“No way! You invited Coach?”
I look between the three of them, suddenly very sure Ido notwant to know what’s about to happen in that room.
Not my business. Not my business. Not my—
“What are you boys up to tonight?” I ask, deciding itismy business. Because a good coach cares. Not because I’ll wonder about this forever if I don’t find out.
Kane slowly lifts one eyebrow as if to say, “Boys?” Luckily, Larsen is here, and he’s always ready to talk.
“Dinner. Kane is trying out private chefs, and he invited us along.”
I blink once, digesting what I heard. Is this Kane’s usual MO, or is he taking my request to become a leader on and off the ice seriously?
“Did he not invite you?” Larsen continues. “I’m sure there’s enough room.” He looks at Kane. “Right?”
Kane pauses a beat too long, so Larsen changes his focus to the woman I’m now realizing must be the chef. “Right?”
There’s slight panic in her eyes, and I can only assume she’s trying to mentally calculate how she’s going to add another plate of food from the cooler bag slung over her arm, which probably should’ve been a sign earlier that this wasn’t a date.
“Unfortunately, I have plans tonight, but thanks for the offer… Larsen.” I add the last part with a slight smirk toward Kane.
My players certainly don’t need to know those plans consist of a steak salad for dinner, prepared by yours truly from a salad-in-a-bag kit and my leftover filet from last night’s dinner, and three to five hours of watching film.
“Oo, big date, Coach?” Larsen asks, and the way Kane’s shoulders bunch makes me want to laugh. Clearly regretting inviting the rookie over for dinner. As psychotic as he makes me, I secretly love the chaos energy Larsen brings.
“Dude.” Li punches his friend in the arm.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “Larsen, what makes you think that’s an appropriate question?”
“Thought it was worth a try,” the large man says. “I got Grumpy McGrumperson over here”—he points at a scowling Kane with his thumb—“to invite me to his place for dinner, so I thought maybe it was my lucky day or something. And I’m a nosy fucker who happens to know nothing about you.”
“It’s going to stay that way, too,” I reply before unlocking my door. “Good luck, Chef.”
I shut the door to the sound of another player exiting the elevator and joining the fray. I really should’ve considered the fact that I live across the hall before telling Kane to step up his leadership game. A clear miscalculation on my part. I just hope he doesn’t start parading women around every night.
I rest my forehead against the closed door, annoyed that I care. Annoyed that it even crossed my mind. And slightly annoyed that Kane doesn’t remember the fifteen minutes he spent helping me with my slap shot. It has lived rent-free in my head since I was sixteen, but apparently holds less than zero mental space for him.
Which is fair. And not at all something I should be annoyed by. Which I recognize.
Shoving the irritation down, I move through my evening routine, the occasional sounds from across the hall reminding me of how isolated I’ve become.
It grates. Especially when I hear the high-pitched laugh of a woman. The chef.
Because she can laugh and flirt with random men. She didn’t have to sacrifice everything to achieve her dreams.Shedoesn’t have the world waiting for her to make one mistake and take it all away.
After a quick dinner in front of my laptop, I change into the shorts and T-shirt I prefer to sleep in and pull the Falcons’ film up on my TV. With my notes folder open on my screen, I get to work, preparing for our next game.
I’m through the first period, almost no notes written, when I pause and rewind the play, forcing myself to focus as their forward scores the first goal of the game. He’s fast, but not unstoppable.
Voices drift through the door, and I tiptoe to the peephole, not at all proud of myself for my curiosity. The chef is saying goodbye, and Kane steps out into the hall with her.
I watch, like a complete stalker, as he shakes her hand, thanking her for her time. His hand looks large compared to hers, and I imagine what it must feel like to have its strong warmth wrapped around—oh, for crying out loud. I clearly have let my personal life go stagnant for too long if I’m suddenly envisioning Beckett Kane’s hand wrapped around mine in a way that is certainly not suitable for a player and their coach.
“All right, boys, fifteen minutes until option two is here,” Kane announces as he walks into his apartment.
Oh, hell. Of course they’re trying out multiple chefs. Why can’t they just go home so I can get back to my usual routine?
I debate emailing Paige to see if she can get Kane assigned to another unit, but decide against it. These are still early days.Asking for a player to be moved, or even for me to move out of the building, would cause a level of gossip that I neither need nor want in the middle of the season. A season that’s already decided to be a huge fucking pain in my ass.
