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TWO

Clay

“Will you lower your voice?” Frank, my GM, scowls at me from behind his giant desk at our Boulder headquarters.

“No!” My pulse is pounding in my ears, and I can hardly think straight. “There’s no pretending that this is a friendly chat, Frank. You’ve pulled some crap before, but this is straight-up bullshit. I didn’t want this player. He’s a dinosaur.”

“He isn’t,” Frank hisses.

“No? Then how come you went behind my back? ”

“I didn’t have to!” he shouts. “Because. It’s. My. Call.” He thumps the desk with his meaty fist on each word.

“A call that’s going to look pretty fucking bad in a few months when this player proves uncoachable!” I shout. “There goes our chances at the playoffs.”

“Based on what?” he hollers back at me. “We needed some experience in front of the net. I got that for us. Our own goalie coach is practically jizzing himself with excitement to work with Jethro Hale, and you’re throwing a goddamn tantrum!”

“I told you?—”

“You told me nothing. Just that you don’t want this guy.”

“The word no is a complete sentence,” I snarl.

“Come on, kid,” he says with a patronizing smile that makes my blood pressure double again.

“Fuck you,” I say icily, and his eyes widen. “I’m not your kid . If you want someone to kiss your ass, get a dog. And if Hale was the last goalie on Earth, I’d still think this was a bad move.”

Frank’s eyes are now so wide they’re bugging out, but that’s all I have to say on the matter. I’m practically shaking with anger, and possibly in jeopardy of getting fired if I stay in this office any longer. So I turn around, throw open Frank’s office door, and storm out.

Three paces later I register all the people in the outer office. None of them were here when I’d stalked through to see Frank. My assistant, Liana, for one, looks mortified. Then there’s Murph, my assistant coach. He’s also red-faced for some reason.

Then I spot the man standing so still against the windows I’d almost missed him. But now that I’m conscious of his presence, my senses laser in on him, and only him. Same tall stature as when we were kids. Same broad shoulders. Sandy hair so familiar that I feel it like a burn inside my chest.

And anger burning in those deep green eyes.

Fuck me sideways. He probably heard everything I shouted at Frank.

Propelled by fury and physical momentum, I’m out of the room in three more paces. And having no better plan, I keep walking. Leaving the management suite, I hightail it across the catwalk spanning the open-plan gym below. A player salutes me from the weight bench. In response, I manage a stiff wave. But my mind is still too busy exploding to engage.

Jethro Hale, a man I’ve successfully avoided for a decade and a half is here in the building. The newest Cougar.

Here . In Colorado.

I can barely breathe, I’m so upset.

It’s a quick jog down the stairs at the back of the building and out through the exit. My truck is waiting in my reserved spot, so I climb into it and turn on the heat against the December chill. Then I grab my phone and hit the number of the only person in the world who would understand what just happened to me.

“Clay?” my sister answers. “You okay? I got two minutes before my next patient.”

I’m used to catching her in two-minute increments between appointments, so I talk fast. “Frank traded a goalie for Jethro Hale. After I told him not to.”

“ What? ” The shock in her voice is gratifying. “Hale is there? In Colorado ?”

“Yeah.” I let out a heavy breath.

“ Why? ”

“Because Frank doesn’t listen when I talk. But also, there was really no way for me to explain…”

“Yeah, okay,” she says quickly, and we lapse into a shared silence.

Kaitlyn knows everything that went down between me and Jethro. But Frank doesn’t. When Hale’s name first came up, I mentioned playing with him when we were young and said we didn’t get along. But there was no ethical way for me to hint at our very personal connection. I’d never out anyone.

“Clay, I’m so sorry,” she says. “And—hell—the timing.”

“The timing,” I echo, and my stomach lurches. “Shit, you’re right.” It’s the worst possible moment for Hale to show up here and remind me of the life I never had. Not with everything that’s about to go down in Colorado.

She blows out a breath. “What are you going to do?”

“I have no idea,” I admit. My job is all-consuming. I need focus. No distractions. And the thought of looking Hale in the face every day for the next six months makes me want to vomit.

“Clay, I’m sorry to do this but…”

“Go,” I say, suddenly exhausted. “Heal the people of Seattle.”

“I love you,” she says.

“You too, babe. Thanks for picking up.”

“Anytime!”

She rings off, and the phone makes that beep that tells you you’re all alone.

I lean my head against the headrest and close my eyes. The first image I see in my mind’s eye is Jethro Hale’s brilliant green eyes.