The desk clerk looked terrified. “I'm so sorry, sir. We have a convention that overbooked, and we're doing everything we can, but?—”
“How many rooms short are we?” Coach's voice was dangerously calm.
“Three, sir. We've called other hotels in the area, but everything is booked because of the convention and?—”
“So what's the solution?”
“We're going to have to double up some of your staff and players. We have roll-away beds we can bring up, and?—”
Oh fuck.
Rook appeared at Coach's elbow, captain mode fully engaged. “Alright, who's doubling up?”
The clerk checked her computer screen. “We have rooms for the bulk of your team, but we're short on singles. We'll need three pairs.”
“Fine.” Rook was already mentally sorting through the roster. “Callahan and Mercer can room together. Volkov and?—”
“And Coach Sutherland with someone named Jace Hartley,” the clerk interrupted, reading off her screen. “Those are the assignments we have available based on room size and?—”
“Wait, what?”
Every head in the vicinity turned toward me.
Rook's eyebrows went up. “Problem, Hartley?”
Yes. Massive fucking problem.
“No.” I forced my face into something resembling neutral. “No problem.”
Finn leaned in with a shit-eating grin. “Oh man, Hart's rooming with Coach? This is gonna beamazing.”
“Shut the fuck up, Callahan.”
“I'm just saying, you better be on your best behavior. No leaving wet towels on the floor, no?—”
“I will end you.”
He was still laughing as I grabbed my key card from the clerk—room 412, one key for me, one for Coach—and headed toward the elevators before anyone else could comment.
This was fine. This was totally fine. We were adults. Professionals. We'd shared a locker room, shared ice time, shared the same air for months now. This was just logistics. Just a hotel fuckup that meant nothing.
Except it meanteverything, and we both knew it.
The elevator ride up was mercifully empty, giving me sixty seconds to spiral in peace. By the time I reached the fourth floor, I'd convinced myself this was survivable. We'd probably both just pass out from exhaustion. He'd take the bed, I'd take the roll-away, we'd sleep, wake up, and pretend it never happened.
Simple.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The room was standard hotel mediocre. One queen bed. A desk. A chair. A bathroom. A window overlooking the parking lot. And notably, horrifyingly, no fucking roll-away bed yet.
Just one bed.
“Fucking hell,” I muttered, dropping my bag on the floor.
I pulled out my phone to text the front desk about the roll-away situation when I heard footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Steady. Unmistakable.
The door opened, and Coach walked in.
