Head Coach EPB

by Lia Riley

  “Go. I’ll check back in tomorrow.”

  “Love you, Twinkle Toes,” she said sleepily.

  “You too.” And he did, even if he could never bring himself to say it. When he looked for the right way to express feelings, the words formed a logjam in his throat. He knew he could be dismissed as an asshole, but that was bullshit. He just didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve.

  The way he’d grown up, it was far safer to hide it behind a fortress of bone and ice.

  His phone buzzed. He checked his texts. Nothing. He frowned. That was weird. Then he noticed his Byways app had a message. He clicked it open and a stupid grin tugged the corner of his mouth.

  NeverL8: Hey! Not to sound like a stalker, but are you at The Watering Hole by any chance? I’m on my way and spotted your avatar. Maybe we could meet up and curse Prius drivers in person?

  He lowered the phone and stared at the brick wall of the popular neighborhood bar. Shit. He wasn’t prepared. He’d been chatting with this woman online for a month, the sassy one who used an avatar of angel wings. It didn’t mean much, just idle conversation when stuck in gridlock. And yet . . .

  His stomach muscles tightened. And yet it had meant a lot. He’d found himself looking forward to the short encounters. He wasn’t a guy who made easy small talk. He wasn’t given to flirting. He knew he was too serious and should smile more.

  A Jeep Wagoneer tore into the parking lot and hit the curb. Music blared from the windows, some bubblegum pop song that made his teeth hurt from all the sugary sweetness.

  “Damn it,” he muttered. The racket from that tin can was making it hard to calm down. He dragged a hand through his hair and released a frustrated breath.

  His contact with NeverL8 was such a small part of his day, and yet it felt . . . fuck it . . . pure. A moment where he wasn’t the coach. Or Daddy. Or the ex. He was just a guy in traffic who could share a joke. It had always been a talent of his, remembering punch lines. Guess it was the one good quality Dad ever gave him.

  Nils Gunnar was the man of the party. The self-proclaimed King of St. Paul. He had a joke for every occasion and a booming laugh heard down the block. The problem was that the jokes ran out the minute he got back home.

  It took effort to put those memories on lockdown, but Tor tried his best.

  Instead he scanned the busy road, bustling with Saturday-night traffic, and waited to meet his mystery friend. What would she be driving?

  “Tor? Oh my God, it is you!” Breezy Angel ran across the parking lot, the smile on her face bigger than her tiny black shorts. “Jed didn’t mention you were here too!”

  “Surprise, surprise.” Tor gave a tense smile. His buddy hadn’t mentioned that he was including his new live-in girlfriend in on their beer plans, but what the hell, it was impossible not to like Breezy.

  “Are you coming inside with us?” she asked. “Because oh my God! We have got to tell you all about this class we just went to.”

  “And if you’re lucky we will perform our newly learned chair routine.” The leggy brunette piped up from beside her, propping a hand on her narrow waist and giving him an appreciative once-over.

  “My best friend Margot,” Breezy said by way of introduction. “And of course you know my little big sister . . . Neve.”

  And there she was, small and dark, hanging a few steps back in the shadows. If Breezy was all curves and Margot was legs for days, Neve was self-contained and sleeker than a black cat. She had the sort of direct gaze that dared others to try to pet her, but he knew if he ever attempted it she’d unsheathe her claws.

  “I’m staying out here,” he muttered. “Waiting to meet . . . a friend.” Of sorts.

  “Oh okay, yeah, sure.” Breezy turned to Margot with a shrug and they both disappeared into the bar.

  Neve loitered, studying his face. “I’m not used to seeing you out of a suit,” she said after a beat. “You look different in jeans.”

  There were a hell of a lot of things going on inside that sentence, and he hated how much curiosity he had over every unspoken word.

  “What are you doing, Angel?” he asked dryly, tapping a hand against his denim-encased thigh. “Still trying to get me on the record for the lockout?”

  “Meh, resist all you want. It’s just a matter of time.” She fluffed her bangs and swung her gaze to some undefinable point in the distance. What was that, a smirk?

  “What’s so funny?” he pushed.

  “Life,” she answered cryptically. “Except I think the joke’s on me.”

  “Any time you want to speak in plain sentences, I’m all ears.”

  “Cool. Until then, why don’t you keep waiting for your big mystery date, Rovhal30?”

  The name hit him like a stick to the face, snapping everything into place. He shoved a hand into his pocket to resist slapping his forehead.

  The wings.

  The pun on her name.

  Christ, could he be more of a fucking idiot?

  But as he met her glare, he realized that was exactly what he was.

  “You’re NeverL8?”

  Chapter Six

  Was the man really so miserly that he couldn’t spare a single glance in her direction? Neve leaned back in the booth and studied Tor’s profile. If she wasn’t so annoyed with his determination to ignore her, she’d have deemed his tenacity rather sexy.

  She wrapped her fingers around her thumb and squeezed for good measure. So sue her, she’d modified a noun with the adjective sexy in relation to Tor Gunnar. And God help her, she wasn’t even tipsy. In fact, she hadn’t been able to swallow more than half of a mouthful of her margarita ever since Margot plonked it down fifteen minutes ago. And it was top-shelf Patron Silver, for crying out loud.

  Now Margot was back at the bar flirting with a dreadlocked bartender, his tight white T-shirt molded to his defined pecs, the color popping the deep bronze of his skin. Meanwhile, Jed and Breezy cuddled across the booth, cooing and whispering between kisses while studiously ignoring the curious glances from onlookers. Neve glanced at her watch. The love birds had exactly one more minute before she stepped in and made a citizen’s arrest for the crime of PDA.

  “Disgusting, isn’t it?”

  “Stop the presses.” She glanced to Tor with a start. “Are you speaking mouth words to me?”

  His glacial expression had the curious effect of heating her down to the tips of her toes. “As you don’t have my ex-captain’s tongue shoved halfway down your throat . . . then yeah. I suppose I am.”

  Neve raised her brows. “You know, those might be the most words you’ve ever voluntarily spoken to me.”

  He arched one of his own blond brows right back. “Hope you enjoyed the experience.”

  “I’m willing to be generous in my Yelp review.” A small smile tugged her lips. “Let’s go with a three out of five.”

  “Three?”

  His unexpected smile drew her in. And it shouldn’t. Tor was good-looking, but so were most guys in her line of work. After all, she spent her days in the company of professional athletes.

  So what was it about this particular man that quickened her pulse?

  But while her mind might stage a freak-out, her face never would. “What’s the problem?” She kept her features a mirror to his own, one of cool, calculated amusement. “That’s better than fifty percent.”

  He paused.

  They might be enemies, but together they won at awkward pauses.

  “I should have known,” he said at last.

  She was physically incapable of allowing this man to make a vague statement her without pushback. “Explain.”

  “I should have known you were NeverL8. Your name was right there, not to mention those avatar angel wings.”

  “Can’t say you earned a Scooby snack for your sleuthing skills, Shaggy.” She winked.

  His surprised bark of laughter hit her belly like a shot, swirling through her veins with intoxicating force. She’d heard his laugh before of course, in the locker room
over the years, always while talking to one of his guys. But never at her. She liked it, she realized, crossing her arms tight across her chest. A lot.

  Too much.

  “Excuse me. I have to pay a visit the little girls’ room,” she announced, almost tipping her untouched drink in her hurry to stand. Had someone turned up the heat? The room felt overwarm and too damn crowded. Breathing space. What she needed was breathing space.

  Better yet, thinking space.

  Pushing through the crowd, she thought Tor called out her name, but she didn’t want to check only to discover that it had been wishful thinking.

  She stormed ahead, chin down, arms swinging. Wishful thinking had bitten her in the butt enough in the past hour. The delicious Ewan McGregor fantasy of her Byways dreams had turned out to be a nightmare—worse, a guy who hated her guts.

  A guy she hated right back, of course.

  This was all a lot to take in. Too much to process.

  She was a simple girl. Maybe her life had been stuck in a rut, but so what? Ruts provided protection from the elements, gave shelter—a cozy hiding place. If she stayed in a rut, she would never have to do anything uncomfortable, like put herself out there.

  No bathroom line, thank God. She pushed into the single-stall unisex space, the door banging a cinder-block wall riddled by graffiti art and old concert posters. After turning the lock, she marched to the sink, flicked on the tap and splashed cold water onto her face.

  One of the benefits of never wearing makeup was having no mascara to ruin. She splashed and splashed again, her nerves going off like a Fourth of July fireworks show.

  “You are experiencing a normal physiological reaction,” she reassured the panicked expression staring back in the mirror while registering the fact that her face wasn’t the only thing wet. “It’s time to take Breezy’s advice and invest in a battery-operated boyfriend.”

  She had always felt silly when perusing sex toys online, as if she was an imposter with no business owning clitoris-fluttering rings or body-warming lube. On the rare occasion when she’d attempted to explore the thousands of ways to get off in the world, she would always end up back at eighteen years old, hearing the words of a rival coach after she failed to qualify for the national figure-skating championships.

  “Neve Angel?” She’d overheard him scoffing to one of his skaters while she curled behind a row of folding chairs, bawling her eyes out. He’d glanced in her direction with a sneer, as if sensing her presence. “With the jaw and bushy brows?” he’d said a little louder. “That skinny little bitch isn’t prime-time, and the judges instinctively sensed it tonight. Trust me, she’s no threat. She’s nothing at all.”

  After they had walked away, she’d scrubbed her mouth clean of lipstick with the back of her hand. Hard.

  She’d goodbye to the world of glitz and glamor, hung up her skates and never looked back. Her sister had often complimented her looks, and seemed like she meant it, but when Neve was alone with the bathroom mirror, all she could ever think was That jaw . . . those brows . . . skinny little bitch. Finally, Neve had avoided her reflection altogether. Instead, she put her head down and worked.

  Forget flirting.

  Forget fun.

  She’d doubled down on being serious. And if she wasn’t sexy enough to tempt men like Tor Gunnar, welp, so be it. She was used to it. It’s just how she rolled.

  Sometimes people mentioned her “bold brows” or “strong features” as if they were good things. And she didn’t want to be a self-loathing woman nitpicking her faults. The last thing she wanted to do was admit that in a perfect world she’d love to possess the pixie face and effortless grace of Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face.

  Because this wasn’t a perfect world.

  Far from it.

  Smoothing her hair, she straightened, sucking in her abs and squaring her shoulders. She would go buy that cat. Eventually she’d figure out a way to ignore the hole in her heart, the one that ached to be filled even more than the lonely place between her legs.

  And that was saying a lot.

  “Enough.” She dabbed the mysterious moisture collecting in the corners of her eyes.

  Forget burlesque classes and trying to be sexy. She’d construct a roof on her rut and call it a home. After all, this was the twenty-first century. She could take care of her own business one self-administered orgasm at a time.

  She had enough time on her hands with the stupid lockout in effect.

  Sniffing twice, she turned to the door. Now that she had a plan, all she needed to do was survive this stupid night and that stupidly sexy man, who had managed to ruin the one bit of stupid harmless flirtation she had in her life. Bye, bye, Byways.

  Good thing she’d turned in her “Top Five Worst Coaches in the NHL” piece for next week’s paper. Petty, yes, but satisfying.

  After drying her hands, she stepped into the small hallway and into Tor Gunnar’s chest.

  “We have to stop meeting like this,” he said wryly.

  “Did you follow me?” She pushed off him, aghast. Was her face splotchy?

  Just when she’d thought her situation couldn’t get worse, leave it to fate to say, “Hold my beer.”

  “You left your purse on the table.” He extended her purse with a stiff arm. “I thought you might want it.”

  “What?” She didn’t have the first clue what thoughts marched through this man’s mind.

  “I should be asking you that. Were you crying?”

  “No. Of course not.” She snatched the purse and shoved it under her arm. “It’s awesome to hang out with a guy who hates your guts. Super relaxing.”

  “Hates your . . . what?” he spluttered, glowering at her. “What makes you think I hate you?”

  Great. This guy was Mr. Literal. Now she’d get some big speech about how technically he didn’t hate her, only disregarded her, and somehow that was even more awful.

  She straightened to her whole impressive five feet and a half. “Don’t you?”

  “Neve.” He took a step forward, filling the whole alcove, the clean citrus scent on his skin permeating the air. Her entire world shrank like a deflating helium balloon and the only thing she could do was try to focus, her gaze fixed on the third button of his blue shirt, the one that fastened in the center of his chest. The same chest that was currently heaving as if he’d just completed a record sprint.

  Okay, then. He wasn’t unaffected by her proximity either.

  Sweat misted the valley between her breasts. The soft, worn cotton of her bra was too rough against the sensitive peaks.

  She shifted, clenching her thighs together. “Tor, listen—”

  “If I hated you, then why would I want to kiss you so damn bad?”

  Her heart gave up beating. She wasn’t going to survive the heat melting his frosty gaze.

  “Kiss me?” Her mouth formed the words, but she wasn’t sure if she managed to squeak the question out loud until the corner of his mouth crooked.

  “That an invitation?” Wry amusement entered his tone.

  And there went the bones in her legs—poof, gone.

  The only choice left was to fling her arms out and grip his broad, strong shoulders.

  “If you want it to be.” Her voice sounded like that of a stranger, a gal who danced burlesque in heels and applied bold lipstick, who could lounge in comfy sweats but also rock a pair of sexy, butt-molding skinny jeans when the fancy struck.

  A woman not afraid to reach out and take a little pleasure.

  And so . . . just like that . . . she did.

  It took Tor’s brain a second to register that he was kissing Neve Angel.

  He was kissing Neve Angel.

  No. Scratch that.

  He was kissing the shit out of Neve Angel like a motherfucking boss.

  While his mind blanked, his body got busy. Mentally, he was still processing that her lips tasted cool, tart and sweet like pink lemonade, while one of his hands dipped around her waist and hauled her against
him, and the other found the bathroom door handle and turned. They tumbled inside.

  And the real surprise wasn’t even that he devoured the glorious heaven that was Neve Angel’s mouth. It was that she kissed him back. Her tongue stroked his with such sweet fire that his body ignited.

  He couldn’t decide where to touch first, so like a greedy bastard he tried to get everywhere at once. Her hair was even softer than it looked, but thick and wavy. He coiled his fingers in deep, tugging to turn her head back, intensifying the kiss. She was a thunderclap on a sunny day, a four-leaf clover in a sidewalk crack, hitting every green light the whole drive home. Wholly unexpected. Better than anything he’d ever imagined.

  And he’d imagined, all right. Even as he’d tried to push the thoughts away, the fantasies had reeled him back time and time again.

  “Neve.” Was the word a question or a prayer? All he knew was it tasted right, like taking a sip of good wine and letting the complex flavors linger on the tongue.

  “No more talking,” she ordered. Their lips crushed back together, teeth knocking. He skimmed his fingers to where her shirt rode up. When he grazed that sliver of bare, smooth skin, it was like everything in his life made sense, every bit of bad luck or stroke of good fortune had a single purpose—to bring him here. Right here . . . to this moment in a dive-bar bathroom, where he got to explore a perfect landscape of silky skin.

  Neve commenced her own explorations, but like with everything else, she was direct—cut right to the chase. He sucked in a rasping breath as she skimmed the bulge in his jeans, pressing her palm flat, the pressure cording the muscles in his neck.

  “So much for foreplay,” he choked.

  She might have snapped “Screw foreplay,” but it was drowned out by a loud bang from outside.

  “Yo! Did someone fall in and drown?” A deep, drunken voice slurred. “Open up. I’ve got to take a leak.”

  And just like that the spell broke. Neve leapt back and her hand flew to cover her mouth, wiping her lips as if removing evidence of his kisses.