Page 15

CHAPTER 15

ELLE

T he tapping of my foot on the floor beats in time with the clatter of keyboards filling the shared office as I fast-forward through the footage from Saturday night’s game. I’ve been sitting here for the last half hour either watching the screen and being a consummate professional, or reliving my Friday night, when Dixon’s lips were pressed against mine. Guess which scene is more entertaining?

My notepad may sit beside me, half-filled with scribbles about positioning, power plays, and a particularly messy second period that I’m determined to break down before lunch, but there’s a part of me that wants to scribble Dixon’s name on the paper, over and over. When the camera pans and shows him in the goal, I catch myself staring at him yet again and give my body a violent shake to snap it out of whatever this is. I cannot spend my day thinking about Dixon, not like this.

I stop the video and make a note, hitting rewind. Cannon leans against the edge of a nearby desk, his sharp eyes locked on my laptop screen as I gesture for him to look my way.

“They’re pinching too soon on the left side,” I say, pausing the footage and circling the exact moment with my cursor. “See how they leave the center open? That’s why we keep getting burned on the counterattack.”

Cannon grunts his agreement and rubs his goatee. “Yeah, I’ll drill it into them this week. Good catch, Elle.”

“Thanks,” I reply, jotting down a few more notes.

Ben steps into the office, coffee in hand. “Morning, all. What are we dissecting today?”

“Everything,” Cannon deadpans. “But specifically, our left side is getting shredded.”

“Ah, the usual,” Ben says with a chuckle, pulling up a chair at the desk next to mine. Pete is here, too, and is at the far end of the room, organizing gear for practice. He looks up long enough to give Ben a wave, but stays focused on his task.

I’m about to bring up another clip when my phone rings beside me. I’ve got a gut feeling who it is, and when I see Eric’s name, again, on my phone, I decide today is the day to answer the call. I push away from the desk and take it off to the side of the room.

“Hello?” I answer, super nonchalant and like I’ve got no cares.

“Elle, I’m surprised to get through to you.” Eric’s voice may be deep and rather smooth, and at one time I’d have called it velvety rich, but now it’s like nails on a chalkboard to me.

“Well you have. What do you want?”

Eric chuckles uncomfortably on his end. “Boy, you get right to the heart of things don’t you?”

“I’m busy, and while I’m not trying to be rude, I’ve got a schedule to keep.” Lies. Trust me, if there’s one thing I’d love to be to this guy it’s rude, but not now. Not in front of my colleagues.

“Well, I won’t hold you up but I plan on being in the area soon and it would be great if I could interview you about your new role at––”

“I’ll stop you there,” I interject, knowing good and well what he wants. “Because I’m not doing any interviews about the new role, at least not yet.”

I hoped this would stop him, but Eric presses me. “Why not? A well-written article about a woman coaching the Renegades would make a great story.”

Anyone else saying that wouldn’t sound so demeaning, but somehow Eric makes it sound like the Renegades were doing me a favor when they hired me.

“The key there is ‘well-written’. Look, I’m not giving an interview to you because we’re a team, I don’t want to pull attention from the guys.” I sit back in my chair and thrum my fingertips on my desk. “I need to go, Eric.”

“Wait, Elle,” he continues. “I know we have our own baggage, but I really hope you’re not holding our former relationship over my head and using that against me to keep me from doing my job?”

The actual gall of this man. “No, Eric, I’m not using that to roadblock you from the team, I am simply repeating what I’ve texted you. If you want to interview anyone here, you need to go through the proper channels. Email our marketing team, ask for the PR department.”

“And you won’t help me?”

“Sorry Eric, I’m not able to.” I’m torn between being a real jerk, or trying to be relaxed about what is transpiring. While I’d like to scream at this man, at the end of the day he is still a reporter and unfortunately for me that means I get to watch my Ps and Qs more than I want to right now.

“You’re not able to, or not willing to?” he asks, his voice sounding light and free. I remember this tone, he uses it when he wants to get something from someone.

“I guess I’m not willing to,” I say, half laughing as I walk back to the monitor to join the other coaches. I really want to get off this call, but I don’t feel like confrontation, so right now, I can only think of one way out. “But look, Eric, I have gabba…SHHH….errrKKKK!”

I don’t know what possesses me, but for some reason I’ve pressed the phone to my mouth and I’m making noises as if I’ve suddenly driven into a tunnel in the middle of a desert in Africa.

“Elle?” I can hear Eric through the earpiece, but it doesn’t stop me. I reach for a piece of paper and start crumpling it by the mouthpiece.

“Reception is…CRINKLE CRINKLE….in the arena….can’t hear….”

And then, in a further act of sheer ridiculousness, I hit the button to disconnect and drop the phone like I’m holding a hot potato. Sighing, I thank the heavens that the moment is over and rub my eyes. I’m still processing my immaturity when I get a tingling feeling, like someone’s watching me. I open one eye to find Cannon curiously squinting my way.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say, a little too quickly.

“So,” he points to my phone, and winks at me conspiratorially. “Bad reception down here, right?”

“Sure is.” I reach for my coffee and take a long sip, hoping to redirect the conversation but also grateful that he gets it. “Let’s move on to the power play footage.”

Before anyone can respond, the door swings open and Sutton strides in, looking frazzled. Her usually neat hair is slightly askew, and she’s holding her phone in one hand and her car keys in the other.

“Does anyone know someone, anyone really, who can help with Nan?” she blurts out, skipping a greeting altogether.

We all stare at her for a moment, caught off guard.

“Nan?” Cannon mutters. “Is this your Nan, a woman named Nan, or Dixon’s nana, Nan?”

“Could also be Nancy, who started last week in concessions,” Pete adds, while Cannon tosses an old towel at his head.

“It’s for Dixon. He just called,” Sutton continues, running a hand over her hair, smoothing it as she does. “He’s on his way in with her. He hasn’t found another caregiver, and he can’t leave her at home alone. She’s coming here until we figure something out.”

“Wait, she’s coming here?” Ben asks, his brows shooting up.

Cannon starts chuckling. “This is going to be amazing.”

“Yes, she’s coming here and no it’s not amazing ,” Sutton says, exasperated. “I didn’t know what else to tell him. He’s out of options.”

I glance at Cannon, who’s already shaking his head with a smirk. “I love a wild card,” he whispers to himself, excitement and sarcasm managing to drip off his words. I can tell he likes the torture of it all.

Ben sighs and gets to his feet. “Alright, well, we can only do what is in our power to handle. So, let’s prep for the circus. Elle, keep those notes coming. Cannon, you’ve got drills to plan. And Sutton, tell Dixon to get here quick. The sooner we sort this out, the better.”

As the room starts buzzing with activity, I pick up my phone and step out into the hallway to make a quick call. Hayden answers on the first ring.

“What’s up?”

“Are you free this morning? I’ve got a bit of a situation here at the arena, and I could use your help.”

“Totally free. What’s going on?”

“Dixon’s bringing Nan here, and we need someone to keep her company for a few hours. Think you’re up for it?”

“Absolutely,” she says without hesitation. “I’ll grab a cab and be there as fast as I can.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” I say, feeling a wave of relief. “Text me when you get here, and I’ll meet you at the entrance.”

“Will do! See you soon.”

I hang up and head back into the office, my steps a little lighter. At least one part of the chaos is on its way to being handled.

As I re-enter the room, Sutton catches my eye and walks over, pulling a folded piece of paper from her pocket. “Hey, Elle. Before I forget,” she says, handing it to me. “Thought you’d want this.”

I unfold the paper to find a phone number scribbled on it. My breath catches. It’s the contact information for a reporter I’ve been trying to track down for weeks.

“How did you…?”

“I have my ways. But if I come to you and ask for a favor that involves a feature article with you doing a cover shoot for Hockey Weekly, I hope I have your buy-in.”

“You will. And thank you,” I say, tucking the paper into my pocket and giving her a grateful smile. I hate doing any kind of press, but for Sutton, and by proxy for Dixon in this case, I will if it means I can get him answers.

“Anything for you,” Sutton replies with a wink before heading out.

I barely have time to process the small victory before my phone buzzes again. Another text from Eric. I don’t even open it this time because I’m beyond caring. Instead, I swipe it away and focus back on the task at hand. One crisis at a time.

* * *

The sharp bite of cold air brushes against my cheeks as I step out onto the edge of the rink. The team is gathered, the usual pre-practice banter floating through the chilled space. Hayden had arrived just as Dixon pulled into the lot, her excitement palpable. She and Nan had waved from the entrance as they left for a day of shopping and lunch.

I tug my navy jacket tighter around me, the sleek quilted fabric doing its best to fend off the chill. Its tailored cut and silver zipper give it a polished edge, even though I bought it more for practicality than style. Still, it’s warm and moves easily—perfect for someone who spends most of their time rink-side.

The players are spread out across the benches and boards, some lacing up skates, others stretching. Dixon stands off to the side, phone in hand, his broad shoulders slightly hunched as he types something out. The sharp line of his jaw is set in concentration, and my stomach flips at the sight of that infuriating smirk spreading across his face.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Sliding it out, I find a text from him.

You look really good in that jacket. Just saying.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too wide. My thumbs hover over the keyboard before I quickly type back.

Stop texting me and focus.

His response is instant.

And yet you’re smiling.

Heat rises to my cheeks, and I lock the phone before anyone can catch the blush creeping up my neck. The words “forbidden workplace shenanigans” echo in my mind. Ben clears his throat, calling the group’s attention, and Dixon starts to reluctantly shove his phone underneath him.

“Dixon,” Ben barks, leveling him with a sharp look. “Unless your phone’s about to win us the championship, put it away and focus.”

“Yes, sir,” Dixon says, lifting his hands in mock surrender. His grin is shameless as he steals a glance my way.

I meet his gaze with a raised brow and a pointed nod. When he still doesn’t wipe that ridiculous smirk off his face, I give him a stealth quick wink before turning my attention to Ben’s pre-practice rundown.

“Alright, listen up,” Ben starts, his voice firm. “Tomorrow is a day off, and the day after is game night at my place. Board games,” he adds, glancing at a few confused expressions. “Mandatory team bonding. Don’t care if you’re bad at charades or think Monopoly is outdated, you’re coming. If you don’t show, you’re benched for Friday’s game. Heck, Saturday’s, too. Understood?”

A mix of groans and laughs ripple through the team, but they nod their agreement. Ben’s serious face makes it clear there’s no wiggle room on this one.

The players start breaking off into smaller groups, readying for drills. Dixon lingers for a second longer, his gaze sliding my way. I glance up at him, arching a brow in silent warning. He just grins and turns toward the ice, skating off with the kind of confidence that only he can pull off.

My eyes follow him—strictly out of professional duty, of course—as he takes his place among his teammates. But they linger just a second too long on the perfect curve of his tight, athletic…

I blink, pulling myself back into focus. Practice is about to start, and if Dixon thinks he’s going to get away with distracting me this easily, he’s got another thing coming.