It’s the need to claim her.
21
WHEELS UP (EDEN)
The cold fingers of December air sneak under my coat the second I step out of the Uber. Teterboro isn’t glamorous—it’s gray tarmac, the smell of jet fuel, and men in puffy team jackets hunching against the wind while their breath steams in the air.
I tug my coat tighter as I enter the terminal and scan for a familiar face. The Defenders are scattered in loose knots, laughing, shoving, tossing a puck back-and-forth, rowdy and restless. Only one of them is still, leaning against the side with his hood up, headphones on, and his suitcase tucked neatly against his right leg. Nate. Not talking, not smiling—watching.
He doesn’t move when I start approaching. But I feel him tracking me all the way in.
Inside, the terminal is a cocoon of heat and humming fluorescents. The Defenders’ gear bags are lined in military rows, each tagged and waiting for loading. A man in a team beanie, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp, spots me.
“Carver, right? Mercer, head athletic trainer. Russo’s yours this week. Keep him out of trouble and out of the rack.Back-to-backs, give him primers, isos, tissue work. If he reaches for a barbell, take it away.”
I nod, clutching my bag tighter.
“Circle up!” Coach Novak’s bark cuts through the chatter. Players shuffle in, broad shoulders and easy grins forming a loose huddle. I hover on the edge, half hidden.
“This is Eden Carver,” Coach announces. “Team PT for the week. She’s here for Russo’s hip, but if any of you pull something, she’ll patch you up. Try not to make her regret coming with us.”
There’s a ripple of greetings, some smirks, the usual cocky murmurs.
A woman steps up beside me—sleek bob, laptop bag slung over one shoulder. “Rowan,” she says under her breath, mouth curving. “PR.” She tips me a wink, nodding toward Novak. “Now watch this.”
Coach sweeps the room, jaw set. “Listen up. We’ve got another young woman traveling with us this week, so I’ll say it before you get any stupid fucking ideas. Hands off. The women who work with this team are off limits. You cross the line, you sit. Clear?”
A low whistle from Wesley. “You know it’s the twenty-first century, right, Coach? They can handle themselves without the dad routine.”
There’s a ripple of chuckles, but Wesley’s not done. “Besides, little late for the warning, isn’t it? One of your sons-in-law is our captain, and your other daughter’s got twins with O’Reilly.”
That earns a chorus of “oohs” and laughter from the guys. Even Finn smirks, shaking his head. Adam just folds his arms, clearly not planning to comment either way.
Coach exhales through his nose, then glances at me and Rowan. “He’s not wrong. I know it sounds paternalistic, andif either of you took offense, I apologize. But I’m still saying it. Because I know these idiots, and I’m not dealing with whatever soap opera comes from anyone crossing the line. So, off limits.”
His gaze sweeps the players again before landing back on us. “And if any of these guys give you trouble, you come straight to me. Got it?”
Rowan hides a laugh behind her hand, clearly entertained. I, on the other hand, am completely aghast. The whole thing is straight out of a bad workplace training video. I can’t stop myself from stealing a glance at Nate.
He’s not looking at Coach. He’s looking at me. And he’s smirking, eyes lit with a dare. The call to board breaks us apart. I follow Rowan up the steps. By the time I enter the airplane, Nate’s already dropped into his seat—window, aisle empty—and the duffel guarding the space beside him.
“Move that,” he says when I reach the row, nodding at the bag. “You’re sitting here.”
I hesitate. “Pretty sure I’ve seen guys sprint for this seat before you even got off the bus. You stealing someone’s lucky spot?”
His mouth curves slow. “It’s mine. Window seat, aisle empty. Always.”
From two rows back, Wesley calls out, “Hey, Russo, what the hell? You dropping your superstition?”
“Upgrading it,” Nate fires back without looking away from me. “Got myself a better good luck charm.”
He shifts his duffel into the overhead and drops back down beside me, long legs taking over most of the foot space.
“You good with turbulence?” he asks, that faint rasp curling over me.
“I’ll manage,” I mutter, tugging my sweater closer. “Not my first flight.”
“Didn’t say it was,” he rumbles, settling his arm on the shared rest until his elbow nudges mine. “Just wanted to know if I’m holding your hand when this thing shakes.”
