“Thanks.”
He clapped my shoulder and moved off. I finished unlacing my skates, pulled them off, and sat there for a moment in just my compression shorts and practice shirt.
Winning ugly was better than losing. But it wasn't good enough. Not for what we were trying to build.
I stood up and headed for the showers, and as I walked past the whiteboard, I saw Coach had already written tomorrow's practice schedule. Two hours. Full systems review. Defensive zone coverage drills. Discipline scenarios.
He wasn't letting us coast on this win.
And honestly? I respected the hell out of him for it.
CHAPTER 8
INSECURE
GRANT
“Absolutely not.”
Hartley stood in my office doorway with his arms crossed, and that stubborn set to his jaw that I'd come to recognize meant he wasn't backing down. “It's for charity, Coach. Kids' hospital. You can't say no to sick kids.”
“I'm not saying no to sick kids. I'm saying no to being in a magazine photoshoot half-naked.” I kept my eyes on my laptop screen, reviewing practice footage like this conversation wasn't happening. “That's what you have Rook for. Captain does the PR stuff.”
“Rook's got some family matters to attend to. June already confirmed he's out. The photoshoot's in two hours and they need someone from the organization.” He stepped into my office uninvited and dropped into the chair across from my desk. “It's you or me. And if it's just me standing there alone, it looks like the team doesn't care about the charity.”
“Then get Volkov. Or O'Rourke. Or literally anyone else on the roster.”
“June specifically requested coaching staff and a player. You know, to show the 'leadership working together' angle.” He made air quotes with his fingers. “Her words, not mine.”
I finally looked up from my laptop. “Why are you pushing this?”
“Because you've been locked in this office for days. You need to do something that isn't watching film or running practice.” He leaned back in the chair, too relaxed, too comfortable in my space. “Plus, the photographer's supposed to be really good. Could be good publicity for the team. For you.”
“I don't do photoshoots,” I said flatly.
“Yeah, well, I don't do team bag skates, but here we are.” He grinned, and I hated that it made something in my chest go warm. “Come on, Coach. Two hours. Smile for some pictures. Help sick kids. Go back to being a hermit tomorrow.”
I stared at him, trying to find an argument that didn't involve admitting the real reason I didn't want to do this. That standing next to him would make me look exactly like what I was: an aging coach who'd spent the last fifteen years behind a bench instead of on the ice.
“Fine,” I said, because saying anything else would require explanations I wasn't willing to give. “Two hours. That's it.”
Hartley's grin widened. “I'll tell June. She's gonna be thrilled.”
“I'm sure she is.” I closed my laptop with more force than necessary. “Where is this thing?”
“Downtown studio. June's driving. We leave in thirty minutes.”
“Thirty—” I stopped myself from finishing that sentence. “You already told her I'd do it.”
“I told her I'd convince you.” He stood up, moving toward the door. “And I did. Because I'm very persuasive.”
He left before I could respond, and I sat there staring at the empty doorway, wondering what the hell I'd just agreed to.
June's carwas a sleek black sedan that smelled like leather and expensive coffee.
“Thank you for doing this, Grant,” she said as we merged onto the highway. Hartley was in the backseat, scrolling through his phone. “I know it's not your favorite thing, but the optics are important. Coach and star player supporting the children's hospital. It's good press.”
“Happy to help,” I lied.
