But tonight, I don't remembera singlesecond of it.
Because I’m too busy running a highlight reel of Captain Ike Thurman on repeat.
How he stood at the edge of my field with his arms crossed over his broad chest, watching practice like he owned the ground beneath his boots. That thick hair, a distinguished swirl of charcoal, pewter, and frost that made him every inch the silver fox. Those steel-gray eyes that went from sharp and assessing to warm and soft the second Riley threw herself at him.
And hisvoice.God, his voice. Low and rumbly. A voice that makes you want to do whatever he says just to hear him saygood girlin response.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and force myself to breathe.
Slow down, Sloane. You talked to the man for maybe five minutes.
But five minutes was enough. Five minutes wasplenty.
I've met attractive men before. I've met authoritative men before. Hell, I moved halfway across the country partly to get away from a man who I thought was both of those things, but turned out to just be an abuser.
Ike Thurman is different.
I felt it the second he opened his mouth—this soul-deep recognition that made my belly clench and my skin prickle. He held himself with that effortless command, not performed or forced. It justwas.Like authority is his native language, and he's so fluent he doesn't even realize he's speaking it.
And when I called himCaptain?
I saw it. That tiny spark behind his eyes, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. And then his gaze dropped to my mouth for a split second before he caught himself and looked away.
He felt it too.
He's just been fighting it a lot longer than I have.
I pull into my driveway and kill the engine, sitting in the dark for a moment while I collect myself. My cabin glows soft and warm through the windows—I left the lamp on this morning, a habit I picked up after too many nights coming home to pitch blackness in a town where the streetlights are sparse and the woods press in close.
It's cozy inside. I've been here six months and I still haven't unpacked all the boxes, but I've strung up twinkle lights in the living room and filled the windowsills with candles and draped a fuzzy throw blanket over the secondhand couch. It feels like home. At least for now.
I grab my bag from the passenger seat and head inside. I’ll take my evening shower, get some food, maybe watch a match on TV if I'm feeling ambitious.
But the second I kick off my shoes and drop my bag by the door, my knee gives a familiar throb of protest, and I change the plan.
Bath. Definitely a hot bath.
I limp slightly as I head to the bathroom—it's always worse after long practices in the cold, the old injury flaring up like a ghost that refuses to be exorcised. I rub my kneecap absently as I crank the faucet, watching steam rise from the water.
It’s been about four years since the surgery. Since I heard the wordscareer-endingand felt my entire future shatter like glass on concrete.
I don't think about it much anymore. I've rebuilt, moved forward, and found a new dream when the old one died. I'm damn good at coaching, even if it's not the same as playing.
But my knee remembers. My kneealwaysremembers.
I dump an obscene amount of bubble bath under the running water, strip out of my sweaty practice clothes, and lower myself into the tub with an indecent groan.
God.Yes.Thisis what I needed.
The hot water seeps into my aching muscles, and I let my head fall back against the rim of the tub, closing my eyes. For a full thirty seconds, I think about nothing.
Then Ike Thurman's handsome face swims back into my mind.
Silver fox,my brain supplies helpfully.A sexy silver fox in a fire captain's uniform.
I groan again, but this time it's not from the bathwater.
I amnotgoing to obsess over a man I just met. I have a career and goals and a plan that does not include getting distracted bysome way-too-old-for-me authority figure with a ruggedly sharp jawline.
