Tomorrow, I’d walk into it with my team.
My chest did a slow flutter, and I was freaking loving it.
I freshened up, slipping into my baby-blue button-down and navy bottoms. Simple and tucked in, it made me feel armed for a room full of men. Then I headed down for the team meeting. I locked my face into my ‘effortless competent’ vibe as I approached the conference room.
Outside the door, I stopped, doing a quick mental pep talk. Then it opened, a player slipped past me, and I took it as my cue and walked in. Inside it was filled with players, lit screens, and chattering staff. No one paid attention to me, which was good.
I swept the room for somewhere to sit. I didn’t know anyone yet, but I knew I was reporting to Coach Murphy. Dane, the assistant coach with the jaw of a prizefighter, sat to his right, and—oh, for the love of all that’s convenient—there was an open seat on Murphy’s left.
Just my luck. Absolutely not stressful.
I slid into the chair, aiming to pass as someone who belonged, even inches from the very composed (and very attractive) head coach. I set my DevPad down, smoothed my pants, and crossed my legs with practiced calm…and my foot bumped straight into his leg.
My head snapped toward him. “Excuse me,” I muttered, cringing.
He looked over, one brow raised, likely weighing whether to smirk or add it to a ‘Melanie’s Mishaps’ file.
I straightened, gave what I hoped was a confident, nonchalant nod. If kicking him was part of my sophisticated settling-in routine, I was on top.
“Strong opener,” he said under his breath, and then, a miracle: the corner of his mouth lifted, a slow joke that was just for me.
A tiny, exclusive club of two.
Global warming ticked up half a degree. Honestly, the only reason he didn’t smile was probably out of concern for the rising sea levels.
“Settling in okay?” he asked.
I nodded, clutching my pen. “So far, no disasters.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.” His gaze held mine for a beat, and my pulse quickened. A flush crept up my neck, blooming across my cheeks before I could look away.
The meeting kicked off with tactical breakdowns, video highlights, and matchup analysis. I took notes, trying to ignore the fact that my pulse reacted every time he leaned forward to point something out on the screen. When he did, I caught the scent of his cologne—sharp citrus and wild sea breeze all in one.
This was serious sensory overload for a first meeting.
Afterward, we headed to Ball Arena for the walk-through. The team filed onto the shuttle, voices hushed, shoulders a little tighter. Inside the arena, players took slow laps, stretching out their legs. A few lingered by the equipment, adjusting gear or chatting with trainers.
The air was brisk and colder. I hadn’t realized we’d be out here this long. I hovered behind the bench, my designated spot per Maria’s instructions, trying not to regret my sensible slacks.
Coach Murphy approached, hands in his pockets, gaze locked on me. “Comfortable?”
I straightened and might have shivered slightly, but I gave him a thumbs-up. “All good.”
His eyes did a slow, deliberate scan of my blouse, down to my slacks, and back to my face. My pulse gave a little thump-thump.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked away. I tracked him with my eyes, confused. He bent over a duffel bag and came back holding a jacket. Dark team colors, oversized, definitely not mine.
He held it out, his expression unreadable. “You look cold. Hockey rinks aren’t heated.”
I hesitated long enough for him to notice.
“It’s clean. Promise.” His tone held a hint of amusement.
I took it, the fabric surprisingly soft. “Thanks.”
I slipped it on. Warmth hit fast, and so did something else, a strange, undeniable surge of something. His cologne clung to it, making me straighten for reasons that had nothing to do with posture.
He watched, a slow, knowing smirk formed at the edge of his mouth—the kind that said he’d noticed exactly what the jacket had done to me.
