“O’Reilly, how many power-play goals do they have? How many did they score while you were sitting on your ass in the penalty box?”
He doesn’t respond, and players shift uncomfortably.
“Check your fucking emotions at the door.”
His jaw clenches, the muscle furrowing, the only indication he hears me.
“They’re drawing us into penalties,” I tell the team, “and it’s working. Play smart. Rest, refuel, let’s go.”
The game goes into overtime, then a shootout. I’m tempted to bench Jax and not let him take a shot on goal, but that’d punish the entire team.
He scores, as well as Grant and the rookie, a last-minute decision that thankfully paid off, and we win by one, thanks to Kill’s ability to read the play.
With a fifteen-hour flight ahead, we leave straight from the arena for the airport, bound for Toronto. Jax and I don’t talk—he doesn’t even glance in my direction. My stomach churns.Apparently, he’s pissed at me. For what, I have no clue, but it’s driving me crazy, my thoughts ping-ponging off one another.
On the private plane, he sits with Grant as usual. It gets late, players and staff fall asleep, and I wonder if he’s sleeping on Grant’s shoulder.He’s not. He’s probably not even sleeping.
Are they touching? Is he attracted to his best friend physically, even though he dislikes his playboy behavior?No, Jax doesn’t work that way.But Grant has changed. Does that change how Jax feels?He’d never touch anyone else; it’s unfathomable.
This is ridiculous. Someone put me out of my misery.
Chapter 17
Jackson
Lights off, it’s somber and quiet on the private jet. Only the gentle hum of the engines and the occasional rustle of clothing interrupt the peace.
Travel-induced sleep becomes routine as a hockey player, but I rarely doze on the plane, and currently, insomnia torments me. I’m restless, and I know someone else who’s awake—I can sense his rising panic.
Headphones over his ears, eyes half-shut, Grant stretches his neck, peering out over the cabin, then angles himself toward the aisle and gestures with his head. We’re the ultimate wingman team.
I drop into the seat beside Ethan. “Did you save this seat for me?” I whisper.
It’s an overnight flight, and he’s still in his suit, for fuck’s sake. He should be in a hoodie and a pair of sweats, letting me slip my hand down his pants.
He recovers from his surprise quickly and gives me that perma-scowl. “No. No one ever sits next to me.”
The corner of my lip quirks. “Because you snore?”
Despite his grouchiness and pinched brow, a flicker of amusement glints in those stormy eyes. “I do not. It’s because I’m the coach and I need my space.”
I relax into the leather. “For that enormous brain of yours? I could hear you thinking all the way over there. What are you panicking about now?”
He glances behind me. “You shouldn’t be sitting with me.”
“Please.” I wave off his paranoia. “We’ve sat next to each other and argued since the day you started coaching. No one cares.”
He shakes his head. “We did not argue.”
“You’re right. It was thinly veiled flirting, but nobody knows any different with the way youride my assin the locker room.” I allow my voice to rise, just a tad.
His eyes widen in warning. “Shut your fucking mouth,” he grits through clenched teeth.
I bet his ears are burning.
A reckless thrill pulses through me. I live to break him, break that rigid façade.
The urge to kiss him and feel that tightly coiled control snap iseverything. I crave his raw power in the same way I crave the pain and violence of the game.
