Page 30

Coach Hunter Brody

Chapter 1

Swear to God, that asshole Captain of mine is trying to ruin this team.

My team.

I slam my office door so hard the trophy shelf rattles. Not that I care, after twenty years, it's still fucking empty.

My temples throb as I stare at the game footage playing on my laptop screen. Blake's proposal at center ice plays on repeat across every sports network.

Seriously. Every. Damn. Network.

Every gossip page, every grandma with a Facebook account has been losing their shit over this for the last twenty-four hours. The NHL’s biggest grump just declared himself a changed man, and now the league is eating it up like free wings at Ridgeview Tavern.

The whole fucking world has gone insane.

Don't get me wrong - I'm happy for the guy. Blake deserves this.

But his grand romantic gesture in the middle of our playoff push? The media circus that's surrounded my team for the last few weeks is the last thing we need right now. Especially now, considering we went against all odds and made play-offs.

We made playoffs.

We made the fucking playoffs.

We’re not supposed to be here. The playoffs? Fuck… This shouldn’t have happened for the Icehawks. This team has been clawing its way up from rock bottom, fighting against the odds, proving every analyst wrong for years.

And now? We fucking made it.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.

Twenty years.

Twenty years of climbing out of the wreckage of my own playing career.

That knee injury should've ended everything. I remember lying in that hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, the doctor's words echoing: "You'll never play professionally."

My entire identity, shattered in one hit. Hell, my knee still aches when it rains. Not that I ever let anyone see.

The rehab was hell. Not the physical part - I could handle the pain. Still can compared to most of the pussies on the ice these days.

No… my downfall? The hardest part of that fucking blow to my knee?

It was watching my teammates move on without me. Draft day came and went. My name? Nowhere to be found.

While they were living my dream, I was learning to walk again.

But I guess today, making playoffs, makes it all worth it.

I click off the video of Blake's proposal. I’ve had my fill of that lovesick mug for one day.

My shoulders ache from hunching over strategy notes for hours. The digital clock on my desk blinks 11:47 PM. The building's practically empty, most of the team out celebrating at Ridgeview Tavern like beer-soaked gorillas.

Good. They earned it after tonight's win.

But me?

I deserve fifteen minutes of pure silence, steam, and solitude.

I leave my office and stride down the dark hallways until I reach the Player's Lounge. The place is empty - exactly how I like it this late.

No players, no staff, no distractions.

Just me, the hiss of the sauna, and blessed, uninterrupted silence.

I shoulder through the locker room door with a bone-deep groan, already imagining the hot steam melting away the day's tension.

Blake Maddox, engaged… Fuck me.

My clothes hit the bench one by one. Suit jacket. Tie. Dress shirt. Each piece of fabric peeling away the weight of expectations, of responsibility. Of being Coach Brody.

The steam beckons through the frosted glass door. My sanctuary. The one place in this whole damn building where I can just... breathe.

I grab a fresh towel from the stack by the door and wrap it around my waist, pushing open the door and—

"Holy fucking Christ!"

My heart stops. Actually stops.

This is it. This is how I die. Not from a game-winning heart attack, not from a Stanley Cup Final or from a bench-clearing brawl, but from getting ambushed in my own damn steam room by a five-foot-six physical therapist who might well be the hottest woman alive.

Yep.

Natalie Hayes lounges on the top bench like some kind of goddess, miles of toned legs stretched out in front of her. A white towel barely covers what it needs to, clinging to curves that have no business being this close to naked.

Steam curls around her, making the whole scene look almost unreal. Like some fevered, impossible dream I shouldn’t be having. A wet dream, maybe.

Her skin glistens under the dim light, damp and flushed, her collarbone gleaming with a single bead of moisture that trails lower and lower.

Her black hair spills over her shoulders, damp from the steam and curling just over her shoulders, and her head's tipped back against the wall, exposing the elegant line of her throat.

The sight makes my teeth clench down until they squeak.

"Fuck me," I rasp, choking on the sight of Natalie looking all smooth, hot, and fucking irresistible. "Natalie, what the hell are you doing here? You scared the shit out of me."

Her eyes fly open, those deep, emerald colored eyes that threaten to ruin my entire well-disciplined life.

Jesus Christ, I'm her boss. Her fucking boss.

But those eyes could make a saint sin.

"Oh, hell there, Coach." Her lips curve into that devastating smile. "Careful. I'd hate to have to give you mouth-to-mouth. You know, professionally speaking."

Fucking hell.

Her voice comes out all breathy and surprised. Yeah, not buying it.

She sits up straighter, the movement causing that damn towel to slip just a fraction. Just enough to send my blood rocketing south.

I slam my eyes shut. "This isn't happening."

"Isn't it? Are you sure?"

Natalie blinks up at me, ever so slowly, her long lashes sweeping like she knows exactly what I’m remembering. Exactly what those eyes looked like when she was on her knees, staring up at me like I was the only thing in her world the other day in my office.

"You need to leave." Even I don't believe myself.

My voice comes out like I've been gargling glass.

"Do I?" She stretches, all feline grace and wicked intent. The towel rides higher. "Because… ah…" She breathes a sigh and slowly drags her fingers down over her towel, tracing the curve of her own breast. "I'm pretty comfortable right here."

My muscles lock. Blood rushes. Everywhere.

I'm one second away from sporting the worst goddamn towel tent of my life.

The heat in the steam room isn’t helping. My breathing deepens, but it doesn’t get to where it needs to. Every inhale is laced with the faintest trace of vanilla shampoo, something else sweet and utterly dangerous.

"Natalie Hayes. Fuck. Please…"

"Hunter Brody."

She mimics my tone, those green eyes dancing with challenge.

She damn well knows what she does to me when she says my name like that. Knows exactly how to push every single one of my buttons until I snap.

And I've snapped too many times already.

The locker room last week. My office after the Rangers game. That supply closet during team photos. On every damn road game this season, sneaking around hotel rooms like kids on their first overnight school trip.

Each time I swear it's the last. But each time I can't help but feel myself falling harder into whatever this is between us.

"Natalie, this can't happen again."

It's my coach voice. My do-not-argue voice. The one that makes Hulk-like defensemen suddenly remember their manners.

On her?

It's about as effective as a plastic whistle.

I plant my feet, cross my arms. Anything to keep from crossing that room and showing her exactly what that teasing swipe of her lips with that damn talented tongue does to me.

And yet… she just grins.

"Your record on follow-through is worse than our power play conversion, Coach." She ticks off on her fingers. "Yesterday in your office. Tuesday in the supply closet. Last week when you decided my desk needed a stress test-"

"Yeah, yeah, okay… I get it."

Satisfied she's bettered my argument - again - she leans forward, elbows on her knees. The towel slips and she runs her fingers along her wet skin. She moans, and flicks her head back, running her hand up her throat, looking all seductive and sexy.

"Mmmm… I actually forgot about the supply closet. That was so good, Coach."

"Natalie." My voice cracks. Actually cracks like some spotty teenager hitting puberty.

"What are you afraid of, Hunter? Think you won't be able to stop?"

She knows better. We have rules at this hockey team. Lines. Boundaries. All the ones we keep crossing.

"I'm your boss. I'm head coach."

"Technically, the team owns my contract. I have it right here in my... oh wait, no pockets."

She smirks and presses a finger to her lips, batting those lashes again. Cheeky.

"I'm too old for you."

"I like older men. Plus, your stamina is-"

"The playoffs—"

"Start next week. And… oh my…" She rises slowly off the bench, towel clutched to her chest, hiding those delicious pink peaks that feel too damn good against my tongue. "You're looking awfully stressed."

Fuck me. I'm a dead man.

I should turn around, walk out that door, and not look back.

But my feet are rooted to the spot, my heart pounding like I've just skated a hundred laps.

Natalie steps closer, her hips swaying in a teasing dance that has my blood racing. Those legs… so silky, smooth, and so damn long. They're going to be the death of me, I swear to God.

"Natalie." It's a low growl, a plea, a desperate attempt to cling to the last shreds of my self-control.

"Yes, Coach?" she purrs, her fingertips moving to where the towel is tucked in, precariously hanging on for dear life.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "This is a bad idea."

She doesn’t even flinch. Instead, she just arches that perfectly shaped eyebrow of hers, giving me the kind of look that says she’s not afraid of anything.

"Bad ideas can be fun, Hunter. I think both you and I know that by now."

She's right in front of me, close enough that I can see the beads of sweat on her skin, smell the faint scent of her shampoo.

My mind’s a mess.

A jumbled mess with thoughts of every damn thing I’m supposed to be doing before playoffs.

Twenty years.

Twenty years I've fought to be in the NHL playoffs.

And now, every damn idea swirling inside my head is exactly why I’m about to ruin all of that work.

Natalie takes one last step closer to me, her eyes never leaving mine as her fingers grip the edge of the towel. I swallow hard as time slows right the fuck down, every second an eternity as I wait for the inevitable.

And then, with a simple flick of her wrist, the towel drops to the floor.

" Whoops ."

"Oh… God…"

I'm fucking choking. Natalie stands there, completely bare, and I swear to God, I’ve never seen anything more perfect in my life. Not since the last time I saw it, at least.

She's pure temptation wrapped in danger, and every inch of her is a reckless invitation I can't resist.

Her tits are full and round. Her nipples already hard, begging for my mouth.

I already know the swell of her ass is a work of art, curved and firm, just begging to be grabbed and held onto while I take her from behind. Again and again and again, just like we have been for weeks.

But right now, more than anything, I need to kiss her. I need to taste her, to feel her lips against mine.

Because this thing… whatever we're doing here, it's worth doing.

One last time.

I step closer, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum.

“Natalie." I grab her by the waist, my other hand coming up to grip her chin, pulling her head so she's looking right at me. Her breath catches with a whimper. "This is the last fucking time."

And then, finally, I kiss her.

She gasps as we stumble beneath the kiss. I press her into the wall, her thighs gripping my waist as we crash backwards.

The steam is suffocating, my pulse deafening. Fuck it. I reach down, grab the back of her knee, and hitch it over my hip.

"Last fucking time."

She moans, and I swallow the sound, my tongue sweeping into her mouth, claiming her, tasting her…

One. Last. Time.

Read Coach's Temptation here!