Take Munro and Nicholson on the right, defensemen with matching navy blue Mohawks. Once fierce rivals, they had even gotten into a fistfight their first year, but were now next-door neighbors in Cherry Creek. There was Petrov, the center who’d finished the game stuck in the penalty box, engaged to wingman Ericksen’s twin sister.
Tor turned to face Patrick “Patch” Donnelly, hunched in front of an end locker. Even though the kid would be the death of him, he lived and breathed the sport as if it was more than a game, something vital to his existence. Patch glowered back, elbows propped on his knees, hands clasped, a picture of forced calm, his eyes as bright and menacing as a caged tiger’s.
He’d demonstrated that same feral intensity at Boston College when Tor had personally recruited him after hearing rumors of a prodigy player who’d almost joined the seminary to become a priest. A walking contradiction who had a broken nose and reputation for brawling, and yet had majored in theology and was conversant in Catholic conciliar traditions—everything from Nicaea to Vatican II.
One of the journalists coughed in his fist and Tor refocused, remembering his greater audience. He’d deal with Donnelly’s anger issues later. He’d come in here to exploit an elephant-sized loophole. As head coach, he might not be allowed to talk, but not all communication was verbal. Who knew what his team would get up to during the ongoing negotiations? Some might head overseas for pickup work. Others might turn to liquor and ladies. All of them better double down at the gym, remain in peak fitness, ready to hit the ice at first word.
He shot his goalie one final glance. Here was to hoping that Patch didn’t retreat to a monastery on an island in the middle of the North Atlantic. He seemed the type to pull a Luke Skywalker and vanish into thin air.
Tor raked a hand through his hair and turned away with a terse nod. He’d made his point without crossing a line. Sure, the suits would be pissed, but as the door slammed, he allowed a grimly satisfied smile.
They better believe that he’d go into this lockout on his own terms.
The press poured out, hot on his heels. And—no surprise—thereshewas, front and center, jaw jutting as their gazes locked, tenacious as a goddamn bulldog even though she was as tiny as a Chihuahua.
Neve Angel.
No other reporter in this city got under his skin the same way. As much as he wanted to ignore the electric jolt that shocked him every time she was close, he had to admit he was a sucker for the pain.
He’d be tempted to find her snarky columns amusing if she wasn’t so hell-bent on making him the butt of every goddamn joke. How he was too serious in his mannerisms. No nitpick was too small or too petty. She even took him to task over his fucking tie collection, and started a now-popular meme about the fact that he never changed his stoic facial expressions, no matter if the Hellions lost a game or won the championships.
Their fractious relationship made for popular YouTube fodder. She’d slip in a sly question at postgame press conferences, seemingly innocent but designed to slip under his collar and rankle. He never got the sense she was intimidated by his frosty temperament.
He could make a six-foot defenseman weep without raising his voice, but this hellcat? She’d just cock one of those defiant brows and smirk.
While not delicately pretty, she possessed an elusive allure, like starlight on water, a sort of face that a man could lose hours studying and still never grasp all its secrets.
“Care to comment on the lockout, Coach?” Todd from the AP called.
Jesus, pull it together.Tor refocused and took off walking. “This is between the players and people way above my pay grade.”
“What does this mean for your losing streak?”
“How are you going to handle the Donnelly situation?”
“What are your plans to ride this out?”
“Do you think the contracts are unfair?”
But he meant it. He wasn’t saying shit.
They began dropping off. Only one person kept pace.
“Coach Gunnar.” Neve’s voice was as brisk as her trot. “Coach Gunnar!”
“Not today, Angel. I’m not in the mood.” He wasn’t going to let her track him like a damn deer all the way out to his car. And she wasn’t going to back off. Time to execute plan B.
“Coach!”
“Let me be clear.” He paused in front of the men’s room. “It’s been a long night. I gotta drain the tank, so unless you’re volunteering to hold it for me, we’ll have to leave things here.”
He veered into the john without a backward look. Because if he did, he’d be forced to reckon with those unnerving eyes, the ones that always saw too much.
At least Neve Angel hadn’t sniffed out the day’s other breaking story...
Join Maddy Kline and Daniel Cox as they embark on a shared life...
The invite had arrived in the mail this morning. Maddy had mailed the damn invitation to his office, probably a silent reminder to the day she’d walked out, saying “It’s your job or me. Choose.”
