“Somebody get Reid a bucket,” I shout, not breaking stride as I finish the final sprint. “The rest of you—line up.”
They drag themselves to the red line, doubled over, gasping for air. Blackwood's legs are visibly shaking. Astor looks like he might pass out. Good, maybe next time they'll think twice before making my life more difficult.
“Listen up,” I say, skating a slow circle around them as they struggle to stay upright. “I don't give a fuck what you do at home as long as you make it on time and play like the athletes you are. But when you're at a conference representing St. Charles, you keep your noses clean. No drinking.No drugs. No stupid shit that reflects poorly on this program.”
Avila nods miserably, unable to speak through his ragged breathing.
“Next time I catch any of you pulling this kind of stunt, twenty suicides will feel like a warm-up. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Coach,” they mumble in unison.
“I can't hear you,” I bark.
“YES, COACH!” They shout with what little breath they have left.
I’m about to dismiss them when I feel her eyes on me from somewhere in the rink.
I turn my head slowly toward the stands, scanning the empty rows until I spot her. Hennessy, sitting alone in the third row, her legs crossed at the ankle. She's wearing jeans and an oversized sweater, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. Even from this distance, I can see the amused curve of her lips.
“Hit the showers,” I tell my players, not taking my eyes off her. “And remember, if I catch you drinking again, I'll make today look like a fucking day at the spa.”
They don't need to be told twice, practically crawling off the ice toward the locker room.
“You too,” I tell Maris and Johnson. “I need a few minutes alone.”
Johnson looks like he wants to argue, but Maris grabs his arm, steering him toward the bench. “We'll meet you at the strategy panel at ten,” Maris says.
I nod, waiting until they've all disappeared down the tunnel before I allow myself to look at her again. She's still there, watching me with eyes that see too fucking much.
I push off, skating a lazy figure eight in the center of theice, pretending I don't care that she's there. Pretending my heart isn't hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break free. Pretending I don't still taste her.
I execute a few sharp crossovers, feeling the burn in my thighs as I carve deep edges into the ice. With no one else around, I can finally let loose—the way I used to before my career ended. My body remembers what to do even after all these years. Cut, push, glide. The rhythm is in my bones.
She's still watching. I can feel her gaze like a physical touch sliding over my body.
I wonder if she knows what I did. If she woke up this morning feeling sore, feeling claimed, feeling the evidence of me leaking down her thighs. Did she notice her key card on the nightstand where I left it? Did she find my tie on the floor beside her bed? Or does she think she dreamed the whole fucking thing—my mouth between her legs, my cock filling her up while she slept?
I execute one final tight turn and head toward the bench, my breath coming harder than it should.
As I sit to unlace my skates, she stands and makes her way down the stairs toward the glass. She stops at the boards, resting her forearms on top as she watches me change.
I pull on my boots, lacing them quickly. I need to get away from her before I do something stupid. Again.
Walking toward the exit, I force myself to keep a steady pace even though every instinct screams at me to go to her. As I pass where she’s standing, I finally let myself really look at her.
She's fucking gorgeous in the morning light streaming through the arena windows. No makeup, hair pulled back, dressed in chill clothes. There's something raw and realabout her like this, something that makes my chest ache in a way I don't want to examine too closely.
“Good to see you skate, Coach,” she says softly, those dark eyes holding mine.
I nod once, unable to trust my voice, and push through the exit doors.
The hotel restaurant is already packed with conference attendees when I arrive thirty minutes later, showered and changed into fresh clothes. I scan the room for an empty table, but they're all taken. Roman waves from a corner booth, gesturing to the empty seat across from him.
“You look like shit,” he says cheerfully as I slide into the booth. “Rough morning with the delinquents?”
“They'll live,” I grunt, grabbing a menu. “Barely.”
The waitress appears with a pot of coffee, filling the mug in front of me without asking. Smart woman.
