She turns to glare at me, and it’s only the slightest twinkle in her eye that reminds me she isn’t my coach right now. Just a woman I care far too much about.
I lift my hands in a placating gesture. “Edging it is.”
We spend the next couple of hours putting together the uniquely shaped pieces until, finally, the full picture appears. It’s a winter landscape. The image of a frozen lake somewhere in the Midwest, a group of kids playing hockey in the middle.
“You’re right,” I say as we both stare at the completed puzzle on my coffee table. “The fancy pieces are much more fun. And I felt so classy while doing it.”
“I told you so.”
We sit there silently for a moment before Finley turns to me. “Thank you for this. I honestly can’t remember the last gift anyone got me, and well, this was really special.” She leans in and kisses me on the cheek as she says it. As soon as her lips make contact, she pulls away, straightening her back as she checks her phone.
“Oh, Paige just texted. She said she was able to make it to the arena from her apartment, so I should be good to make it.”
“We don’t need to go yet.” I reach for her again.
She smiles at me, and something settles behind her eyes. Not regret, but something like resolve. Maybe a bit of sadness. “I… can’t, Kane. I’ve got to get back to work. It’s April. We’ve got to get ready for the playoffs.”
Chapter 33
Finley
Icrossedaline.
A thick, black line with a neon sign saying, “Do not, under any circumstances, cross.”
And that version of me cannot survive as the head coach of the Denver Yeti.
I can’t make mistakes, and clearlythatwas a big one.
I pace my office as I run through the damage control that must be done. I don’t think anyone saw us, but we’re both famous enough that cell phones are dangerous. He’s on the IR now, but what happens when he gets back? How do I remain neutral when I feel anything but toward him?
Did I leave my underwear at his place?
I search through my backpack, letting out a sigh of relief when I find the thong rolled up in yesterday’s sweatpants.
The thought of sweatpants allows my mind to wander to a memory of Beckett pulling them off me before his mouth was on me. It was good.Wewere good.
I forcibly shove that thought from my mind. That is exactly why I don’t date.
I don’t get to be the type of woman who sits around her office fantasizing about the man she made the mistake of wanting. I don’t get to want things other women do. And I certainly don’t get to date one of my players.
I am a coach.
The leader.
A professional.
Always.
“Finley, do you have a minute?” Sabrina asks as I prepare to leave my office that evening, keys in hand. I really wish this woman would just call me Coach Blake, like everyone else.
“Of course, Sabrina,” I reply, ready to give the team whatever they need.
“Great,” Sabrina says, shutting the door behind her. “There is some chatter online, and I want to flag it with you early.”
“Okay.” I sit down. “What’s up?”
“I just wanted to let you know that we’re seeing a change in some of the comments about you on recent posts.”
