Page 7

FIVE

AUGUSTE

The coffee shop across from the complex is small, overlooking the end of the pier. It’s the kind of place that constantly smells like vanilla, cinnamon sugar, and sea salt. It also reminds me of the coffee shop close to our family home in Rimouski.

Courtney is enamored by the place the instant we walk in.

“Nothing smells as good as caffeine first thing in the morning.” She’s so goddamn cute with her upturned nose taking in the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans.

Before she orders, I tell her, “Breakfast, too.”

“I don’t need food.”

Bullshit. “You got stitched yesterday.”

“Barely.”

I cock my head. “Don’t argue. Let me feed you.”

“Let you feed me? That’s not?—”

We’re standing at the food counter, the barista already watching us with mild amusement when I say, “It’s the least you can do after being a demanding little brat.”

The second the words are out of my mouth, they hit hard.

Harder than I meant them to.

Courtney goes completely still. Eyes dropping to the ground with the flutter of her lashes. It’s the hitch of her breath that nails me, though. Followed by the ruddy flush of color high on her cheeks and the shift of her body from on foot to another, clenching her thighs together.

I’m an idiot, but also… she is the embodiment of glorious. I can’t ta ke my eyes away from her, not even when she blinks up at me, stunned.

For a beat, neither of us moves.

Something inside my chest snaps tight. The way she’s looking at me now—wide-eyed, lips parted, a little breathless—makes my pulse thrum like a war drum in my ears.

Holy shit.

Her reaction hits me like a sucker punch to the ribs. I go from idiot to fucking stupid in a matter of seconds.

The air shifts. Charges. Thick with something heavier than caffeine and sugar.

When Courtney swallows, I have to shove my hands in my pockets not to touch her. Not to fix the stray curl that falls in front of her eyes. Brilliant like perfectly cut diamonds.

“What do you want, Courtney?” I ask, clenching my hands tighter in my pockets. “What do you want to eat?”

“Alright, big guy.” Her voice is hoarse, the kind of throaty that vibrates all the way down to my dick when she pairs it with that cocky grin of hers. “Let’s play a game.”

My brow cocks in response.

“Figure out what I want, and you can feed me.”

I don’t trust my voice, so I just snort. “That’s your game?”

“You up for the challenge or not?” With one look that cuts all the way from the top of my head to my feet, she spins and directs herself to a table right by the window at the back.

It’s where I always sit, looking out at the ocean.

“What’s it going to be today?”

I turn to the smiley cashier and start ordering. And keep ordering.

Five minutes later, our table is covered.

Croissants. Muffins. Two kinds of scones. A breakfast burrito. A smoothie. Three different coffees.

Courtney stares between me and the table with big eyes. “This is ridiculous. You cannot be serious.”

“You told me to figure out what you want.”

“Yeah, not order the whole menu.”

“Well, if you didn’t want me to resort to that—” I tear open a butter packet, keeping my voice even. “—you should’ve been a good girl and answered my damn question.”

That tension lingers. Her fingers tremble slightly as she lifts each of the three coffees in front of her and smells them .

“They’re not spiked.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Then why are you smelling them?”

Courtney looks down at her lap. “Look, I didn’t know you were going to order all of this.”

“I don’t like to lose, princess, and you made this a game?—”

“I have CMPA, I can’t have unprocessed dairy.”

“CMPA…?”

She nibbles the side of her lips. “Cow’s milk protein allergy.”

“Can you eat any of this?” I move the toast I just buttered for her to the other side of the table.

“I’m good with the breakfast muffin, it had the vegan sign on the product card.”

I put the muffin in front of her. “What do you drink, Court?”

“Oat milk lattes with an extra shot and vanilla.”

Pushing to my feet, I pick up the latte and cappuccino in front of her, leaving the flat white for me when I return with her latte.

Courtney’s watching me closely when I sit back down and place her coffee on the table.

“It wasn’t so hard, was it?” I level her with a smirk.

“You’re a menace,” is all she says, voice steady and eyes narrowed—her confidence restored.

I glance up, letting my mouth twitch into a big grin. “You have no idea.”

The weight room is already a furnace and it’s not even noon. Sweat clings to my skin, stinging my eyes. I drop the bar back onto the rack harder than necessary and ignore the way Coach Nilsson’s eyes track me from across the room.

He hasn’t said shit to me all morning—except to bark out extra sets and ramp up my conditioning drills like I’m some rookie who missed curfew. I know exactly why he’s doing it.

Because I hit his daughter in the head with a puck.

Because all everyone is talking about is how I carried her off the ice like a demented moron, and then drove her home.

Because I can stop myself from looking at her. Watching her move around me, the team, the staff…

Even now, with fire ripping through my arms and my lungs aching, I glance across the gym and find her. She’s crouched beside one of the team’s PR guys, adjusting the angle on a light rig. Her brows are drawn together in focus, camera strap sliding off her shoulder.

“You're gonna burn a hole in her,” Matheo mutters from behind me, his voice pitched low.

My chest tightens at his remark and I force my eyes away.

Jayden chuckles. “Better hope Coach doesn’t catch you ogling his baby girl.”

“He already did,” Erik adds with a groan. “Those suicide sprints weren’t for our benefit.”

I glare at the weights, jaw locked. “Shut the fuck up.”

The assholes laugh, slapping my shoulders as they move on to the cool down room.

I try to shake the haze I’m in as I pick up my water and sweat rag. Maybe the guys have it right, a dip in the ice tub might be exactly what I need.

I’m halfway to the door when Courtney walks by me. I force my eyes to stay glued to the floor.

“Hey,” she says, voice soft.

Fuck, she smells so good—vanilla and sugar… peachy. I keep walking and she’s still by my side when we’re out in the hallway.

“Is everything okay?” She asks, stepping in front of me and walking backwards in hasty steps so I don’t trample her. Her sneakers squeak with every step, cutting through the silence of her unanswered question when she dips her head to find my stare. “Auguste…”

“Everything’s fine,” I mutter, cutting her off before she continues. “I’m fine.”

There’s a beat of silence. Her face falls. Then her footsteps recede as she moves out of my way.

I don’t look up.

I don’t look back.

In spite of the nagging voice that’s screaming asshole in my ears. I walk into the cool down room. Strip and find an ice tub to sink into.

The cold that cuts through my body should be enough to clear my head of every thought of Courtney. But it’s not. And it doesn’t.

The PR suite is quiet when I walk in. Jayden and Eli are already halfway through signing their pile of merch.

Jayden has his headphones in while Eli simply gets the job done—it’s the way they operate together.

The two of them are the fucking best defense duo in the league.

I’ve never known two dudes to be so in sync they only need to share a look to know what the other means.

“Hi,” the new PR intern greets me with a smile, standing to place a few black and gold sharpies next to the stack of merch with my name printed on a sheet of paper.

“You can sign the jerseys on your number, name or on the team logo. Pucks on top, and once you’re done make sure you go into the room at the end and get your portrait taken. ”

“Thanks…” I lean forward, squinting at the staff ID around her neck.

“Cecilia,” she tells me.

“Thanks, Cecilia.”

Her smile broadens. “You’re welcome. Do you need a seat?”

Shaking my head, I make a start on the pucks. They’re the most tiring to sign because the space is smaller, requires more control… grip… it’s?—

“Hey, Cece, do you have a—” Courtney’s voice comes to an abrupt stop as I spin to look at her.

She doesn’t fucking smile like usual. Her brows pinch together instead, and with a bite of her bottom lip, she turns away, back into the portrait room with a “Never mind.”

Fuck.

She’s obviously pissed at me; I remind myself that it’s for the best.

Especially if I’m meant to go and have my portrait taken by her.

“Think she’s finally made it to the anger phase of what you did to her?” Jayden taunts.

“Can you quit it? I fucking hit her with a puck… I know. I was there. And this is hockey, shit like that happens every fucking day?—”

“What’s your problem?” Eli grumbles, standing next to Morrow like he’s ready to jump to his literal defense.

“Yeah, Bruce, what’s your problem?”

“Just forget it,” I mutter, focusing back on the jerseys in front of me while they start on their pucks.

I’m signing my last jersey, and Cecilia is folding the pile I’ve already done when Courtney walks out of the adjoining room. She’s laughing, and the sound makes my chest squeeze tight.

I can’t resist the urge to look at her.

Mistake.

Big fucking mistake.

“I think you captured my bad side in great light,” PT Jordan purrs, leaning over her shoulder to look at his photo on her camera. “Might just be a photographer after all.”

The asshole doesn’t need to be so close. His fucking chest is pressed to her shoulder. Courtney isn’t fazed by it. Her posture is relaxed while she remains focused on reviewing his shots. And the motherfucker is lapping it up… he’s a goddamn PT, he should understand personal space.

She laughs softly at something he says, tilting the screen toward him a tad more. That’s it. I’m done watching this bullshit.

I stop a few feet away.

My stomach knots.