I cross the street toward the concrete path along the harbor. This move is supposed to be a fresh start. I wasn’t sure how this coaching job would go. I’d been avoiding hockey ever since my NHL career ended so abruptly.
But I needed a change. I'd been spinning my wheels in that dead-end advertising job for too damn long.
My ex only made the decision easier. Never thought I'd be the type of person to slap a restraining order on someone.
But the ultimate deciding factor happened during my second interview when Coach Nieminen disclosed the disturbing details of how that reprehensible individual physically assaulted Jackson Reed.
I still feel sick thinking about what he endured.
However, there was something unsettling about the way Nieminen casually dismissed the former coach's abrupt departure. And Crestwood’s president, Alfred Ghoram, made apoint to emphasize the influential and powerful nature of many of the players' parents.
The message was received loud and clear.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, jolting me out of my thoughts. I fish it out, my brother’s name flashing on the screen. I answer, then press the phone to my ear.
“Hey, B. How's it going?” Tommy asks.
“Oh, you know. Living the dream.” My tone drips with sarcasm. “How's life across the pond?”
“Not bad. Still single, but what else is new?” He chuckles. “Just wanted to check in. I know being back in the hockey world can't be easy, not after everything that happened with your injury . . .”
I grimace, my free hand reflexively rubbing the spot on my lower back where the torn psoas muscle ended my playing career just as it was beginning. “Hanging in. Team’s full of rich, entitled brats who’re keeping me on my toes.”
“Sounds like fun.” He’s silent for a moment. “Still don’t agree with you not pressing charges against Noah. What if he doesn’t stop? A restraining order’s just a piece of paper, you know.”
I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Made sure to cover my tracks when I left. He's got no idea where I am.”
“Good. Just be careful, all right? I worry about you, big brother.”
“I’ll be fine.”
The words are no sooner out when Viktor Novotny appears up ahead, lounging against his blue McLaren GT and throwing me a flirty little wave.
Right on cue, my walls slam up, my shoulders squaring. “Tommy, I gotta go. I'll call you later."
Before my brother can respond, I end the call, then slide the phone back into my pocket. I take another swig of my coffee before tossing it into a nearby trash can as I approach the insolent brat who I strongly suspect has been stalking me.
He's made a few out of the blue appearances. On campus, it might be understandable, and while Rosewood Bay is a small, incorporated village, the frequency of our encounters is a bit too convenient to be random—he's definitely following me.
Time to set some boundaries, something I should’ve done at the gala when Nieminen pointed out who he was.
I took notice when he first approached me at the bar. And his reaction when our eyes met—the way he called me pretty—fuck, I probably would’ve taken him home.
And he’s definitely my type.
Bratty.
Then he just had to open that entitled mouth of his. Yeah, I stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the elite. But fuck, I didn’t need to be insulted. And the stunt he pulled in the bathroom—talk about a walking red flag.
None of that matters because at the end of the day he’s my player, and no way am I crossingthatline.
“The fuck are you doing here, Novotny?”
He flashes me that infuriating, self-assured grin that makes me want to wipe it off his face. “Just admiring the scenery, Becks.”
His eyes shamelessly roam over my body in a manner that’s far too intimate. The audacious brat has pulled the same stunt during practices, even after I’ve corrected him.
I snarl, my patience wearing thin. “Cut the crap. I'm your coach, not your buddy or whatever twisted shit you're imagining.”
