He stood near the boarding counter with a clipboard doing a headcount. His hair was slightly messed up, probably from running his hands through it, and he had that look on his face. The one that said he was three seconds away from herding us all onto the plane with a cattle prod.
I shouldn't have been watching him. I definitely shouldn't have been cataloging the way his shoulders filled out his Wolves quarter-zip, or the way his jaw flexed when Finn tried to negotiate boarding group placement, or the way his eyes scanned the crowd with that focused intensity that made my stomach clench.
But I was watching. I couldn't fucking stop.
He must have felt it, because his gaze snapped to mine across the terminal. Our eyes locked for maybe two seconds. Two seconds where I forgot how to breathe, forgot we were in public, forgot that five days ago we'd crossed a line so far into the red zone there was no coming back from it.
His expression didn't change. Didn't flicker. But something in his eyes did and it sent heat straight down my spine.
I smirked. I couldn't help it. It was reflex, armor, the same shit I always did when someone got too close. I lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug, likewhat?, like I hadn't been eye-fucking him from across the terminal, like I wasn't already half-hard just from the memory of him coming with my name in his mouth.
Coach's jaw tightened. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. More like acknowledgment. Like heknew exactly what I was doing and found it amusing instead of infuriating.
“Hartley.” His voice carried across the space between us, calm and controlled and absolutely fucking devastating. “Stop flirting with the departure board and get your ass in line.”
A few of the guys laughed. Finn made a choking sound. I felt my face heat, but I played it off with another grin and flipped him off as I headed toward the gate.
The problem was, he wasn't wrong.
The flight waschaos in a metal tube.
Finn had somehow convinced half the team to buy into his snack black market, which meant there was a full-scale bartering economy happening in the back rows. Mace was asleep before we even reached cruising altitude, snoring loud enough that Victor threw a bag of pretzels at his head. Tate had commandeered the armrest and was editing his latest post with the focus of a surgeon.
I sat in a middle row, headphones in but no music playing, staring at the seat back in front of me and trying not to think about the fact that Coach was three rows up on the aisle.
Trying. Failing.
“Hey.” Benny slid into the seat next to me, book in hand. He was one of the quieter guys on the team, which I appreciated. He didn't need to fill every silence with noise. “You gonna actually watch the film review or just brood?”
“I don't brood.”
“You've been staring at that seat like it insulted your mom for ten minutes.”
“Fuck off, Cho.”
He grinned and cracked open his book. “Just checking.”
Rook's voice came over the intercom—well, not theintercom, but he might as well have had one with the way his captain voice carried. “Alright, boys. Film time. Devices out. We're running through Seattle's defensive structure. Pay attention or I'm making you skate sprints in the hotel parking lot.”
Groans echoed through the cabin. Finn muttered something about labor laws. Mace cracked one eye open, grunted, and went back to sleep.
I pulled up the film on my tablet, but my focus was shit. I watched the footage play—Seattle's defensive zone coverage, their breakout patterns, the way their penalty kill set up—but none of it was sticking.
“Hartley.”
My head snapped up. Coach was standing in the aisle next to my seat, leaning slightly against the headrest in front of me. His presence filled the space, made the air feel thinner. He had his own tablet in hand, and his expression was completely neutral.
“You catching any of this,” he said, voice low enough that only I could hear, “or are you too busy thinking about other things?”
My pulse kicked. “I'm paying attention.”
“Really.” He didn't sound convinced. He glanced at my screen, then back at me. “What's their weak side on the breakout?”
I blinked. Scrambled for an answer that wasn'tI have no fucking idea because I've been thinking about your hands. “Left side. Their D-man's slow on the pivot.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Not bad.”
“I'm full of surprises, Coach.”
