Page 4

Chapter Four

Natalie

S ummit Café smells like fresh espresso, cinnamon sugar, and the kind of warm, cozy atmosphere that makes me wonder why anyone would want to live anywhere but in Iron Ridge.

The same bells above the door that used to greet me as a caffeine-starved student chime as I step in, and Clara is already reaching for a to-go cup before I even open my mouth.

"Morning, sweetheart," she calls, expertly maneuvering the espresso machine. "The usual?"

"Please," I sigh. "Extra shot. It’s that kind of day."

Clara laughs. "How're those boys holding up with playoffs coming?"

"As well as you'd expect. Logan's still favoring that ankle, but—"

I stop mid-sentence as she slides a cup across the counter. But instead of pushing it toward me, she keeps her hand firmly on it, a knowing smirk playing at her lips.

"That's not yours, sweetheart," Clara says. "That one's for him."

My stomach does a little flip. "Him?"

She taps her finger against the cup where I can now see the name scrawled in her loopy handwriting: Coach Brody.

A dark silhouette suddenly looms above me and my skin is suddenly all warm and tingly.

"That mine?" A deep voice from behind me make my butt cheeks squeeze together.

Oh. Hell. No.

I don’t turn around. I can’t. Because I already know who it is. And I already know that if I look at him, I’ll start thinking about things I shouldn’t.

Like how good he smells. Like how unfair it is that he can show up at 7 AM looking like that.

Shit. I have turned around.

And now my face is directly level with his chest.

More specifically, with the bold Icehawks logo stretched across the firm, unfairly sculpted wall of muscle that is Hunter Brody’s torso.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

"Morning," he says, voice a deep, gravelly rumble that my stupid, traitorous brain immediately labels as hot.

"M-morning."

My entire nervous system malfunctions, and every nerve ending in my body lights up like the damn Fourth of July. So much for being a functional human being this morning.

If he’s trying to ignore me, he’s doing a piss-poor job of it.

Because yesterday was torture.

Walking around Icehawk HQ felt like navigating a high-stakes game of Avoid the Coach . Every time I entered a room, he was already leaving. Every time I passed him in the hallway, his one-second glances barely lasted long enough to count as eye contact.

At one point, I caught him literally pivoting in the opposite direction when he spotted me coming out of the therapy room. Like a full body turn. A 180-degree, nope -ing out of the situation like I was an HR violation waiting to happen.

And now?

Now he’s standing too close at Summit Café, smelling like expensive cologne and hockey player arrogance. Hockey coach. Whatever.

Clara, grinning like she’s watching her favorite television drama unfold in real time, hands over the cup. "Here you go, Coach. Extra strong. Just how you like it."

Hunter grabs the cup, looks to me and doesn't say a thing. Doesn't tease, doesn't flirt, doesn't do anything except look at me, all serious and unreadable before muttering, "See you in there."

I exhale sharply, forcing my gaze away from his broad back as he disappears out the door and down the street.

Clara, still watching me, leans an elbow on the counter. "Huh. He’s all business today. Usually, he stops for a chat."

I roll my shoulders, ignoring the warmth still curling in my stomach. "Guess he’s locked in for playoffs."

Clara snorts. "Mmhmm. The whole town is. Here you go, sweetie. Enjoy."

I grab my coffee and take an aggressive sip, willing my heart rate to go back to normal.

***

A few hours later, once I’ve recovered from my coffee-shop trauma, I head upstairs to chat with Sophia about playoff marketing schedules.

Well… that’s the excuse, anyway.

Within ten minutes, we’ve abandoned all talk of ad campaigns and are deep into planning the centerpieces for her wedding.

Time well spent, if you ask me.

Just as we finally settle on the color scheme, my stomach betrays me, growling loud enough for Sophia to hear.

"Oh my God. Go eat something," she laughs, waving me off. "I can hear your stomach plotting rebellion."

"I know. I should get to work anyway. Those boys won't look after themselves now, will they?"

With a quick look at my watch, I swing by the Player's Lounge, digging through the protein bar stash until I find my favorite – lemon cheesecake. It's basically a dessert masquerading as nutrition, and I pocket an extra one before Connor snatches them all up later this afternoon.

Checking on the teams schedule on the wall, I see they've got strength training right now, so I head in that direction. When I arrive, the weight room buzzes with pre-game energy when I push through the double doors. Heavy rock music pounds through speakers, weights clang, and—

Oh.

Oh no.

Hunter's there.

He's leading the team through their warm-up stretches, and sweet baby Jesus, the man is wearing a gray shirt that clings to every muscle. A towel hangs over one shoulder as he demonstrates proper form, those forearms flexing as he moves.

This is fine. Totally fine. He's just a man. A very attractive man. A man I definitely haven't seen naked.

Except I have. Multiple times. In vivid, toe-curling detail.

I bite into my protein bar, trying to focus on literally anything else. Like how Connor's doing his hamstring stretches wrong. Or how Ryder's definitely going to pull something if he keeps bouncing like that.

But then Hunter bends over to correct Logan's form, and—

"Oh, sweet mama," I whisper to myself.

I shake my head and remind myself not to stare. Then, Ryder groans beside me, making me jump from his sudden appearance.

"Damn, my shoulder's killing me." Ryder's knowing smirk tells me he definitely caught me staring at Hunter. "Think you could take a look, Nat?"

"Of course." I slip into professional mode, grateful for the distraction away from Hunter's perfectly sculpted glutes. "Sit."

Ryder plops onto the bench, and I position myself behind him. As my fingers probe the tight muscles of his deltoid, I deliberately keep my eyes focused on my work.

Two can play at this avoidance game, Coach.

I set my hands on Ryder’s broad, sweat-damp shoulder, my fingers pressing into the hard muscle beneath his skin.

"Right here?" I press into a knot, and Ryder hisses through his teeth.

"Yeah, that's the spot."

I dig my fingers deeper, working the tension loose. The mirror spans the entire wall in front of us, and despite my best efforts to stay professional, my eyes flick up for just a second.

Hunter stands by the weight rack, a dumbbell gripped in his white-knuckled hand. His jaw clenches as he watches my fingers work over Ryder's shoulder, my nails grazing occasionally as I massage deeper.

I press harder, digging my thumbs into Ryder’s deltoid, letting my fingers skim his bare skin with a little extra pressure. Just to see if Hunter’s expression changes.

It does.

His throat bobs, his Adam’s apple shifting as he swipes his tongue across his bottom lip.

I bite back a smile and continue my totally innocent, completely professional treatment. My hands slide over Ryder's shoulder blade, pressing firmly into the muscle.

"Better?"

"Oh… fuck," Ryder groans, the sound catching the attention of the room.

Heads turn.

A few of the guys snicker. Someone mutters, "Jesus, rookie, buy her dinner first."

I stifle a laugh.

Hunter does not.

As Ryder stands up, a dumbbell slams back onto the rack with a brutally loud clang. Hunter grabs his towel, swipes it across his face so aggressively he might rip the skin off.

"Five more minutes, then hit the showers," he barks at the team before stalking toward the door.

I stare after him, pulse thrumming in my ears.

Ryder rolls his shoulder, nodding in approval. "Damn, Nat, you’ve got magic hands. Thanks."

I smile, wiping my hands on my leggings. "Just don’t go throwing that out on the ice five minutes into warm-ups tomorrow, okay?"

He winks. "No promises."

The weight room gathers momentum around me, the clang of metal, the steady beat of music, the low murmur of the guys finishing up their final set of reps.

Normally, I love this part of the job. Being in the thick of it, keeping these guys in peak shape, making sure they don’t completely wreck themselves before playoffs.

But right now?

I'm beat. And I need to get out of here.

***

By the time I unlock my apartment door, exhaustion drags at my limbs. I push inside, toeing off my sneakers, and flick the light switch. The overhead fixture blinks twice before finally buzzing to life.

The ancient radiator clanks and wheezes as I drop my bag by the door. This place might be falling apart, but every creak and groan feels like home.

Grandma's touches are still everywhere. From the faded floral wallpaper she picked out in 1985 to the worn spot on the hardwood where she'd rock in her chair while watching her 'stories'.

I move over the floorboards and light her favorite vanilla candle on the windowsill, the same ritual I've performed every night since she left me the apartment three years ago.

"Hey Grandma," I whisper, placing the lighter back beside the candle.

The flame flickers, the gentle light catching on the water stains creeping down from the ceiling.

I grab a frozen dinner from the fridge - another ancient relic that desperately needs replacing. The microwave groans to life and while my sad excuse for dinner spins, I lean against the chipped counter and remember the look on Hunter Brody's face as I massaged Tyler's shoulder.

Who does he think he is anyway? Getting all stroppy and pissed off. He's the one who laid down those stupid boundaries, insisting we keep things "professional."

Yet there he was today, glaring daggers at me across the weight room like I'd committed some cardinal sin by doing my actual job.

Isn't this exactly what he wanted? Me, being the consummate professional, treating every player on the team the same way - including him? If anyone has the right to be frustrated, it's me.

I snatch my dinner from the microwave when it chimes and move into the living room. A mediocre frozen lasagna drowning under a pool of shiny, bubbling cheese and another night all alone?

Pure heaven.

Not.

In a weird way, I wouldn't have it any other way. I love Iron Ridge. I love my job, grumpy coaches aside.

Even my apartment, with the living room that desperately needs new carpeting and that leak in the bedroom ceiling that isn't getting any better… The list of repairs grows longer every month, but on my PT salary, I'm lucky to keep up with the property taxes and utilities each month.

But I can't leave. Won't leave.

This was where I spent every weekend as a kid, baking snickerdoodles with Grandma while my parents "worked through their issues" at home.

Where I crashed on her lumpy pullout couch during college. Where she held me when I got the devastating news that my knee had officially ended my very promising dance career.

I was seven.

And the world needed to see my completely offbeat, aggressively enthusiastic recital performance of Swan Lake . My ballet teacher strongly disagreed.

But Grandma?

Grandma swore I had star potential. Even if that potential involved two left feet and a dramatic final bow after tripping over my own shoelaces.

I shovel another bite of lasagna into my mouth, barely registering the rubbery texture. It’s objectively terrible. Mushy pasta, weirdly sweet sauce… but I eat every last bite anyway.

It’s fuel, not a five-star meal.

And really, what does it matter?

It’s not like I have anyone to impress. No fancy date nights. No romantic dinners for two. Just me, my questionably edible dinner, and the old sitcom rerun playing on mute in the background.

With a sigh, I drop the empty tray onto the coffee table and push off the couch and head toward the bathroom.

A scalding hot shower helps a little, loosening the muscles in my shoulders, but it does nothing to quiet the thoughts still looping in my brain.

That clenched jaw, the tight grip on his towel, the fire in his gaze when he stalked out of the weight room.

By the time I climb into bed, bundled in my favorite powder-blue sleep shirt that's covered in tiny, smiling coffee cups, and burrowed beneath the one luxury I refuse to skimp on—a ridiculously plush, oversized duvet—the apartment is still.

The rain that started an hour ago taps against the window, a rhythmic drip, drip, drip that should lull me to sleep.

But instead of going to sleep, I'm staring at my phone.

The screen of my phone illuminates my face in the darkness. Three days. Seventy-two hours of radio silence from Hunter Brody.

This is good. This is exactly what we should be doing. Maintaining those precious professional boundaries he's so obsessed with.

Then why do I keep waiting for my phone to light up with his name?

My thumbs hover over the keyboard. Just checking the injury reports are in order for tomorrow. Delete.

Connor mentioned his wrist was bothering him. Delete.

Miss you. Delete delete delete.

I bite my lip, then type quickly before I lose my nerve: Hey, just making sure you're still alive. You looked beat in the weight room earlier. Would be a shame if our head coach died right before Vancouver.

Send.

My heart pounds as I watch the message status change from "Delivered" to "Read."

Three dots appear at the bottom of the screen.

I hold my breath.

The dots vanish.

In the darkness of my silent apartment, one whole minute passes. Then five.

Nothing.

Fuck. He really did mean it this time.

Frustrated, my phone sails across the room, bouncing off my laundry hamper before landing with a thud on the carpet.

"Real mature, Natalie," I mutter into my pillow, but it doesn't stop the ache in my chest or the burning behind my eyes.