Page 17

Chapter Seventeen

Hunter

V ancouver is a fucking whirlwind.

Press conferences. Interviews. Media requests every damn hour. My name plastered across every sports network, every headline teasing the possibility of the unthinkable after we won game three last night.

3-0.

The Icehawks are one win away from sweeping the first playoff series in franchise history. And not just against any team—against my old team.

I should be soaking it in. Savoring every second.

Instead, all I can think about is her.

I barely saw Natalie before we left Iron Ridge. Barely had a chance to hear her voice, to look into those green eyes and see what she was thinking after our night on the rooftop.

She was quiet at the airport, then the second we landed, it was game mode.

Meetings, training, press. And when the final buzzer sounded last night and we skated off the ice victorious, I barely caught a glimpse of her before she was gone, straight into work mode to repair the players and have them ready for a quick turn around for game four tomorrow.

At least if we were back home in Iron Ridge, I'd get to see her pretty face.

Walk through my door late at night and find her curled up on the couch, her hair spilling over the blanket, waiting for me. At least I’d hear her soft sigh when I pulled the blanket over her. I’d get to feel her warmth next to mine when I finally gave in and dragged her to bed. My bed.

But here?

Here, I go back to a dark, empty hotel room. Unable to do a damn thing about the burning in my chest to hold her again.

It’ll be over soon. One more win.

One more win, and we’re moving on. One more win, and we get a week to rest and reset.

A week back in Iron Ridge.

A week where I can finally have her to myself.

The Vancouver skyline glitters through floor-to-ceiling windows of my hotel suite, a view that would've had me in awe twenty years ago. Now it's just another distraction from the task at hand.

I tap my fingers against the mahogany desk, willing myself to focus on the laptop screen. Vancouver's power play formations flicker past. But the X's and O's blur together.

My mind drifts to green eyes and soft moans and—

Focus, Brody.

A burst of laughter pierces through the wall. Female. Familiar. I grind my teeth, turning up the volume on my laptop.

CRASH.

"Oh shit!" More giggling to match the voices.

What the actual fuck? This is a five-star hotel, not a frat house.

I shove back from my desk, my chair scraping against hardwood. The sound echoes through my suite as I stalk toward the door, ready to tear whoever's out there a new one.

The hallway hits me with a wall of... vanilla? And something else. Sugar. Butter. The scent gets stronger as I round the corner.

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

The Icehawks are at war.

And apparently, it's with baking supplies.

I stand frozen in the doorway of the hotel's professional kitchen, taking in the chaos before me. My championship-caliber hockey team, the men I've trained to be elite athletes, are wearing fucking aprons and covered in what appears to be every baking ingredient known to man.

Connor's got flour in his playoff beard. Logan's attempting to pipe something that looks more like abstract art than frosting. And Ryder—Jesus Christ—has managed to get icing not just on his apron but somehow in his hair.

At the center of this disaster zone stand Lucy and Natalie, directing traffic like they're running some kind of pastry boot camp.

Natalie's got a smudge of chocolate on her cheek, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, looking way too pleased with herself.

I cross my arms, my scowl deepening. "What. The hell. Is this."

Natalie looks up, those green eyes sparkling with mischief. "A team-building exercise, Coach. You should join in."

Ryder chooses that moment to drop an entire bag of flour on the floor, creating a white cloud that engulfs half the team. They cough and laugh, looking like a bunch of kids playing in the snow.

"Team building is done in the gym. Or on the ice. Not in a goddamn bakery."

Natalie just grins, and oh, fuck. I hate when she does that. Because I already know where this is going.

"Get in here, Coach. Stop that grumbling and lighten up."

"No."

She's already moving toward me, grabbing my arm and pulling me forward. "Yes."

I let out a long-suffering sigh as she drags me into the flour-dusted chaos. "This is a mistake."

Natalie beams up at me, eyes dancing with mischief as she shoves a mixing bowl into my hands. “It’s only a mistake if you suck at baking.”

I grip the bowl, trying to maintain some semblance of control as Natalie circles behind me. Her fingers brush against my waist, sending electricity through my body as she ties the strings of an apron at my waist.

"Arms up," she commands, and like an idiot, I comply.

She presses against my back, reaching around to secure the neck strap. Her vanilla scent mingles with the sugar and butter wafting from the ovens. I inhale deeply, not sure which is more intoxicating - her or the cookies.

"There." Her hands linger at my sides, smoothing down the apron. "Perfect fit."

I glance down at the fabric stretched across my chest. In flowing script, it reads 'Kiss the Cook' with little hearts dotting the i's - exactly like the ones in her injury reports.

"You did this on purpose." I turn to face her, bowl still clutched in my hands. "This whole thing is a set up."

She blinks up at me, those damn lashes making my knees weak. "I have no idea what you mean."

But the slight quirk of her lips gives her away. She knew exactly what she was doing, getting me down here, wrapping me in this ridiculous apron, pressing herself against me where anyone could notice the subtle, yet completely intentional touches.

My grip tightens on the bowl. God help me, but I want to kiss that smirk right off her face.

I stare at the sugar cookies laid out before me, wondering how the hell I ended up here. Years of coaching, and somehow I'm decorating cookies with a team of misfits.

"Mine's gonna be the worst cookie in history." Connor grabs fistfuls of sprinkles, dumping them onto his creation with maniacal glee.

"Dude." Ryder squints at his own cookie. "Is it just me or does this look like a—"

"Hey! Keep it PG, rookie." I grab the piping bag, surprised by how natural it feels in my hands. Years of drawing up plays on a whiteboard translate oddly well to frosting work.

My cookie takes shape - clean lines, perfect spacing, balanced color distribution. I step back, horrified at my hidden talent.

"You're a natural, Coach." Natalie sidles up next to me, her eyes sparkling. She hesitates, fingers playing with her apron strings. "Actually, speaking of natural talents... I have been meaning to ask you about something."

I lean in close, keeping my voice low. "If this is about your natural talent with your hands from the other night, I'd be happy to provide a performance review."

"Hunter!" Natalie slaps my arm, her cheeks flushing crimson as she whips her head around to check if anyone overheard.

Her fingers dig into my bicep and the glare she tries on is utterly adorable.

"That is not what I was going to ask about, and you know it."

But there's a hint of a smile playing at her lips, and her touch lingers longer than necessary.

I smirk, enjoying the way her breath catches when I step closer under the pretense of reaching for more sprinkles. "My mistake. What is it?"

"It's just… I stopped by my apartment earlier and noticed some interesting changes before we left home..."

"Really? Like what?" I frown like I'm confused.

Damn . I should've known she'd figure it out - Natalie's too smart to miss the signs.

Mike promised to keep quiet, but those premium hardwood floors were probably a dead giveaway. Now I'm gonna need a believable explanation that doesn't reveal the full scope of what I'm planning for her apartment.

"Just a few things that—"

But before I can pull some half-assed excuse out of thin air, Natalie narrows her eyes, like she’s this close to calling me on my bullshit.

I can't let that happen.

I make a snap decision. A reckless, idiotic, highly effective snap decision.

Without breaking eye contact, I swipe two fingers through the bowl of vanilla frosting. I drag it slow and deliberate along her cheekbone and watch the shock creep across her face.

Her breathing stops, her gaping mouth freezing mid-sentence. The soft, sugary smear stands out against her blushing pink skin, and for a second, the entire kitchen goes dead silent.

Ryder audibly gasps.

"You did not just—"

"I did," I say, smirking and folding my arms over my chest.

Her green eyes blaze, flickering between rage and something a hell of a lot more dangerous.

Oh, fuck.

I just made this so much worse for myself.

Natalie lunges .

Her hand dives straight into the mixing bowl, scooping up an ungodly amount of frosting. "Get here, Coach!"

I barely have time to pivot before she smashes the frosting into my collarbone, dragging it down the front of my shirt.

The room erupts. Connor howls with laughter. Lucy cheers and whoops like a fucking schoolgirl. Ryder, that little shit, grabs an entire handful of flour and launches it across the kitchen at Logan, who takes it like a damn snowball to the chest the moment he steps into the kitchen to absolute fucking carnage.

Natalie pounces on top of me, her sudden weight sending me tumbling to the floor where she sits on my chest, a competitive glint in her eye. “Not so tough now, are you, Coach?”

I exhale slowly, desperate to wipe clean my frosting-covered face but she's got me pinned. Pinned good.

“You really wanna do this, Hayes?”

Her grin widens as I struggle against her pinhold. “Oh, I really do.”

The kitchen's turned into a war zone - flour coating every surface, sprinkles crunching underfoot as the team pelts each other with whatever ingredients they can grab.

Natalie shifts her weight, and I catch her glancing sideways at the others. In that split second, while Connor dumps an entire bag of powdered sugar over Ryder's head and Lucy shrieks with laughter, she dips down so we're hidden between the counters.

Her lips brush mine, quick and soft. Just a heartbeat of contact, gone before anyone could notice.

But holy shit.

The taste of vanilla frosting lingers on my lips. My heart pounds against my ribs where she's still got me pinned.

That single stolen moment in the middle of absolute mayhem - it's perfect.

Dangerous and reckless and absolutely fucking perfect.

She pulls back, eyes sparkling. I'm falling for this girl. I'm falling in love with her so fucking hard and fast it feels like nothing can stop us.

I lay there, probably grinning like an idiot while she wipes more frosting across my cheek. The gentle sweep of her fingers feels more intimate than it should, especially with the team destroying the kitchen around us.

I'm not even trying to get her off me now. Smear all she wants, I don't care. She's right where I want her.

"Got you good, Coach," she says loud enough for others to hear, but her eyes tell a different story.

Yeah, she's got me.

She's got me more than she knows.

But then, the kitchen door slams open with enough force to rattle the mixing bowls scattered across the floor.

We all look up, and Jordan, our assistant coach, stands in the doorway, his face carved from stone.

The laughter in the kitchen dies instantly.

Natalie gets off me and I stand up and brush myself down. My stomach drops at the look on Jordan's face. Fifteen years of coaching beside him - I know that look. Something's wrong.

"Coach. We have a problem."

My entire body goes still. The frosting on my face, Natalie's weight on my chest, the chaos around us - it all fades away. Game-day instincts surge through my veins, replacing everything else with razor-sharp focus.

"What happened?"

Jordan swallows hard. "It's Blake."

The room shifts. Connor drops the bag of sugar he's holding. Ryder's shoulders tense. Logan takes a step forward. The playful atmosphere evaporates, replaced by a thick, suffocating tension.

My stomach turns to stone.

Blake. My captain. The backbone of this team. The guy who's carried us through every obstacle this season. The reason we're all fucking here in the first place.

"Where is he?" My voice comes out like steel, all traces of laughter gone.

"Medical room." Jordan's jaw clenches. "He's saying it's fine, but..."

I'm already yanking off the ridiculous apron, not caring that it tears. "Natalie. Let's go."

She rolls off me instantly, professional mask sliding into place. The physical therapist replacing the playful woman who just kissed me. We both know what's at stake here.

One second, we're laughing. Kissing. The next, our entire season just fucking changed.

Sometimes hockey is cruel like that.

Trust me, I know.