A gentle breeze off the harbor carries the scent of his cologne toward me—a blend of bergamot, rosemary, and a hint of citrus—and despite my best efforts to resist, I find myself inhaling deeply.
Fuck, he smells good.
Viktor's pale blue eyes, the ones that resemble a sheet of ice in the rink, are almost translucent in the sunlight as he takes a step closer, getting all up in my personal space with that bratty attitude cranked up to eleven. “Where's the fun in that, Becks?”
Without thinking, my hand shoots out, grabbing him by the chin. Hard. The smirk slides right off his face, and his eyes go wide as I force him to meet my steely gaze. His body slackens instantly, and a blush creeps up his neck as his pupils dilate.
No. No. No.
Fuck!
He can’t respond like that. Not to me. But as my grip tightens on his chin, a deep primal part doesn’t want him to respond to anyone else like that either.
I take a slow breath, then release it, fighting off the growing lust.
Boundaries.
I need to establish boundaries.
“Listen up, you cocky little shit. Youwilladdress me as Coach or Coach Harper. Nothing else. Got it?” My voice is a deep rumble, laced with authority.
Viktor nods frantically, squirming a bit as his lips part a touch.
“Answer me, Novotny.”
“Yes, Sir . . . I mean, Coach.”
I release him, taking a step back. My heart’s pounding in my chest, my cock’s starting to wake up, and my blood thrums with a mix of annoyance and something I don't want to name. “Good. Now, keep it professional. No more showing up out of the blue, no more pushing my buttons. We clear?”
“Yes, Coach Harper” he says, but there's a defiant glint in his eye that tells me this is far from over.
I nod, then turn to walk away. If I stay this close to him any longer, I may do something I regret.
This move’s already promising to be a challenge. But I'm here to do a job, to start fresh and leave my baggage behind. And I won’t let anyone, least of all some cocky, privileged hockey player, disrupt that.
Especially one who I’m coaching. One who’s strictly off-limits.
Chapter 4
Viktor
I'm on fire today, blocking every shot that comes my way like a goddamn ninja. Glove save, stick save, pad save—you name it, I'm doing it. It's like the hockey gods are smiling down on me, blessing me with superhuman reflexes and an unbeatable swagger, even if it’s just a practice scrimmage.
“All right, boys, run it again.” Coach Nieminen's voice booms across the ice.
I smirk behind my mask as I make another incredible save. But let's be real, I'm not just putting on this show for the love of hockey. No, I've got an ulterior motive.
“Hey, Becks!” I call out, unable to stop myself. “Did you see that last save? Pretty impressive, right?”
So what if I got all subby and shit the other day? And there’s no denying the way his pupils dilated too.
Can’t school every feature, not against me. Not when I’m looking dead into those two different colored irises.
Fuck.
I need to stop thinking about that. Wearing a cup and getting hard is the most uncomfortable shit ever.
“Focus on the drill, Novotny,” my stupid goalie coach yells.
