A deep voice makes me look up, and I’m momentarily speechless. The man standing in front of me is tall and well built, dressed in track pants and a Crush hoodie. His salt-and-pepper hair is cut neatly, with stubble to match. It’s the good stubble.Not patchy, and just long enough for a toe-curling inner thigh graze.
It’s his eyes that mesmerize me, though. Their faded-denim color doesn’t match his stern expression. Those are eyes I could get lost in.
Get it together, Jules.
I clear my throat and hold out my hand, suppressing my urge to tell him I’m a twenty-nine-year-old woman, far from agirl. “I’m Jules Barlow, the new social media coordinator. And I recognize you from team photos. Great to meet you, Coach Turner.”
As he shakes my hand, I force myself to hold his gaze. Coworkers have told me the team’s head coach intimidates some people, so I was prepared for the pounding heart I have right now.
What I wasn’t prepared for is how hot he is. Team photos, where he’s always standing in the back, don’t do him justice. His stare is like fingertips lightly trailing over my skin, sparking hyperawareness and a hope for more.
“You, too.” He crosses his arms, a clipboard in one hand. “Can I come by your office later?”
His gravelly voice sayingcan I comeis on repeat in my head. I stare stupidly at him for a few seconds before I mentally slap myself across the face.
“Yes, um ... of course.”
He nods, about to walk away, when nervous chatter pours out of me unbidden. I’ve been talking to a guy named Mark for two weeks, but I can’t think about anyone but the sexy-as-hell coach who seems to dislike me.
Being disliked is hard for me. I grew up in Ohio, and the midwestern propensity for niceness and likability runs deep in me.
“I’m going to film practice,” I say, tucking my hair behind one ear.
Coach Turner has a first name—Noel—but I get the feeling no one in this arena calls him that. I’ve been told to call him “Coach” or “Coach Turner”.
He turns back to face me. “No filming during drills,” he says briskly, his brows pinched together. “This is why we should’ve talked before you started filming my players. You can film during warm-ups, but that’s it.”
Ah. That’s why he doesn’t like me. I didn’t ask his permission to do my job. My boss told me to run the social media accounts my way, which means a more intimate look at the players’ personalities and lives. Deb told me she likes that I’m a self-starter who doesn’t need direction, because she has a full workload of her own.
“No problem. Warm-ups only.”
He starts his walk to the arched rink entrance and I admire the view from the back. Great ass, wide shoulders, and a neck that’s just begging me to put my palm on it and run my fingers through his silver-kissed hair.
It’s fortunate that I’m good at ogling men without them realizing it. Also, Mark. Mark and I have a great connection and I like him a lot. This must be a habitual ogle, not a legit one.
I clear my throat. “So how long are warm-ups? I don’t want to film too long or anything.”
He turns and looks at me like I’m a toddler hyped up on sugar, pressing on his last nerve.
“You’ll know. When the guys stop stretching and skating laps, that’s your cue.”
My cheeks burn. “Okay. Thanks, Coach.”
He hates me. And I love this job, so I can’t have the team’s head coach hating me. I’ll play his game and be remorseful whenhe comes by my office later. If he wants to okay it every time I want to film something, that’s what we’ll do.
And of course, I’ll bring him some of my banana chocolate chip muffins. They’re my secret weapon for winning people over. More than two thousand people have downloaded the recipe after seeing my social media posts about it.
I’m not even trying to film from the team bench, though I’d love to be that close. Coach Turner is irritated enough with me already. Instead, I take the elevator up, moving as quickly as I can in heels, and find an entrance to the lowest level of seats.
Already winded, I blow out a frustrated breath when I realize the glass is in my way. I don’t want to film through it unless I have to, so I hustle over to the concrete stairs and start climbing them.
It’s not fun in these shoes. And now I’m conscious of the team seeing my less-than-fit ass hoofing it up these stairs.
I have to go back out into the concourse to reach the highest level, and it’s there that I take off my shoes and carry them so I can go faster. A custodian gives me an amused look as I pass him, sweating in my formfitting wool pencil skirt and black top.
Finally, I get to a high enough level that I have a bird’s-eye view of the ice. I don’t bother getting a tripod out because I may not have long. I drop my shoes and equipment bag and film the players stretching.
Isaac’s stretches make him look like he’s humping the ice. When I was researching the socials of other pro hockey teams, I noticed that female viewers are feral for those stretches.
