Page 10

Stone

I ’m good at a lot of things.

I can grow a patchy beard in under a week, arrange flowers like a boss, and make a mean omelet. I’m a gifted athlete, possessed of a solid sense of humor, and can win the heart of any dog with an ounce of common sense in sixty seconds or less.

But lying to Coach Lauder?

That’s not my forte.

Or my favorite way to start a week…

“I really am sorry about missing the meeting,” I say, holding his steely gaze across the desk in his office in the corner of the locker room. Our old head coach had an office upstairs in the admin area with tons of windows and a view of the river. But Lauder likes to be down here, in the thick of things, where he can keep an eye on us. “I know how much you value punctuality. When I realized we were locked in, I felt terrible.”

“That storage room door has been a pain in my ass for months.” Coach leans back, his chair creaking beneath his solid frame. His eyes narrow behind his wire-rimmed glasses, but his gruff tone isn’t as pissed sounding as I expected it to be. He almost sounds a little…amused. Or as amused as Coach ever gets, anyway. “Remy texted a minute ago. Mentioned you were helping her grab some boxes for that kids’ program?”

“Yes, sir. Then the door locked behind us, and neither of us had our phones. So, we were out of luck until someone came down that way to check on us.”

He nods for a long beat before sucking in a breath and offering a dismissive shrug. “All right. Maybe one of these days, management will finally take this issue seriously and address the problem. In the meantime, get your ass on the ice, Stone. And next time you see a box that needs moving, find maintenance.”

“Yes, sir.”

I head back into the locker room, thoughtful but grateful that the worst is over. Something felt off about that conversation, but Coach thankfully seems to have more important things to worry about right now than why his star forward was helping his daughter reach high shelves.

So, do I. Like our chances at the cup this year, my last year to get to the finals and bring that bad boy home to Portland.

When I walk in, the locker room is already buzzing with pre-practice energy. Tank’s in his usual spot, methodically taping his stick, not far from my locker.

“You survive the boss man?” he asks without looking up.

“Barely.” I drop onto the bench beside him. “Thanks for the save this morning.”

“That’s what friends are for.” He finishes with the tape, examining his handiwork with a critical eye. “Though I’d appreciate fewer ghost-themed rescue missions in the future.”

“You’re the one who had the ‘feeling’ someone was trapped down there.”

“Don’t remind me.” He shudders. “That place gives me the creeps.”

I grin, remembering how spooked he was the first time he got locked in the haunted wing. Not much ruffles this man, but he’s not a fan of enclosed places. “At least no one had to pee in a water bottle this time.”

“Small mercies.” He stands, and we head for the ice. “Now, I know you’ve had an exciting morning, but try to keep your head in the game.”

“Always do,” I say, earning myself a dubious grunt.

But then, as my closest friend on the team, Tank knows exactly what a big deal it is that he caught Remy and me sleeping in together. I’ve been pining for this woman for a long time. It’s probably getting pathological at this point, but I can’t bring myself to regret a second of it.

Especially not when Remy looked about ten seconds away from admitting she was catching feelings, too, right before Tank opened the door.

If he hadn’t interrupted when he did…

I mean, I’m obviously glad we aren’t still trapped in there, but I’d give a kidney to know what was on the tip of her tongue.

Out on the ice, Tank continues to keep me on my toes, our years of playing together here and in Seattle showing in the way he reads my every move, anticipating exactly how I’m going to try to score on him.

It makes practice a delicious challenge.

When I fake left but shoot right, he’s already there, deflecting my shot with a satisfied smirk.

“Getting predictable in your old age, pretty boy,” he taunts as I circle back for another attempt.

“Just warming up, big guy.” I gather speed for my next attack. Tank’s the best goalie I’ve ever played with or against, the kind of netminder who makes you work for every goal, who pushes you to be better just by virtue of his own excellence. “Let’s see if you can stop this one.”

He does stop it, but just barely, and the way his eyes narrow tells me I’ve got his full attention now.

There’s nothing quite like the chess match of forward versus goalie when two players know each other this well. It’s made us both better over the years, this ongoing dance of challenge and counter-challenge, support and competition.

We’re still chirping away at each other when Grammercy joins us. The guy might believe in ghosts, but his instincts on the ice are supernatural in the best way, a fact he proves as we move into the next drill.

Coach puts us through our paces for another hour, but there’s an energy in the arena today, a sense of possibility that has nothing to do with haunted storage rooms.

This team is special. We all feel it.

The new guys like Grammercy are slotting right in, the veterans are playing some of their best hockey, and even Coach seems lighter these days. Well, as light as Lauder ever gets.

But still. Something’s different. Better.

Maybe it’s because this is my last season, and I’m determined to go out with a bang. Maybe it’s because Tank’s impending fatherhood has him playing like a man possessed to secure his family’s future. Or maybe it’s just that rare magic that happens sometimes in sports, when all the pieces come together at exactly the right moment.

Whatever it is, I can’t help feeling like this could be our year. The year we finally bring the cup home to Portland.

By the time we break for lunch, I’m riding high on endorphins and optimism, which always makes me hungry. I’m shoveling it in, already halfway through my chicken and rice, when Remy walks into the cafeteria.

My fork freezes inches from my mouth.

She never eats here. The admin staff has their own break room upstairs, and she usually works through lunch anyway.

But there she is, looking like every fantasy I’ve ever had about sexy office managers come to life.

She must have hit the clothes stash in her office. Gone is this morning’s casual wear. In its place is a pencil skirt and my favorite green silk blouse, the one that makes her eyes pop like nobody’s business. Her hair is swept up in one of those twisty things that make me want to pull out all the pins and watch it tumble down.

While I fuck her.

Hard.

“Damn,” Bellamy mutters beside me, his voice thick with the kind of appreciation that makes my jaw clench. “Those long legs go all the way to heaven? Because I’d love to?—”

“Choose your next words carefully.” My voice is quiet but sharp enough to make him flinch. “That’s Coach’s daughter you’re talking about. Show some respect.”

Tank kicks me under the table, a warning to dial it back, but I can’t help it. Other men talking about Remy like she’s a piece of ass makes my blood boil.

“Sorry, man.” Bellamy holds up his hands in surrender, his brown eyes wide. “Didn’t mean anything by it. I swear.”

“We’re cool.” I will myself to relax, to remember that I have no right to get territorial. Remy and I aren’t public. Hell, we aren’t even technically together. And getting into it with Bellamy would only draw attention we don’t need.

As she approaches our table, I concentrate very hard on looking casual. Like I wasn’t just thinking about fucking her. Like I haven’t memorized exactly how that silk blouse feels beneath my fingertips as I slide it off her shoulders.

“There you are, Stone.” Her voice is pure professionalism, but there’s a hint of warmth in her gaze that only I would notice. “Could you stop by my office after practice today? I have some paperwork for a potential endorsement deal I need to go over with you. And some paperwork for you to sign if you’re interested.”

“Sure thing,” I say, proud of how steady my voice sounds. “What time?”

“Just a few minutes before five? If you can hang around a while?” She glances at her watch. “I know camp dismisses at four, but I have a call until then.”

“Yeah, no problem. That’s fine.” I give her a polite nod, like we didn’t spend all weekend tangled up in my sheets. “See you then.”

She moves on to another table, and I return to my lunch, very aware of Tank’s knowing look. The look that says I’m getting sloppy, lazy, and that, if I’m not careful, I’m going to get caught red-handed with the coach’s daughter.

He’s right.

Remy and I are playing way too fast and loose lately. This is the kind of risky behavior that leads to a man being separated from his balls and hung on a meat hook in Lauder’s basement.

The smart thing to do would be to take a step back. Insist on caution from here on out. Remember all the reasons why getting caught would be a disaster.

But as I watch Remy leave the cafeteria, her hips swaying in that damn pencil skirt, I’m not sure I care about any of that anymore.

Not when every moment with her feels better than the last. Not when I’m falling so hard, I’m not sure I could walk away, even if I wanted to.

Which I definitely don’t.

I just hope she feels the same way. Because after this weekend, after feeling so at home with her in every sense of the word… After the way she opened up and let me in, making me want to protect the little girl she once was as much as the woman she is now, I can’t go back to pretending this is casual.

The only question that remains is—where do we go from here?

I hope it’s forward.

Together.