It takes a second for my brain to catch up. When I float back to earth, I realize I should probably chase after her and ask what’s going on. I fly through security and follow the swish of her ponytail as she heads into the team’s administrative offices.
By the time I tumble into the boardroom, she’s already sitting at the long oval table and those pancakes are feeling likea brick in my stomach. Coach is across from her, grinning from ear to ear, and I’ve never seen the fucker look so happy.
“You’re late, Miller,” he says, and he doesn’t bother to glance my way. “Sit down.”
“Sorry.” I slide into the chair closest to the door. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean what’s going on?” Coach Saunders frowns. “Why aren’t you in your skates?”
“My skates? I’m just—” My eyes flick over to the redhead. She’s watching me, and that smirk is still in place. “It would be great if someone could bring me up to speed.”
“You’re kidding,” Coach says. “You didn’t watch the videos I sent you?”
I wring my fingers together. “The Emerson Hartwell tapes? No, I didn’t.”
“Who’s going to be the one to tell him?” the woman asks Coach.
“Someone please tell me,” I practically whine, and he motions for her to continue.
“I’m Emerson Hartwell,” she says, and I burst out laughing.
It takes a minute to get myself under control. My stomach muscles cramp up, and when I finally settle down, I have to wipe a tear from my cheek.
“Yeah. Okay,” I say. Another round of giggles hit me, and I wonder if I’m still drunk. “And I have an ocean front property in Iowa.”
“Wow.” The woman looks over at Coach, unimpressed. “This guy is leading your team?”
“You’reEmerson Hartwell?” I ask. “But you’re a?—”
Her eyes narrow, and heat flickers behind the green. It’s like her claws are at the ready, waiting for a fight. “Please, finish that sentence.”
“I thought Emerson Hartwell was a dude,” I say, which is clearly thewrongthing to say. The scowl on her face tells me she’s definitely going to eat me alive. “And you’re…notthat.”
“I’m not a fan who wants to go to your apartment either,” she tosses back.
My cheeks turn bright red. I hate being embarrassed, and right now, I want to crawl into a hole.
“I made an assumption,” I say. “Big deal. Usually when a woman is looking for me, it’s to give me her number or… well, to come back to my hotel room. It’s not because she’s a professional hockey player.”
“Classy,” Emerson draws out.
“Miller,” Coach says, and my head whips in his direction. “My office. Now.”
If this man told me to jump, I’d ask how high. So I hustle out the door and follow him down the hall.
Brody Saunders isn’t much older than me.
He’s a guy in his late-thirties who got injured early in his hockey career and turned that misfortune into some solid scouting and assistant coach stints before landing the head coach position with the Stars a few seasons ago.
There’s a level of mutual respect between us—he was a bullet on the ice when he played center, and he knows what he’s talking about.
He asks my opinion on lineups and plays, and we’ve always gotten along. But from the way he’s looking at me right now, I think he might murder me then leave my body out for the vultures.
“What’s happening, Coach?” I ask. I lean against the door and kick my foot up. “Is she serious, or are you all fucking with me? Is this one of those hidden camera shows?”
“What’s happening is your head is so far up your ass, I ought to take away your captain title. What the hell have you been doing this week, Miller?”
“I’ve been busy,” I admit, and the skin at the back of my neck prickles. “I haven’t been able to?—”
