So did I.
Our eyes locked. Recognition hit as hers widened, flickering with maybe panic. She looked like she’d stepped into the spotlight and wanted to vanish.
My chest did a strange, funny thing. My instincts knew her before my brain had even finished its coffee.It’s her.The woman from the ice. The one whose boyfriend, or husband, had calledMel.
“Excuse me,” she murmured, already sliding past me, stiffly and quickly. She didn’t look back as she moved fast down thehall. Yeah, she wanted to erase a scene she didn’t mean to walk into.
I blinked after her, then stepped into the restroom. Stalls were opened, all empty. Backing out, I glanced at the door.
No sign. Nothing, but a blank wood panel.
I let out a low laugh and shook my head. So much for a meet-cute. Instead, bruised knuckles and awkward exits, courtesy of the door.
When I walked away a few minutes later, her face lingered in an almost irritatingly vivid image. That flicker of recognition, the split second of locked eyes. I was supposed to be thinking about the next game’s strategy, but instead, I suddenly found myself paying way too much attention to every hallway I passed. She was here. I had no idea why, but something told me if I turned the next corner, I might see her again.
Chapter three
Mel
I sat across from Maria, Tahoe West’s general manager, my heart doing an elegant little tap routine under my blazer. This was my second interview. The first was over the phone last week. This one was more intimidating, with the face-to-face exposing every flaw and possibly the mortifying memory of the coach and the bathroom door.
He’d looked broader than I remembered from weeks ago. Late thirties, maybe early forties, square-jawed. He was somewhere in that dangerous zone, where a man either aged like a Greek statue or had three yachts namedHer.
I was betting on the first. Definitely the first.
Notwow-I’m-melting-hot, but undeniably attractive in that calm, controlled way. A good-looking type that snuck up on you because it didn’t beg for attention. It just watched. And now, thanks to my impeccable sense of direction, it had watched me burst out of the men’s room.
We’d locked eyes, and something in me buckled right then. In half a second, my breath caught, sharp and sudden, and all the air in my lungs knew exactly who he was. Had he recognized me? Did he know I was the clumsy ice skater with the ankle? My brain was a pinball machine of self-mortification.
“I’ll be direct.” Maria’s voice pulled me back. “We need someone who can get up to speed fast. We’re in the playoffs. Pressure’s high. Things move quickly at this level.”
I nodded. “I’m used to tight deadlines and shifting priorities. My last firm—”
“I saw that on your résumé,” she said, flipping the pages. “But this role is different from working in an office. This is about assisting with logistics, tracking performance goals, coordinating travel assignments, and reporting to our player development manager or the head coach, depending on the situation.”
She let it hang there, a tantalizing breadcrumb of a challenge.
Maria’s dark eyes missed nothing. She was in her forties, maybe, with smooth olive skin and dark hair pulled neatly back, radiating competence, her beige blazer offset by an easy smile.
The lighting made me feel both excited and exposed. I’d walked into something bigger than I was ready for, and I wanted it badly, nerves and all.
Five weeks ago, somewhere between the ice-pack days and Andrew casually mentioning a job he saw with the hockey team, I stumbled across a posting for Tahoe West’s Player Development Assistant. It sounded exactly like the type ofchallenge I’d been craving but had been inching toward with the speed of a snail.
I sent in my résumé, half expecting it to vanish into a black hole, and instead got a call two weeks later to schedule a phone interview.
While I waited, I clicked through the team site to scope things out—staff, milestone, schedule. Then a photo stopped me. Sean Murphy, head coach. Those eyes, that face, belonged to none other than the man who’d steadied my ankle at a public skate, no mistake. And today, it clicked all the way: he was also the one I hit with a door. Out of all the jobs, I’d picked one circling back to him. Great first impression.
I focused back on Maria. “When you say, ‘or the head coach, depending on the situation’ ...” I hesitated, hoping I didn’t sound as if I’d swallowed a marble. “What exactly does that mean?”
Maria smiled. “It’s a model we’re trialing. Some teams use support liaisons during travel. When you’re on the road, the head coach becomes your point of contact. I kept the post light on purpose. Traveling with a pro hockey team isn’t for everyone.”
Traveling with the team.
My pulse kicked. That was…wow. A whole different kind of glamour than coordinating an office. During that first phone interview, Maria had been sharp, direct, and gave nothing away. Now, here I was, blazer pressed, and stomach in knots.
The job post had sounded simple, even if “supporting player development” felt vague enough that I thought it was another phone and paperwork gig. But it wasn’t. This was movement, challenge, change. It was spying into players’ habits with more hockey lingo but less espionage.
I didn’t know hockey, but I knew how to organize humans—logistics, travel, keeping things on track. That, I could do. I wasn’t sitting this one out.
