Page 15

Harrison

W hen I walk out of my apartment a week later, I nearly trip over the package right in front of the door.

I wrinkle my brow, confused, until I pick it up and realize what it is.

A jersey. For Lovie.

Last week, at our home game, she was sitting in the stands next to that PR girl in a plain white T-shirt. As much as I think she looks great in anything, something in me itched to get her into something Blue Crabs.

Of course, I wanted to order my jersey from before I retired, get my last name on her back, but that might have broken one of the many clauses in our contract.

But there was also no way in hell I was getting her one for one of the guys on the team now. So, instead, I customized one for her with her own number and Waters across the back.

Kicking the box into my apartment, I decide I’m going to deal with it later. Maybe it was a stupid idea in the first place. Our agreement is about sperm and nothing else. No matter how often I think about that sharp way she laughs, or the librarian thing that gets my fucking blood boiling.

While I climb into my car, I think about that day in her office—the first time I got to taste her—and how she’d pushed me up against the wall, telling me to stay put so we wouldn’t get caught.

In the bedroom, I like to be in control. But I’d be lying if I said that little display didn’t instantly make me hard again for her.

“Morning, Coach!”

The guy at the coffee shop greets me with a smile on his face, already getting started on my daily order.

“Morning,” I say, planting an elbow on the counter.

“Hey, congrats on that upset against the Maple Leafs. Not gonna lie—I didn’t think you guys were gonna pull it off.”

“Ha,” I say, watching as he finishes off my coffee and snaps the lid on.

If I’m being honest, our winning streak might have something to do with all the adjustments Lovie’s made to the team and the players’ routines.

But it could also just be the drive that comes with getting close to the Stanley Cup and not getting to take it home.

“You guys have been on fire,” he says, turning and sliding the cup over to me. “It’s been fun to watch.”

The good feeling from that conversation lasts all the way until I get to the arena, where I discover the training room is completely empty, rows of weights and machines sitting vacant, untouched. Instead of sweat, the room smells vaguely of rubber and cleaning solution.

Nobody has even been here this morning.

One hour before practice. All players should be in the training room, warning up. What the fuck?

When I try calling Samir, it goes to voice mail. Same with Deacon and Colt. None of my assistant coaches are answering, the skills coach is off today, and the goal tending coach was in the training room when I got there, looking just as confused as I was.

Finally, Ki Park answers the phone.

“Hello?”

“What the fuck?” I ask, in lieu of a greeting. “Where the hell are my players, Park?”

“Good morning to you, too, Clark,” he says, sounding a little too amused with himself. “They are in the conference room with Waters. She’s talking to them about the new?—”

But I’ve already hung up on him, turning on my heel and making my way to the elevator.

For the briefest, wildest second, I allow myself to think that Lovie Waters might be sleeping with me to make me let my guard down, so she can sink her claws into this team and KPI us into fucking hell.

As the elevator doors slide shut, I remind myself that this thing between us was my idea. The contract was hers, but I offered. And as brilliant as she is, I don’t think she was faking any of what happened between us in her office, or mine.

By the time I reach the conference room, I’m half-pissed-off, half-turned-on at the thought of seeing her.

“…remember to log the information, and we’ll check back in about a month, alright?”

When I open the door, heads turn to me in the middle of what sounds like Lovie’s conclusion. The guys sit around the table, half of them with love struck puppy looks. It would be hilarious—this many guys all soft and mooning over a woman—if it wasn’t Lovie at the center of their attention.

“What the fuck are you assholes doing?” I growl, knowing that this isn’t their fault, but not caring at the moment. “Training started five minutes ago!”

Wordlessly, they stand and start to file from the room, the more defiant guys not making eye contact, some of them mouthing sorry coach at me before they go.

When they’re gone, I turn to Lovie, who is calmly packing up her things, not paying me any mind.

“And what the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask, letting the door shut behind me as I step inside.

“You ask that a lot,” she says, smirking up at me, then hugging her tablet to her chest as she stands. “You should work on your bedside manner, Coach.”

I ignore the feeling that word sends through me and focus on the fact that I’m pissed off. Lovie should not be taking my players away from their training time.

“I’m not a doctor,” I growl, stepping further into the room and cutting off her exit. “But I am the leader of this team, and I need my guys where they’re supposed to be, not drooling over you up here when they should be warming up.”

She hikes a single eyebrow. “Are you jealous, Clark?”

My hands twitch to touch her, to take her and show exactly how jealous I can be. Instead, I fix her with a look. “What was this meeting even about?”

“Customized diets for each player,” she says, glancing at the board, where the name of the presentation still hovers. “We brought in a team of specialized elite nutritionists. They’re going to make a plan that caters to each player?—”

“This is garbage,” I snap, shaking my head and holding in a frustrated growl. “Eat protein. Carbo-load. These guys have known that shit since preschool. They don’t need fancy nutritionists to tell them what to eat?—”

“Do you know what a competitive advantage is?” Lovie asks, cutting me off.

I scowl in response.

“It’s what a company has that makes them better than others. It’s what helps you win.”

“We’re already winning,” I say, swinging my arm out in the general direction of the rink, thinking about our winning streak, what the guy at the coffee shop said this morning. “I don’t think our competitive advantage is going to be our guys missing training.”

“Why do you think you’re winning?” she challenges, and I realize she’s stepped closer, close enough that she’s in my space now.

When my eyes dart to the conference table to the left, her eyes follow it, and I know we’re thinking the same thing. Me picking her up, settling between her legs there, taking her in a new way.

But this isn’t like our offices—the conference room is one long line of windows, open to the hallway beyond. A frustration rises in the bottom of my throat, and I push away the lust inside me again.

“Because I’m a damn good coach,” I return, “and because the guys have been working hard as hell for this.”

“Sure,” Lovie returns. “A multi-variable equation. One of those variables is me.”

We’re close enough now that I could tip my chin and take her mouth with mine. Our gazes lock and hold, and I dare her to be the one to move, to back down.

“Hey, are you—” a voice sounds from the doorway, interrupting us.

Lovie springs back from me suddenly, dropping her tablet on the floor as she goes, and I turn to see Jared fucking Davis standing in the doorway, his little eyes darting between Lovie and me. When she straightens up with her things, his eyes dip to her chest, and I feel my fists clench at my sides.

“Hey, Lovie,” he says, still giving me a suspicious look. “Did you have a chance to look at that thing I sent over?”

“Oh,” she breathes, nodding and tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Yes—just give me a second to finish up here.”

Jared looks like he wants to say something else, but he just nods, then pauses before shutting the door, his eyes skipping to me again, “I’ll just wait for you in your office.”

When the door shuts, Lovie turns to me, her eyes wide. “We can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?” I ask, unable to keep the smirk from rising. “We weren’t doing anything.”

She flushes. “But we have. It’s not smart to do it at work. We need to find somewhere else…for the sessions.”

There’s that word again.

“Why don’t you come to my place?”

I’ve never been known for holding my tongue. First, suggesting this thing to begin with, and now inviting her over to my place even though she’s made it perfectly clear she wants no strings attached.

A beat passes, and I expect her to turn me down. Hell, she could suggest a hotel, and I’d pay for the damn thing every night of the week.

Instead, she just nods, gazing far away as she sucks in a breath. “Okay. After the away game? Wednesday?”

I blink, watching as her gaze refocuses and finds me.

“Yeah, sure.” Lovie gathers herself and moves for the door, and I watch her, feeling strangely like I’ve lost a point with this face-off. “Wednesday.”