Yeah, he'd screwed up and acted like an ass. One second he'd been ready to kiss her then the next, he'd acted like a damn kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He still wasn't sure why seeing Aaron had made him freeze like that. Yeah, he was the man's coach. But he was also a man who had a life off the ice. Maybe not much of one, but still—
The problem now was: how did he fix his screw-up? Should he just ignore it? Pretend it hadn't happened?
No, wrong answer. He'd never been one to shy away from a problem, especially not one he had caused. Whatever he decided to do, he needed to do it quickly because they were almost back to Pamela's place. He squeezed his hands around the steering wheel and took a deep breath, searched his mind for the right words.
And he was still searching five minutes later when he pulled in front of her condo.
It was her attempt at a hasty retreat that finally pushed him to act. She had her hand curled around the door handle, was already opening the door, when he reached over and placed a hand on her arm. "About earlier—"
"No need to explain."
"But I do—"
"It's fine. I understand." She turned toward him, a small smile tilting one corner of her full mouth. Shadows hid most of her eyes but he had a feeling the smile was empty and forced, nothing more than a show. "I had fun. Thank you."
"I'll walk you to your door." But he was talking to empty air because Pamela was already out of the car and quietly closing the door behind her. Bryan hesitated but only for a second before cutting the engine and climbing out after her. She tossed a surprised glance over her shoulder then looked away and continued along the sidewalk, but not before he saw the briefest flash of annoyance cross her face. He caught up to her, stepped around her to open the door to her building. Their gazes met, a surprising clash of wills that—for reasons he didn't quite understand—made him bite back a smile. One sculpted brow rose over hazel eyes as she paused on the threshold, studying him.
"This really isn't necessary. I'm quite capable of walking myself to my own door. I've been doing it for years, you know."
"I have no doubt that you're more than capable."
She continued to study him with unreadable hazel eyes and he held his breath, waiting. He suddenly wondered if this was what his players felt like when they stood on the ice in front of him. Studied. Scrutinized. Judged. Deemed lacking—or found worthy. The jolt of realization wiped away any hint of a smile that had been struggling to make an appearance only seconds ago.
He tightened his hand around the edge of the door and released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I really am sorry. About earlier."
She nodded, the motion smooth and almost mechanical. "Apology accepted."
Was she telling the truth? He couldn't read her, couldn't tell from her carefully blank expression if she meant the words or if she was simply telling him that to get rid of him. He took another deep breath, searched for a way to explain his earlier actions. "I didn't mean to be so abrupt. I just—"
"Bryan, I understand. Really."
"You do?"
"Yes." She smiled then, just a brief one that softened her eyes. "I know how important it is not to blur lines with your staff. Or, I guess in your position, with your players."
Bryan opened his mouth to respond then just as quickly closed it. Pamela was already stepping around him, keys in hand as she walked through the lobby. She paused in front of the elevator and looked over at him. Pulled her lower lip between her teeth for the briefest of seconds as she tilted her head. Finally straightened and offered him a small smile. "Would you like some coffee?"
Coffee was the last thing he needed, not if he wanted any sleep tonight, but lack of sleep was a small price to pay if it meant smoothing over his earlier screw-up. This was only his second date with Pamela but he realized, in that moment, that he wanted a chance for another one. If joining her for a cup of coffee improved that chance, then he'd take it.
He joined her at the elevator, stepped behind her after the doors opened. She offered him another small smile and pushed the button for the fourth floor. They rode the elevator in comfortable silence and Bryan wondered—hoped—that this meant he was being given a chance to salvage the evening.
He followed her down the hall, stopping next to her as she unlocked the door to her condo. She stepped inside and palmed the light switch to her left, then moved to the side and motioned him.
The night of their first date when he brought Pamela home, he'd stayed safely outside the door. When he picked her up tonight, she had met him at the door so this was the first time he'd been inside her place. He took the chance now to look around. Vibrant jewel tones and thriving greenery surrounded him, from the large throw pillows covered in rich, abstract patterns to the array of plants clustered in groupings around the living room. It was bright. Lush. Inviting.
And a far cry from the bland decor in his own home.
"Nice place."
"Thank you." She offered him another smile then moved through the living room, motioning to the sofa as she stepped past it. "Make yourself comfortable while I make some coffee. I'll use the French press so it'll be a few minutes."
"A French press? Is that something fancy?"
"Not really." The corners of her mouth curled in a small smile as she nodded toward the kitchen. "Come on, I'll show you."
He followed her into a kitchen that was smaller than his own and a hundred times more inviting. A butcher block table sat in the center, the glowing wood surface dark with age. The cabinetry was a shade lighter, complementing the black granite countertops and black stainless-steel appliances. The overhead light mutely reflected from the tinwork backsplash, adding to the welcoming glow.
Bryan sat on one of the three stools at the island and watched as Pamela moved around the kitchen with fluid precision. She placed a kettle of water on the stove then reached for a heavy glass pitcher, sat it aside then opened an airtight container and scooped coffee into the pitcher. "I'll add the water once it boils, let it steep, then press it."
"I usually just throw a pod into my machine and press a button."
She laughed and pointed to the corner of the counter. "Sometimes I do the same thing—usually when I'm running late."
"Something tells me that doesn't happen very often."
"Not usually, no." She folded her arms in front of her and shrugged, almost like she was embarrassed. "Old habits, I guess."
"Nothing wrong with that. I'm the same way." He shifted on the stool, glanced down at the heavy wood of the island, then looked up. "You said you understood. About blurring the lines, I mean."
"Yeah, I do." She smiled again and he couldn't shake the impression that this one held a hint of sadness. "I have a staff, remember? And while I'm sure it's a little different than your situation, I have to make sure to keep things professional. I'm their boss, not their friend. Blurring that line can complicate things."
"Yes, it can." He frowned, thinking of the ongoing situation with Nathan Shaw and what lay in store for the younger man. He shook the thoughts away and met Pamela's gaze. "But that still doesn't excuse how I acted. I'm not usually as abrupt as I was tonight."
Another smile played around the corners of her mouth as she quirked a brow in his direction. "You often run into your players while out on dates?"
Bryan quickly shook his head, mortification heating his face. "No, of course not. I didn't mean—"
"I was only teasing." Pamela's smile briefly widened. "I guess I'm a little rusty with this whole bantering thing. Anita is much better at it."
"I wouldn't say that. I think you were handling the banter just fine earlier."
She laughed and dipped her head, staring down at the tile floor. "Thank you, but I'm comfortable enough with myself to admit to my weaknesses."
Bryan pushed away from the island and closed the distance between. He reached out with one finger and tilted her head up, noticed the way her eyes widened a fraction of an inch when their gazes met. "Something
tells me that 'weak' is the last word that anyone uses to describe you."
"You'd be surprised."
He heard the words but it was her voice that held him captured. Throaty. Soft with promise. His gaze dropped to her mouth, darted back to hers for a brief second, long enough to see the question—and the answer—reflected in the bright hazel eyes. He stepped even closer, placed his free hand on her hip, then dipped his head and caught her mouth with his own, swallowing her small gasp of surprise.
The kiss was gentle at first. Soft and hesitant. Seeking. Coaxing. One of her hands slid along his arm then curled against his shoulder as she stepped closer. Soft curves and gentle heat pressed against him and he deepened the kiss, swept his tongue into the recesses of her mouth as she opened for him. He traced the line of her jaw with his hand, threaded his fingers into the strands of her hair and tilted her head back as their breaths mingled. This was different from their kiss the other night. Hungry. Filled with promise. With need.
He wrapped his hand around her waist and pulled her closer, marveling at how well she fit against him. Marveling at how swiftly his body reacted. He deepened the kiss even more, swallowing her breathy sigh as she curled one arm around his neck. Her sigh grew louder, growing in pitch as it turned into a sharp wail—
Bryan broke the kiss and stepped back, fighting to catch his breath—and his control—as Pamela fumbled with the stove. She turned the burner off and the sharp hiss of the boiling kettle quickly faded, disappearing into the thick silence that settled between them.
A faint blush stained her cheeks as she watched him with a gaze that was both surprised and suddenly shy. Bryan took another step back, ran one hand through his hair and cleared his throat. "I, uh, I should probably get home."
"But your coffee—"
"Can I take a raincheck?" Disappointment flashed in her eyes and he stepped forward, reached for her then dropped his hand. "Another night, when neither of us has to get up so early in the morning."
Promise flashed in her eyes, there and gone so quickly he wasn't sure if he was really seeing it, or if it was nothing more than wishful thinking on his part. "I'll hold you to it."
He nodded, started to turn away then stopped. Before he could question himself, he leaned down and caught her mouth with his in a quick kiss. "I'm counting on it."
Bryan didn't miss the blush that deepened the color in her cheeks, or the spark of desire that lit her eyes in a mirror of his own.
Chapter Eight
Bryan tightened his hand around the roll of paperwork clenched in one fist, ground his back teeth together, and tossed a quick glance up at the clock.
Dammit.
His guys were falling apart on the ice. Missing shots. Waffling the puck. Tripping over their own damn feet. What the hell had happened to their cohesion? Their team work?
The biting shrill of the whistle raked down his spine and the muscle jumped in his clenched jaw when Zach Mummert was called out for tripping. Dammit! What the hell had the man been thinking? The Bombers didn't need to be down a man right now, not when they were already trailing by two.
He glanced at Nelson, briefly nodded his head and received a quick nod in acknowledgment. The other man placed a hand on Nathan Shaw's shoulder and shook his head then nodded at Kyle Middleton, silently motioning for him to take Shaw's place on the line for the penalty kill.
The other man tensed and tossed a scowl in Bryan's direction. Fine. He was pissed. Let him be pissed. Maybe holding him back would finally get the message through. Bryan doubted it, not when moving him to the fourth line and cutting his ice time hadn't worked yet.
The sharp slap of a stick hitting wood echoed around the box. Bryan slid his gaze back to Shaw, narrowed his eyes in silent warning then looked back at the ice. He crossed his arms in front of him, the muscle on the right side of his jaw jumping in time to his pulse.
Two minutes. All they had to do was keep the puck away from Springfield for two fucking minutes.
Bryan kept his gaze focused on the ice, watching as play exploded in front of him. Harland Day passed the puck back to Middleton, moving in unison as they fought to keep it away from the Bombers' net. Back and forth, fighting to get it out of the zone. Bryan bit back a curse, held his breath as a player from Springfield snagged the puck mid-pass and tore toward the net, pulling back for a hard shot. The puck shot toward the top corner of the net, hard and fast, a guaranteed goal—until Ben Leach dove in front of it, blocking it with his chest before crashing to the ice. Harland Day was right there, catching the puck, spinning away from the play and racing up the ice.
Bryan spared a quick glance for Leach, to make sure the man was okay, knowing from experience the pain of catching a puck in the chest. Leach was already jumping to his feet, balancing on blades as he rubbed a fist against his sternum before tearing off after Day.
Bryan's gaze darted to Day, his breath held as the man moved closer to Springfield's net. He shifted right, pulled back on his stick for the shot but stopped short and darted left. Springfield's goalie was still moving in anticipation of the shot, his momentum carrying him to the right side of the net as the puck sailed past him for a goal.
Damn, that was a beautiful shot. Bryan released the breath he'd been holding and offered the man a short nod in acknowledgment before looking up at the screen. The short-handed goal had changed their deficit to one but that could easily change again. They still had more than a minute remaining of the penalty to kill and a lot could happen in that time. All they needed to do was keep it together, fight off a team even hungrier for a win than the Bombers.
Fifteen minutes later, disappointment and defeat hung thickly in the air of the locker room. Bryan stood in the center of the room, surrounded by a team cloaked in misery and sweat. His gaze slid from one player to the next, taking in their lowered heads and stooped shoulders. Their cuts and bruises. Their sweat-matted hair and heavy dejection.
Their anticipation of his barrage of words filled with criticism and disappointment.
He stared down at the roll of tattered papers clenched in his fist and pulled in a deep breath through clenched teeth. Looked around the room one last time and exhaled through his nose.
"We're better than this." He let the words hang in the damp air for a long minute before spinning on his heel and marching from the room. There was nothing else to say. Yelling and screaming would accomplish nothing. The dynamics of the team had somehow shifted, creating a fracture that continued to splinter each passing day.
And Bryan had no idea what had caused it. Worse, he had no idea how to repair it. All he knew was that something needed to be done, now.
Three hours later, he stared up at the aging ceiling of his hotel room with eyes blurred and scratchy from lack of sleep. His head pounded with a headache born from futility and he was still no closer to a solution than he'd been when they left Springfield's arena and headed toward Hartford for Saturday night's game.
He shifted his head on the pillow and squinted at the glowing numbers of the clock. If he managed to close his eyes and fall asleep right now, he might be able to eek out four hours of sleep. Maybe. But he wasn't tired, despite the scratchy eyes and weariness spreading over him. His mind refused to settle, bouncing between the issues with the team—and a pair of hazel eyes glazed with surprised desire.
He swore softly, again cursing himself for leaving Pamela so abruptly last night. If he didn't know better, he'd almost say he ran away. But that hadn't been it, not really. Yeah, he'd left in a hurry but the reasons had been honorable.
For the most part.
Because he'd wanted to stay. That was why he'd left—because he was worried about what might happen if he didn't. Not that he didn't want something to happen—he did. But he also wanted more. If it was just sexual release he was searching for, he could have easily found it, but he was looking for more. Wanted more.
And even though he'd only seen and talked to her a handful of times, he was pretty sure there was a potential for that
something more with Pamela. He had no idea why, wasn't young or foolish enough—or so full of himself—to believe in instant relationships. That didn't stop him from thinking about the potential, though. That was why he had left: he didn't want to rush anything. Didn't want to cloud any possibility with sex.
He snorted, the sound harsh in the dark room. Yeah, sure he didn't.
He rolled to the side and grabbed his phone from the nightstand, thumbed the screen to life and tapped on his text messages. Their earlier conversation—if you could call sending text messages back and forth a conversation—had been necessarily brief but still made his mouth quirk in a quick grin as he read over it. Pamela had a subtle sense of humor that he hadn't noticed before. She was strong. Independent. Self-assured in a way that piqued his interest more than he thought it would.
His thumb hovered over the small keyboard screen, ready to type out another quick message. What the hell was he doing? It was after three in the morning, she would be asleep—which was where he needed to be. He had no business sending her messages so damn late, not when he knew she had to be up in two hours.
He closed the text window with a sigh and tossed the phone on the nightstand, then rolled over and punched the pillow before settling down. If sleep refused to come, he'd use the time to mull over more important things, like the growing fracture within the team and how to repair it. He didn't need to be obsessing over a woman he'd only recently met.
Yet when sleep finally came, it was a pair of hazel eyes and a warm smile that captured his dreams.
Chapter Nine
Pamela sat with her shoulders squared and her chin slightly tilted. Poised. Calm. At least, that was the impression she was trying to give. The nervous tapping of the pen against the desk blotter portrayed something completely different.
Playing It Cool: A York Bombers Hockey Romance (The York Bombers Book 8) Page 5