Page 5

Chapter Five

Hunter

L ogan’s house is exactly what a pro hockey player’s house should be.

Big, warm, filled with the scent of whiskey and enough Ridgeview Tavern wings to feed a small army.

The oversized sectional sofa in the living room swallows half my team, the giant flat-screen blaring a game we're all keeping one eye on flashing with playoff game one kicking off the series between Pittsburgh and Boston.

But my focus is on one thing, and one thing only.

The big stack of cash in the middle of the poker table.

I stare at my cards in one hand, the other fiddling with poker chips as I roll them over my knuckles and plot my next move.

Logan's place has always been a sanctuary before gameday's. No press, no expectations, just the tradition of shuffling cards and the easy flow of bullshit between me and my players.

Cards slap against the felt as Connor shuffles dramatically, flicking chips between his fingers like some Vegas high roller. Ryder kicks his feet up on an empty chair, popping a fry into his mouth like he doesn’t have a damn care in the world.

"I'm telling you, Tuna's got this look in his eyes." Connor deals us all a hand and fans his own cards out, those scratch marks on his forearm still visible. "Like he's calculating trajectories for maximum damage."

"Your cat weighs eight pounds," Ryder says, tossing chips into the pot. "Maybe stop buying the fancy organic food."

"Says the guy who got taken down by a shoulder massage today." Connor raises his eyebrows.

I go rigid. The poker chip stalls between my fingers.

Connor wiggles his eyebrows at Ryder, who just smirks, stretching his freshly massaged shoulder like it doesn’t mean a damn thing. Meanwhile, my brain decides now is the perfect time to replay the way Natalie’s hands slid over his skin.

Fucking fantastic.

I need my head in the game. I need to be thinking about our first shift, about power play strategies, about shutting down Vancouver’s forecheck. Not about the way Natalie Hayes dragged her nails over Ryder’s skin like she wasn’t deliberately screwing with me.

She knew I was watching. She felt me watching. And she didn’t stop.

Hell, she pressed harder. Let her nails graze his skin like it didn’t mean anything.

Like it wasn’t driving me out of my damn mind.

I toss a chip into the pot, jaw clenched.

She was just doing her damn job, you moron.

Logan groans, flipping his cards. “Can we focus? Some of us would like to take Coach’s money before playoffs start.”

I snort. “Keep dreaming, Kane.”

I lay my cards out, savoring Connor's groan as I rake in yet another winning pot. At least this is something I can control. The win helps steady my pulse, push away thoughts of weight rooms and beautiful dark-haired physical therapists.

I focus on the shuffling of the deck, trying not to imagine Natalie’s voice in my head, chirping me for being too competitive. Or the fact that if she were sitting at this table, she’d probably call me a sore winner right about now.

Or be under the table with her lips wrapped around me. Either would be fine.

The chips pile up in front of me as I take another hand. Then another. Blake grins, scooping up his own win with a flourish that reminds me he's still riding high from his proposal.

A roar from the TV catches our attention. Pittsburgh's goalie throws his gloves, launching into a brawl at center ice.

"Damn, look at that right hook," Logan whistles, eyes glued to the replay.

When we return to the game, Logan finally breaks my streak, dragging the pot toward himself with a satisfied smirk. "About time someone took you down, Coach."

I shrug, shuffling the deck. "Don't get used to it."

The pile of chips next to me grows bigger. I get the next two rounds, and suddenly none of them are looking like the smug assholes I watch every day on the ice.

"And, another straight flush."

I lay another hand down and watch their heads fall.

"This is rigged," Ryder mutters, reaching for more wings. "Coach has to be counting cards."

"Twenty years of strategy, kid." I stack my chips methodically. "You learn a thing or two."

Logan deals the next hand, the cards snapping against the felt. Blake shifts in his seat, his eyes flicking between the game on the big screen more than the others.

After a few minutes, he leans back, stretching his arms behind his head. “Speaking of winning… Lucy’s been around a lot lately.”

Connor perks up instantly. “You mean the ridiculously hot graphic designer Big Mike has rewarded us with?”

I shake my head as Blake winks at me. He's got a knack for stirring the pot, and he knows exactly what he's doing right now.

Blake shrugs, grinning. “Just saying. Someone might wanna shoot their shot before it's too late.”

“Already on it,” Ryder announces, tossing a chip into the pot.

Connor chokes on his beer. “Jesus, that was fast. Does Mia know about this?”

Ryder shrugs and rolls his eyes. "Fuck, man. Do we have to do this every time? We're just friends. "

A collective groan fills the room.

"Dude, we've heard this before." Logan tosses a chip at Ryder's head. "You and Mia are just friends who spend every waking moment together."

"And text constantly," Blake adds.

"And share food." Connor mimes gagging.

"And ogle over each other like lovesick puppies," Logan finishes.

Ryder's face flushes red. "Fuck… you guys are worse than my mom."

"Speaking of lovesick puppies..." Connor shuffles the deck and lays the next round down. "Lucy has been asking about game schedules. Think she might actually show up to watch me play."

"She's definitely into you," Blake says, still stirring. "But fair warning - she's got opinions about everything. Including your gear setup and how it should look on your Instagram posts."

Connor's eyes light up and he strokes his ridiculous ever-growing beard. "I think I can handle that. But she's still no-"

Logan's eyes grow wide. "Don't say it-"

" Natalie. "

Connor grins and leans back in his chair, slapping his cards down with an enthusiastic smack that makes me want to pick them up and throw them at him.

"She's no Natalie. Now that's a woman I would-"

Snap.

The blood in my ears roars like I just took a slapshot to the skull. My grip on my cards tightens, edges bending under the pressure. The breath in my chest locks up, pressure building, fists curling, jaw clenching so tight my molars might crack.

But I don’t move. Don’t react.

Because if I react, I lose.

I stare at my cards, my hands shaking.

“Yeah. She’s hot as hell,” Ryder continues, sipping his beer. “Way too good at putting us in our place, though. She'd get you to do ten push ups before she let you-”

Nope. He's not finishing that sentence.

I shove forward so fast, so sudden, the entire table rattles, poker chips spilling from their neat stacks, a beer sloshing over the rim of Logan's glass.

"Okay!"

Every player at this table freezes, their eyes darting between me and Connor. Even the game on TV seems to fade into white noise.

Connor blinks. His face drains of color. "Coach, I didn’t mean—"

"Play." My voice is low, steady, controlled. Like I’m not seconds away from knocking this whole damn table over.

“I was just—”

"Play your damn cards, Walsh . "

The tension thickens like a fog over the mountain tops overlooking Iron Ridge.

Logan clears his throat. Ryder swipes a hand over his jaw. Connor, who was just fine running his mouth a second ago, suddenly finds his beer very fucking interesting.

No one speaks.

No one even breathes too loud.

"Fuck it. I'm all in."

The words drop from my mouth like ice. I need to get out of here. I shove my entire stack forward, chips scattering across the smooth green felt.

Groans echo around the table. Connor's head drops back against his chair. "Fuck."

"Jesus, Coach." Ryder tosses his cards face down. "At least let us pretend we have a chance."

One by one, they fold. Smart boys. I flip my cards - another straight flush. The collective 'shit' that follows almost makes me smile. Almost.

I gather the chips, stacking them with a immense pride.

Blake's eyes read me like he reads opposing defensemen. "Leaving already?"

I nod, but don't say anything. I need to get the hell out of here before I do say something. Something that I can't take back.

Suddenly the room feels too small, too hot. Too full of assholes who don’t know when to shut the hell up.

I push off the chair, grab my coat, and walk out. I step out onto Logan's porch and the rain is falling heavy around Iron Ridge as I close the door behind me.

Fuck. I shouldn't be this annoyed.

I don’t need romance. I need focus. I need to clear my head before I walk into that locker room in three days and lead my team onto the ice.

The smell of wet pine and asphalt fill my lungs as I breathe deep from the ridge where Logan's house sits in the hills.

Down below, the streetlights catch in the curtain of rain, turning each drop into falling stars. Tires splash through puddles, and the distant buzz of the Ridgeview floats up the hill. Wind whips through the trees, and I pull my coat around my shoulders.

The porch door whines open behind me. Blake slides up next to me, hands disappearing into his hoodie pockets.

We watch the rain paint rivers down the street. Then Blake lets out a slow breath.

"Shit night to clear your head, Coach."

I grunt. Maybe if I stare into the rain long enough, I'll forget the way Natalie looked at me across the training room this morning.

Blake rocks on his heels. "So... you wanna tell me what the hell that was back there?"

"Nothing." My jaw clenches so tight it hurts.

A laugh escapes him. He tips his head back, letting the rain hit his face. The gesture screams 'bullshit' louder than words ever could.

"Look, I get it. Pressure's high. Vancouver's coming and once that first game hits, we've gotta be all in. But Coach, with all due respect, you looked ready to body slam Walsh back in there."

I rub a hand over my face, letting the rain cool my skin. The droplets trickle down my neck, under my collar.

"This is the biggest series of our damn careers, Blake."

"I know." His voice is quiet, steady. The same tone he uses before big games.

"Then I need you to do your job."

Blake's brows lift, he shifts just a fraction, his stance becoming more official. "Excuse me?"

I turn to face him, serious as hell. My knee aches from the dampness, just like it always fucking does in the rain. It natures reminder of everything I've lost and gained in this sport.

"Keep their heads in the game. Keep their eyes on the prize. And for the love of Christ—" I exhale sharply, shaking my head. "Keep them off the damn staff."

Just saying it flares that sense of longing again.

Blake goes still. "Yeah, okay. I'll talk to them. Make sure they're locked in."

The rain drums against the porch roof. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Blake shifts his weight, and I look to find a question desperately falling from his lips.

"So I assume that includes you too, Coach? Eyes on the prize, right?"

My cheeks puff out a breath and I shake my head, my gaze drawn to the dark, rain-slicked road that leads to the apartment I wish I was at right now. To her.

"Yes. And me. We need no distractions, Maddox. Not for any of us."