Page 16

Brooke

Grant set up a meeting with his coach during their practice session the day after. I've been in classes all day, so I haven’t had a chance to be nervous yet.

I’ve just discussed it with my professor after my business class, and she thinks the idea would be great as long as I get approval from the coach and team.

I stayed up late last night building a PowerPoint with the numbers of the Instagram story Grant had posted on the team’s socials and a plan right until the team could be kicked out of the league.

She wants me to email an update later on with how it goes.

The walk to the arena is too short, and I start getting the nervous sweats.

That problem is solved once I’m in the rink and shivering in the chilly air; I’m standing at the top of the stands steps watching the hockey players on the ice.

I would be lying if I weren’t a little intimidated.

The entire team is skating up and down the rink in between cones so fast you would think they wouldn’t be able to manoeuvre quickly enough with all that gear on, but they do it like it’s easy.

I smile when I spot Grant with his #25 practice jersey, skating drills. He dominates the ice even when they aren’t in a game. He’s instructing his teammates as he weaves back and forth, even taking the last run backwards.

It’s impressive. And hot.

I bite my lip and shake my head, trying to get rid of the image of Grant standing over me all possessively in his gear that’s just popped into my head.

I descend the steps and move towards who I think is the coach, judging by how he’s standing, arms crossed, glaring across the ice.

“Excuse me, Coach Bennett,” I say once I reach him.

“I’m Brooke I—” “Price! I swear to God, if you can’t get your head out of your ass for two minutes to complete these drills, you’re benched for two games,” I jump as he shouts across the ice before turning to me and grunting out.

“Sorry about that. I’ve got to make sure I keep his ass in line. He shows off.”

“He’s a real handful.” I nod along as we watch Adam complete his drills before high-fiving some of the other guys and curtseying to coach, who snorts and mutters, “asshole.”

“So, I hear you’ve got a project/proposition for me?” he asks, crossing his eyes and frowning. He gives me that coach stare, arms crossed, mouth a flat line. But there’s no condescension, just curiosity. Like he’s waiting to see if I’ll flinch, and I'm not going to, so I pull my tablet out.

“It’s a little bit of a last-minute presentation, so I’m sorry if it’s sloppy,” I apologise, pulling up the video before passing it to him, sensing we aren't going to mess about with niceties.

“No problem.” He takes my tablet and passes it to a guy with red hair in the team’s Green and black colours standing beside him. “Andrew, pop that on the big screen.”

“Big screen,” I mutter, furrowing my eyebrows in confusion before realising what he means. My face goes beet red. “Um, I mean, you can just watch it on there?”

“Nah, better when it’s bigger.” He whistles to the team. “Line up, ladies. Brooke, here is going to present a project plan for us.”

I’m going to throw up as twenty-two guys skate towards us. I look up, and there is a giant picture of Grant modelling the Knicks sweatshirt on the TV that Andrew has wheeled onto the rink.

They all start whistling and chirping at him while he just takes it and turns to look over his shoulder and smirk at me.

“That was my favourite too,” he says, with a lazy smile, leaning back with his arms spread out across the boards.

“I hate you,” I mouth behind Coach’s back, and he winks.

“Take it away, Brooke,” Coach Bennett says as Andrew gives me my tablet back for me to take us through the slides.

“Okay.” I take a deep breath and launch into my proposal.