Page 5 of Shot on Goal at a Second Chance (Midlife Meet Cute #6)

Rebecca

Ithink I’ve changed my clothes at least a half dozen times this morning.

One outfit looked overly professional like I was screaming GIRL BOSS, which I’m inclined to do in the sports world.

Another seemed too casual like I showed up on a whim.

Finally, I settled on something familiar that I knew would make me feel confident and yes, pretty, which is ridiculous.

Zach is just a crush from my past. Nothing more.

That’s what I told myself to get through the months after he stopped returning my calls.

The more I repeated it, the less the truth had stung.

He’d moved on so easily while I’d stupidly pined away after him.

Then I heard his sister passed away and reached out again, but he didn’t return my call then, either.

I still find it embarrassing when I reflect on the way I tried to hold on to Zach like some lovelorn teenager.

My father warned me, but I didn’t listen.

I’m as stubborn as he was. But now, I’m thankful for the lesson because it kept me focused on what I wanted, what I was working toward.

Had I set aside my own professional dreams to chase after Zach’s, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

Twenty-three years later, I finally own a hockey team and can do things the way I want. The trappings may not be all that attractive yet—the loud crash of the construction workers taking down a wall punctuates my thoughts—but it’s all mine.

Harper’s voice comes through the speakerphone. “Zach Keller is here.”

I push the intercom button. “Thanks, Harper. Send him in.”

Quick to my feet, I straighten the waistband of my slacks, preparing myself to see him again. More like a team pep talk before a game.

Don’t react when he flashes that smile, which he will.

Don’t let him think I’m still attracted to him, which I totally am, but I refuse to give him that satisfaction.

Don’t let him rattle me the way he used to.

He glides into my office almost as smoothly as I remember him moving on skates, confident and sure of himself in his strides to where I’m standing by my desk.

Although his charcoal suit is an interesting change from a hockey uniform, he still carries himself like an athlete.

That classic Zach smile certainly hasn’t changed, nor has its effect on me.

“Rebecca.” His voice slides over me like an embrace when he leans in to kiss my cheek. The warmth of his hand as he holds my arm just below the shoulder sears my skin, bringing a rush of memories of him holding me…kissing me.

“Zach, good to see you.”

His sandalwood cologne competes with the heavenly scent of butter and garlic coming from the bag swinging from his free hand. I’m frozen in place, caught between my fear of what all this could potentially mean—this reuniting acquaintances after so long—and my curiosity to find out.

His dark eyes shift from me to my desk, then back to my face.

He lifts a brow as if to ask if this is business or pleasure.

Zach always knew what I was thinking before I said a word.

You’d think after all these years, our connection would have waned enough that he wouldn’t be able to read me so easily.

“Let’s sit over there.” I step out from behind my new—and ant-free—desk, holding out my hand toward the small L-shaped sofa and coffee table at the other end of the room, additional pieces I purchased to make my office more comfortable.

I’m waiting for him to sit down so I can pick a spot with plenty of space between us. After he sets the bag on the coffee table, he slips off his jacket and drapes it over the arm of the couch, and as I suspected, the sleeves of his white button-down tug on well-defined biceps.

He sits right in the middle of the sectional, which means it doesn’t matter which side I pick. We’ll wind up sitting in closer proximity than I’d like.

“I brought lunch from a local place, the Turtle Tide. Have you tried it yet?” He pulls out containers from the bag and places them on the coffee table.

“No, I haven’t had much time to explore Sarabella since I moved here.”

“Good, then I’m introducing you to some of the best seafood I’ve ever had.” He opens a container, revealing plump shrimp and linguini drizzled with butter and bits of garlic. “Still your favorite?”

He remembered my favorite dish? I settle onto the couch, wedging my back against the arm but keeping my legs to the side—the only way I can keep my knee from touching his thigh.

“Yes.”

A satisfied chuckle slips from his defined lips as he hands me the container. “Some things don’t change.”

His words make me bristle, making me wish I could change my answer. I’m not the same girl he knew back then. Quite the contrary, actually. When I remember how infatuated I was with him, I see it for what it really was—just a crush.

I spread a napkin over my linen pants. “Oh, more than you’d think.”

His gaze flashes with something familiar. “You’re still as beautiful as ever, Rebecca.”

Ignoring the flutter moving from my chest to my stomach, I stop twirling noodles around my fork. “You said you needed some quotes for your article?”

“Yes, of course.” His expression unreadable, he pushes his food to the side and pulls out his phone to record my answers. “Your father was a legend in the game. How much of your decision to buy the Sun Kings was about honoring his legacy versus forging your own path?”

I drop my fork. “Why can’t it be both?”

He gives an affirming nod. “Great answer.”

A thrill shoots through me to hear his approval, but why should I care what he thinks of my reply? I’m long past that, aren’t I?

When I finally take a bite of the buttery noodles with a piece of garlicky shrimp, I groan. “This is amazing.”

He grins. “I had a feeling you’d like it.”

The way he’s watching me enjoy my food as if he wants to devour me, makes my face heat, and I’m fairly certain it’s not a hot flash. Thank you, perimenopause.

His gaze turns penetrating. “If you could go back twenty-three years and tell your younger self something, what would it be?”

I almost choke. “Is that a question for the article or for you?”

“Why can’t it be both?” One side of his mouth ticks up, letting me know he’s perfectly aware he just threw my words back at me.

“No comment.”

The challenging glint in his eyes dims a smidge. “Okay, then, how about this one? You need a new coach. Any plans in the works there?”

I shake my head, remembering the list Jack made of candidates—all of whom aren’t quite what this team needs if we’re hoping to make a comeback. “Still looking. I want someone fresh who can give this team more than what’s in a playbook.”

Saying nothing, he turns off his phone recorder.

Did I sound daft, as if I don’t know what I’m talking about? Because I do. I believe we could do something amazing here with the right coach who can help these guys be great on and off the ice. I feel it in my gut, and meeting the team confirmed it.

“Done already?”

“This part’s off the record.” He leans his head to the side, appearing thoughtful.

I shoot him a querying look.

“A suggestion, if you’re interested.”

“Go on.” I shift on the couch to face him.

He turns toward me, causing his knee to press against mine, reawakening the swarm of bees lodged in my stomach. “I think I know exactly who you need for the job. But he’s on the young side.”

I fight the urge to glance where our legs touch, but there’s no escaping the sensations coursing through me. “Former hockey player?”

“Yes. Recently retired.”

“Who?” His warmth seeps through my linen slacks, making it hard to focus. I put my food container on the table and use the opportunity to shift my leg away from his.

His gaze drops to where we were touching for a moment, but he continues. “Gabe Markelson.”

“Didn’t he play for the Sharks?”

“Briefly. Until his last concussion.”

“Why do you think he’d be a suitable fit?”

“Because I saw how he influenced his team. Their coach still says he was one of the best captains he ever saw.”

“Takes more than just being a good captain.”

“The Sharks made the playoffs his first year.”

Those bees migrate to my head, buzzing with excitement. “Can you put me in touch with him?”

He leans forward, his arms resting on his legs. His expression turns eager as anticipation sparks in his eyes. “How about I arrange a meeting?”

I’ve fought every step to get where I am now. I struggled to be heard, dealt with overbearing cronies convinced their way was the only way, and established myself in this industry. The last thing I need is another man trying to control my career. Or my life.

Ready to be done with this interview—conversation, or whatever it is—I get to my feet. “I can handle this myself, Zach.”

He reaches up and catches my arm. “I know you can, Becks. I just want to help.”

I can’t look away from the way his fingers wrap around my wrist, pressing my skin like a brand and marking me as his, just like when I used to wear his jersey.

My crush argument flutters to the ground and dissolves, revealing the truth.

I still have feelings for the man who broke my heart.