Page 8 of Her Hat Trick Daddies (Game On Daddies #3)

Ted Cosgrove, on the other hand, I’ve only met once—virtually—during my Zoom interview. The corner of his mouth lifts like he’s fighting off a smirk.

“We’ve been following your work back in Jersey,” he says. “I like how steady you stayed under pressure. Especially when that brawl broke out in the minors and a chair nearly took your head off.”

I snort. “Yeah, not exactly my finest on-camera moment. ”

Ted shrugs, clearly entertained. “Maybe not. But it was memorable. And that counts for something.”

I chuckle, though it sounds more like a nervous titter. “Definitely an interesting day.”

“I’ll bet,” he says, the lines on his face deepening with a knowing grin. His goatee is still dark, no sign of gray despite the miles I’m sure he’s logged in this business.

The chair incident had been harrowing in the moment because I was right in the line of fire.

Usually, the violence in hockey stays on the ice, but that night, it erupted in the stands.

A brawl broke out among the fans, and someone hurled one of those foldable seats with a backrest at their rivals.

A few people got hurt. I was just lucky not to be one of them. .

I shrug lightly. “What can I say? Comes with the territory when you cover hockey.”

Coach Henley chuckles. “That it does.”

“Well, I’ll let you all get better acquainted,” Cecille says, glancing at her watch. “Still have a few more new staff to greet at the gate.” She gives me a quick smile as she turns to leave. “I’ll try to grab you at lunch, Leighton.”

“Sounds good,” I say with a nod.

Just then, Coach Henley’s gaze shifts past me, toward the doorway. “There you are,” he says to someone approaching.

I glance over my shoulder and nearly do a double-take.

“Leighton, meet our new team captain, David Decker,” Coach says. “He’s our star forward at center. ”

“Nice to meet you,” David says, extending a callused hand.

I take it, doing my best to suppress the shiver that rolls down my spine. I’m not sure if it’s from the roughness of his touch or the deep, resonant timbre of his voice. That voice… it tugs at something in my memory, like I’ve heard it before. But I can’t quite place it.

I take a moment to look at him, like really look.

If you searched for the word handsome in the dictionary, I swear his face would be plastered right next to it.

Maybe even gracing the next Sexiest Under 50 magazine cover.

He’s got that rugged, unfairly sexy thing going on, the kind that doesn’t need an introduction, just walks in and owns the space.

He’s older than me by at least ten years—in his mid-thirties, I’d guess—with a touch of gray in his neatly trimmed beard and his salt and pepper hair.

But like all confident, stupidly good-looking men, he wears it too damn well.

Even in a hoodie, he radiates this effortless dominance that shouldn’t be hot… but is. So hot. Calm. Collected.

Girl, get a grip. Your eyes are drooling all over him.

“I have some other appointments to get to,” Ted announces as he stands, pulling me out of my thoughts. “It’s great to have you on board, Leighton.”

“I’ve got some fires to put out myself,” Coach Henley adds. I follow their lead and stand.

“But you two go ahead and get acquainted,” he finishes, nodding toward David .

“Thanks, Coach.” I smile. “I’ll see you around.”

I thank them both as they walk out, then shift my focus to the man of the hour—David Decker.

“Mr. Decker, if you don’t mind, I’d love to set up an interview with you at your earliest convenience. I like to highlight the standout players early to build buzz ahead of training camp and the new season.”

He glances at the watch on his left wrist, then back at me. “I’ve got time now. And call me David.”

Well, that was fast. Good thing I’ve been in this position before. I slide my phone out of my skirt pocket and pull up the list of questions I keep ready in my Notes app.

“Mind if I record this?” I ask.

He narrows his gaze at me—his eyes brown with gold flecks, making it almost unreadable—and for a moment, I wonder if he’s going to decline. I can do the interview without the recording, but having it would make referencing quotes later a lot easier.

“I suppose not.”

“Perfect.” I press the button to start recording. “I understand you’re new to Denver?”

He leans back in the visitor chair, the legs dragging with a soft scrape across the thin, tired carpet—a sound that somehow makes the office feel even smaller, quieter.

“Yeah,” he answers, his voice low and steady. “I joined the team after Sven Hinter retired. ”

“And you already made captain? That’s quite impressive,” I smirk, and David shrugs, dismissing the compliment as if it’s no big deal.

He then crosses one leg over the other, which immediately draws my attention to his crotch, and maybe it’s just my mind wandering, but I can’t help but notice how mouthwatering that bulge is, just like his quick rise to the captaincy.

I shake my head, trying to rid my wild imagination and stay professional. “You’re from Minnesota, right?”

“You’ve done your homework,” he smiles. “Yeah, I played for the Minnesota Wild for twelve years.”

“Twelve years is a long run. Mind if I ask why you made the move?”

His brows furrow, his mouth tightening into a flat line, and a wave of anxiety immediately washes over me. Did I just cross a line?

David wears that gruff, commanding leader exterior like it’s second nature, the kind of cool authority that only comes with years of experience. But beneath the surface, there’s this subtle edge to him, something raw, that makes him even hotter.

“I was going through a divorce. Needed some space. When my agent told me that this opportunity opened up, I jumped at it.”

My tone softens as I notice the fatigued lines on his face deepen, and I suddenly grasp the weight behind his decision. “Sorry to hear that. Are you okay with sharing what happened between you two? ”

He rubs the back of his neck, rolling it in a circle. “Maybe another day. For now, let’s just leave it at shit happens.”

“That it does,” I murmur, letting the moment settle before nudging us in a lighter direction. “So, tell me. What made you choose hockey?”

His expression brightens at the shift. “Oh, yeah. I’ve been on skates practically since I could stand.

There’s an old video of my dad holding me up on the ice at ten months, sliding me across the rink like I was born to be there.

” A smile plays on his lips. “That rink is actually where he met my mom—some R&B night in high school, of all things. He said she was the only one who wasn’t afraid to dance on skates. They were inseparable after that.”

I can’t help smiling. “Sounds like a story worth telling on its own,” I say, eyes catching his. “If only we were all that lucky.”

“You’re telling me. I thought my ex-wife was my forever,” he says, his voice dropping, more thoughtful. Regret, maybe? Then, with a half-shrug, “Guess I still have a lot to learn.”

“Somehow, I highly doubt that,” I reply, not ready to let him shoulder all the blame, even though I know absolutely nothing about his previous or current love interests.

He shifts in his seat, his gaze never leaving mine. Searching? Silently questioning? Like he’s trying to read something in me—my motives? My history with men? Why is he looking at me like I’ve sprouted a third eye all of a sudden ?

“So… hockey. I don’t know. I just never found a connection with any other sport the way I did with hockey,” he continues, clearing his throat.

“I played all through my childhood, stuck with it through college. Got drafted into the NHL at twenty-two, just after finishing my degree. Never looked back.”

So, depending on when he graduated, I’m guessing he’s somewhere between thirty-four and thirty-six.

It’s cute. His entire demeanor changes as he talks about his career, those gold flecks in his eyes catching the light.

It makes me smile without even thinking.

There’s a seductively alluring vibe about him, one that’s hard to ignore.

Years of bartending have sharpened my instincts for reading people, and I’m rarely wrong.

This guy might be gruff on the surface, but there’s more underneath.

Still, something’s been niggling at me from the back of my mind since he first walked in. Maybe it’s just the unexpected warmth he’s showing—subtle, but disarming. Or maybe… maybe I have seen him somewhere before.

Shit. Has it really been that long since I’ve been with a man? First attractive guy within ten feet of me, and suddenly my hormones are throwing a party and yelling “breed me” from the rooftops.

I let the thought go for now and wrap up the interview, tapping the screen to stop my recording.

“Thanks for your time, David.” I rise, and so does he .

“Happy to make myself available to you, Leighton.” The way he says my name, it’s like a slow caress. And I’d swear there’s more than just warmth in his gaze. A flicker of something flirtatious. Especially when he drops his voice a notch. “We can meet as often as you need.”

When I take his hand again, a jolt of electricity surges between us.

Damn.

Looks like I’ll be carving out more time for him next week.