harder than I intend. "She doesn't get a vote on my fake girlfriend."
Something flickers in Jane's eyes. Something soft and uncertain that makes my chest tighten.
"Okay," she says quietly. "Partners?"
"Partners."