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SEVEN

Joey

I’m sitting on my back porch with a glass of wine, my tablet open, my notebook beside it, my laptop beside that .

Pens and pencils are strewn on the old wooden table’s surface.

The threat of a splinter is always imminent when I work out here, but the weather is changing and I know soon enough that I’ll need a blanket…and then a parka…and then, when winter really hits, I’ll be stuck inside, staring longingly out at my back yard.

Today, it’s chilly.

But today, I have the fresh air and the soft trill of birds in the trees, and the wind gently bouncing the pine needles on the evergreens in my yard.

Practice plans have been reviewed and tweaked, drills added as needed, line combinations written up and stored away—Lake is our strongest forward by far, but his wife, Nova, had her baby not too long ago and though I don’t doubt his commitment to the team, I know that he’s not sleeping much and milestones come quick and babies and moms get sick.

I want to provide flexibility, not just for him, but also for the rest of my guys.

Yes, they’re multi-million dollar athletes.

But they’re not robots.

They’re people with families who need understanding and compassion—at least on the team that I want to build.

So, I’m making that happen.

Along with reviewing tape from last night’s game—and not just ours. Coast to coast, there were eight games and we’ll be facing off with most of those teams in the coming months.

I need to know what systems they’re running, how their chemistry is looking, and what player and/or roster changes we need to make to match against of all those things. We’ve been honing stuff on our side throughout the off-season, but that’s the micro we can control versus the macro of the other teams in the league.

So, I need to be aware of what’s happening with other teams too.

And I need to know how the guys on our AHL team are looking too. Who’s ready to be brought up for a game or two to keep growing their skills, who we need to find a spot on the roster because they’re ready for The Show, and who needs more games to develop, or—always the hardest part—who we need to move in order to better the team as a whole.

It could be they don’t fit in with our system, with the culture we’re building.

Or, worse, it could be that they do but we need to trade for a different type of player anyway.

I’m not alone in my quest to digest all of this information.

I have a video team and a player development department. I have assistant coaches and… My lungs freeze. Because I also have…

Damon.

I close my eyes, clenching my teeth together, ignoring the sharp bolt of pain that shoots along my jaw.

There’s a reason I’m out here with my notebook and pens, my tablet and my laptop, and it’s not just because I like to work—though, spoiler alert, I do. But it’s also because I’m trying to avoid what happened last night…same as I’m trying to avoid the fact that I woke up with sun streaming in through my bedroom window.

And that I did it alone.

Because Damon had carried me there.

He’d torn the truth out of me and…

He left.

I reach for my glass of wine, take a big sip, and I do it hoping that it’ll dull the sharp edges of last night.

Of course, he left.

What was he going to do? Crawl into bed next to me?

Maybe only in the pages of the romance novel currently taking up space on my Kindle.

The reality is that he’s my boss.

And now he knows shit I can’t take back, knows some of the raw and wounded parts of me.

And after finding out…he left.

Which is as clear a message as I’ve ever received.

He’s still my boss— only my boss.

The only thing that’s changed is that he now has the knowledge to more effectively manage my skills.

And that’s it.

There. Done .

I take another gulp of pinot grigio, beg it to do its job and start numbing the edges of my thoughts.

Unfortunately, I’m about three more glasses away from that being my reality.

So, it’s down to refilling my glass and hoping that fresh air and work tire me out enough so that I can sleep tonight.

If that doesn’t work…maybe I’ll take up hiking.

I snort as I lean forward to replay a clip one of the video coaches pulled, but my finger doesn’t make contact with the screen because?—

“What’s funny?”

I scream.

There’s no hiding it. The sound that comes out of me is nothing short of ear piercing, and even as I’m scrambling toward my sturdiest pen—the better to do a stabby-stab with—my panic is fading, my subconscious already recognizing the person the voice belongs to.

The man the voice belongs to.

I glare over at Damon, barely resisting the urge to clamp a hand to my chest, the better to steady my racing heart. “You’re adding breaking and entering to your stalking and kidnapping charges?” I ask drolly.

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t move except to cross his ankles and lean back more heavily against my deck railing.

“Hanging on your porch till you come home and taking you somewhere private for a conversation don’t exactly count as stalking and kidnapping.” He lifts a shoulder in an indolent shrug. “And it’s not breaking or entering if you leave the side gate unlocked.”

I scowl. “Not sure that argument would hold up in court.”

“Good thing we’re not in court then.”

Ugh. Why is this man so infuriating?

“You going to tell me why you’re here?” I grumble.

Another lazy shrug.

“You going to leave?”

One more lackadaisical lift and fall of his shoulders that has me seeing red.

I clench my teeth together then ask archly, “How about we move on to harassment? Or trespassing?” I flick up my brows. “Seems as though you’re a repeat offender on both those counts.”

His lips twitch.

“Do either of those ring a bell?” I press.

“Never heard of them,” he says, his tone dry, and because he pairs it with pushing off the railing, his big body looking all sorts of gorgeous in a pair of jeans and tight black tee, I’m momentarily struck silent, any hope of a retort stuck in my throat.

Especially as he comes close, his gaze running over my set up, his eyes dragging along the papers and the document on my laptop screen, the paused video on my tablet.

Then he turns to me, those deep blue eyes searching mine.

“Did you even take a break today, Red?”

The endearment is a visceral stab to my heart and I can’t guard against it, can’t keep my reply in. “I got wine,” I blurt.

His stare flicks to my mostly empty glass then comes back to mine.

“Does that mean you didn’t eat either?”

I open my mouth, this time ready to make some excuse.

But my stomach beats me to the punch.

Because it rumbles loud enough to wake the dead.