Perfect. I’m in an ideal mood for giving an ass chewing.
Once outside the locker room, I wait in front of the concrete block wall while Jules gets her phone ready to record. She smiles at me and something stirs in my chest.
Heartburn, probably. It’s going to be a long fucking season with her unknowingly leading me around by my very hard dick while I try to focus on my job.
“How are you feeling about tonight’s game?” she asks.
“I’m feeling good. We had a great preseason, worked out a few kinks, and we’re looking good. This is one game of eighty-three, and we just have to take it one game at a time.”
“Nashville’s goalie Dmitri Kozlov only allowed one goal in the preseason. How do you approach him offensively?”
She did her research. I like that. “We come at him hard and don’t hold back on shooting.”
“Last question, Coach. It’s Romance on Ice night, and we’re having on-ice photo ops for couples after the game and triple the usual kiss cam time. Do you think a hockey game is a great idea for a romantic date night?”
I furrow my brow, stunned for a second, but then I recover. “Sure, why not? Hockey is for everyone. What’s more romantic than hot dogs, beer, and a good game?”
She stops recording and puts her phone in her pocket. “Thanks ...”
I think she doesn’t know whether to call me Coach or Noel, so she decided on neither.
“Did that come off tongue in cheek?” I ask. “I don’t want women coming after me with pitchforks.”
She laughs lightly. “I think the tone was just right. There are lots of women who love hockey games.”
I’ve never been a romantic guy, but if I could, I’d take her out to dinner at the French restaurant one of my buddies owns in downtown Cleveland. It would be sweet agony to watch and listen to her across from me at a cozy candlelit table, nothing distracting us.
“Good luck,” she says lightly.
She breezes away, mercifully leaving the locker room. But now, instead of being able to see who’s eye fucking her, I’m left to imagine it, which might be even worse.
I exchangea quick look with Shawn, our offensive coordinator. After eight years working together, we don’t need words to communicate.
We were right about Magnus Lundgren. He’s still a stud, beating twenty-year-olds to the puck and shooting more accurately than most of them. We’re up 3–1, and two of our goals are his.
I clap him on the shoulder as he sits on the bench, catching his breath after an intense shift.
Isaac is in the zone, his goofiness tucked away for the duration of the game. The goal that slipped past him was impossible to save, but he did everything he could to try.
The crowd is electric tonight, spirits high over the start of a new season. My son, Chase, is watching from one of the VIP boxes. Angie made it back from her trip and she asked Chase to ask me if I could also get box seats for her and her boyfriend.
Fuck no. I considered it for a few seconds, but she has no idea how openly hostile people here would be to her and whatever the hell his name is. They all know what happened, and they saw the toll it took on me. Our marriage hadn’t been great for a long time, but I thought we had an unspoken understanding that we’d tough it out until the kids were out of the house.
Apparently not. It wasn’t the loss of the marriage that raked me over the coals, it was moving out of the home where two of my kids still live. I’ve already been down that road once, with Talia and Audra’s mom.
In this case, it’s two strikes and you’re out. I’m clearly drawn to women who will eventually blow up my life. Even now, I could date a divorcée my age, but no. I’m lusting after Jules, who’s much younger than me and completely off-limits.
The team video staffers who make content for the Jumbotron are using clips from Jules’s videos tonight. She’s good at what she does. The guys all seem to be at ease around her.
She made a funny bit with the two team mascots before tonight’s game. Our mascot, Sam, is supposed to be a tough, surly fisherman, and the guy in the costume kept putting his arm around Jules’s shoulders. She handled it like a pro.
“No. Get up, man,” Silas mumbles.
He’s sitting in front of me on the bench, and I shift my attention from the fight for the puck to what he’s looking at.
Fuck. It’s Carter, who hasn’t gotten up from the ice since being knocked down around fifteen seconds ago. He pusheshimself up on his elbows so he can turn his face to the bench, and his expression makes my brows sink with worry.
Play stops, and Melina flies out to the ice to look at him, Talia and Caroline close behind. But I already know it’s bad. I’ve never seen Carter stay down after a hit. Even when he’s hurt, he pops back up and waits until the game is over to tell us he’s injured.
