by Lynda Aicher
“Thanks for agreeing to do this, Samantha.” His voice held a heavy rasp, the result of an injury to his throat when he’d played in the minors before a blown knee had ended his playing career.
“Sam,” she corrected firmly. “Everyone calls me Sam on the ice.”
He gave a single nod. “Everyone calls me Coach O.” He opened a folder and scanned the contents. “You’re quick on your feet, sharp on your shot and have an innate ability to know where your teammates are.” He glanced up and she willed her face to stay expressionless. “Your numbers are impressive.” He rattled off stats she knew by heart and was tired of hearing. The numbers didn’t mean anything to her now.
His pause lingered when he finished, so she gave a tight “Thank you.” She clasped her hands in her lap, ignored the itch that crept up the edge of her jaw and waited until he was done scrutinizing her.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “I trust you can stay quiet about this.” The underlying insinuation had her teeth grinding. Even with the advancement in women’s hockey, the gossip would be huge if word got out that one of his pro players was being coached by a female. A young one at that.
The urge to leave flushed her skin hot, resentment blooming fast and furious. “Your concern would be because…” She didn’t care who he was or his status. She’d worked as hard as every man on his team to obtain her skills.
A slow smile spread over his lips before it blossomed into a grin. “You’re my secret weapon. We’re prepared to pay you good money if you can help our man become one of the best defensive scorers in the league.”
“And the fact that I’m a woman has nothing to do with it being a secret?” The truth needed to be clear, at least for her. That acknowledgment was the only power she had—besides leaving.
“You know it does.” He crossed his arms on his desk and nailed her with that hard coach’s eye that never failed to crawl inside and snap her to attention. “Resenting the fact won’t change it. This is still a man’s sport. You’re a hell of a player, and I respect the heck out of your skills. Coach Ford couldn’t praise you enough. But what I’m asking you to do isn’t something you can blab about. At least not yet.”
She ignored the reference to her old college coach and honed in on the last bit. “What do you mean, not yet?”
His cunning smirk came back, along with a gleam in his eyes that had her stomach sinking. “Quiet success can be better than a roaring failure.”
“And humility will get you further than arrogance.” She could quote her father too.
Coach O’s grainy laugh filled the office. “You ready to get to work then?”
She held her tongue against the doubts and internal warnings she’d wrestled with since his call. The simple truth was, she wanted back on the ice. The thought of the coming challenge, the possibility of being a constructive part of something, was too enticing to turn down. And that, more than the paycheck, was why she said, “Yes.”
“Great.” He grabbed another folder off his desk and handed it to her. “Here’s the paperwork. I need you to sign the confidentiality agreement before you leave. The rest can be turned in to the office tomorrow.”
She took her time reading through the contract. The persistent click of Coach O’s computer keys didn’t distract her from ensuring she understood exactly what she was signing. To the man’s credit, he didn’t pressure her. When she finally reached for a pen, he lifted his head and smiled.
She hesitated one last time, the battle between principle and desire waging a final struggle before she clenched her jaw and signed her name. Worst-case scenario, she’d quit after one session. The best…the player she was supposed to help actually listened to her.
“Is there anything specific you expect me to do?” she asked after he took the signed papers back.
“I went over most of that on the call.” He stood, tugging the hem of his sweatshirt over his lean hips. “Footwork, shots, spacing. The offensive packaged for a defenseman.”
She stood and met the coach’s intense stare. “There have to be a dozen men who could do this for you. Ones who are respected in the sport. So why me?”
Coach O widened his stance, arms folding over his chest. “Your perspective makes you different.”
She frowned at the unexpected answer. “What do you mean?”
“You have something to prove but nowhere left to go with it. Plus, I think Rylie’s competitive edge will be an advantage with you.”
The name hit her with a flash of regret that twisted with a hot spark of unwanted desire. Her annoyance flared so quickly she barely contained her flinch. Of course, it would be Rylie. The thought had crossed her mind that it could be him, but she’d kidded herself into believing he wanted nothing to do with her.
Something must’ve given her irritation away, because the man lowered his brows, missing nothing. “Is there a problem with that?” he asked, his tone lined with warning more than question.
“Rylie?” She cleared her throat and cringed internally. “As in Dylan Rylie. That’s who I’m coaching?”
“Yes.” Nothing more.
Indecision warred with hard-won respect. She’d earned this opportunity and she was smart enough to know it wouldn’t come around again. Not if she bailed before she’d even stepped onto the ice. In some ways, she owed Rylie this. The social media war over the twenty-second skating clip had been bitter and fierce with people commenting for and against each of them. And that didn’t include the hickey commentary.
But was she ready to handle him? As hard as she’d tried to forget him, she hadn’t. Her thoughts still strayed too frequently to him and that reckless night. Repeating her past mistakes was foolish—something she wasn’t. And she wouldn’t be if she went into this fully aware and prepared. This was business, another step toward her end goal, and letting her personal life mess with that would be foolish.
She gave a firm nod. “Okay. Do you have the game clips you promised?” She channeled her dad right then and focused on the job she’d just accepted and forgot the man involved. “I’ll want to study them before our next meeting.” She hesitated, eyes narrowing. Another wave of unease settled over her now-chilled skin. “Does Rylie know about this?”
“He’s the one who requested you.”
“Really? He asked for my help, specifically?” What game was this? There was no way Dylan Rylie would ask for her help.
Coach O scowled, his lips thinning into a hard line. “Yes, he did. But I followed through because I think you can help him. If his game suffers because of some crap you pull, I’ll stop this immediately.”
She understood the warning—threat—for what it was. It was her ass on the line more than Rylie’s. Like usual. “Got it.”
“Good.” He checked his watch. “Rylie will be out in thirty. You have the ice for an hour. Stop in after and let me know how it goes.” He turned away then paused. “If it doesn’t work out—for any reason—there’ll be no hard feelings. Got it?”
She scooped up her gear. “Sure thing, Coach.” She might’ve agreed but didn’t believe it. Not if it went badly.
The hall was blessedly empty when she shut the door behind her. She sucked in a gulp of needed air and held her composure until she entered the women’s/visitors’ locker room. A quick check confirmed she was alone. Her bag landed with a thump on the padded floor as she dropped to the bench.
What in the hell did I agree to?
The situation slammed into her then, a full check that left her breathless. She scrubbed her face and wished like hell that she could rub away the resentment that burned at the thought of working with a man who seemed to waltz through life and the game with a callous disregard for how fortunate he was to be playing there.
The same man who’d bent her over a desk and screwed her senseless. She’d gone back on her own principles for a few minutes of mindless sex. Something she couldn’t quite regret, despite how much she knew she should. She’d started this entire mess with her own arrogance a
nd now she had to see it through.
Or walk away.
She whipped a locker door open, metal clanging against metal as it vibrated in protest at the excessive force. The money from this job would feed her life-after-hockey fund. As a fifth-year senior, her college sports eligibility was exhausted and so was the scholarship she’d come to U of M on. Plus there were the master’s and potentially the doctorate degrees she’d need before she could actually make use of her bachelor’s. The endorsement money she’d earned wasn’t as lucrative as most people assumed.
She took her gear out of her bag and dressed on autopilot, each piece a part of the armor that prepared her for the battle to come. Both mental and physical.
There wasn’t room for personal stuff on the ice. That was just one of the things she loved about the sport. It was fast, grueling and required her full attention the entire time she was dressed.
She tugged on the skate laces, the thin strips rasping over the faded calluses on her fingers. A hint of dried-in sweat tickled her nose like a welcoming home. No amount of washing or airing out could completely eliminate the odor that lingered on her pads. It was part of the game and another trigger that lowered her into her player mind-set.
It was all so familiar yet foreign. She’d dressed thousands of times, preparing to play, but it’d been six long months since she’d put this gear on. It was strange to realize the bulky hockey equipment was more natural and comfortable than any dress she’d ever worn.
She yanked her hair into a band at her nape and tucked the ends beneath her helmet. She refused to go into the encounter in a defensive position. Take the lead, set the pace and play the offensive game she wanted, not his.
She didn’t believe in backing down. Couldn’t, or she wouldn’t be stepping onto the ice ready to face the man who could hurt her far worse than the boy from her past. But only if she let him.
Chapter Eight
Dylan slipped a glove on, grasped his stick and paused at the edge of the tunnel from the locker room. The lone figure skated around the rink, torso forward, thighs working in powerful strides that held a smooth grace. Samantha was in full gear, a navy jersey with the number seventeen over black bibs. Her smaller stature reminded him of Bowser, but her movements were distinctly different from his teammates’.
Her long blond hair was hidden, face covered with a cage mask on her helmet. If he didn’t know who she was, he’d never guess the skater was female. There was nothing definitive to define the gender of the hockey player at this distance. There was certainly nothing lacking in her skills to suggest she was anything less than an elite athlete.
She picked up a puck as she skated past a line of them at center ice, did a few quick maneuvers with her stick then fired off a blazing wrist shot into the open net.
It was time to see if she could teach him anything new. Coach O’s last words when he’d left the man’s office were to not fuck it up. Like he intended to. Was that the image the man had of him? His derisive snort rumbled with a truth he’d been trying to ignore. He was responsible for his image, both the positive and negative aspects of it.
He fastened the chin strap down on his helmet, took a deep inhale of the brisk air and headed out of the tunnel to the rink. The lock clicked free on the hinged rink door, and he stepped onto the ice, the ritual one he’d done thousands of times before. He’d barely slipped on his second glove and turned around when the crack of a stick nailing a puck echoed through the rafters.
His reaction was automatic. Stick on the ice, he skated to block the puck before it made it to the net. He lunged, hooked the disk with his stick and fired it toward the other end, only to see another puck sliding down the opposite side of the ice. He sped to it, spun around and sent it sailing back from where it came.
The drill repeated until his legs burned and lungs ached. With one last return, he sucked in air and glided to a halt near the boards. The warm-up was good, but he wanted to get to the offensive stuff.
A puck slicked over the ice to rebound off the wall and head straight for him.
He stuck out his stick and picked it off on reflex. “Come at me.”
He looked up to see Samantha motioning him toward her. Finally. He did a few cross steps to pick up speed and headed down the ice, the breeze cool on his flushed cheeks. His focus shifted from the net to the puck to her. He feinted left, leaned to the right, did a quick puck switch with his stick and went to do a hook around her when she took off down the ice toward the net he’d just left.
Son of a bitch. The puck was gone, Samantha having stolen it like he was a junior level player. He whipped around to give chase, only to skid to a stop when he caught sight of her poised in the same defensive stance on the opposite end.
“Again,” she ordered. Nothing more.
Dylan found another puck and dashed down the ice, determined to score. To his annoyance, it didn’t happen. The damn woman stole the puck again, this time with a quick jab and hit that didn’t come close to hurting but upped the challenge.
“Again.”
The bark of the call had him chuckling. Dylan charged down the ice with another puck, intent on her, watching her hips, her stick. He lowered his shoulder, sent the puck to the outside and swooped in for a hit as he tried to get past her. She countered with a shove, did some quick backsteps and cut him off with a fancy jab that knocked the puck away.
They both chased it down, Samantha slightly ahead as they approached the boards. He raised his arms, intending to lightly check her to get the puck back, only she cut a sharp turn and was away from the wall before Dylan got there.
He made a quick about-face and raced after her. This was fucking ridiculous. He sucked in air, thighs groaning with a familiar ache that made him push harder. The number seventeen taunted him from the back of her navy jersey as she stayed a stride ahead of him the whole way to the opposite end.
The puck sailed into the open net without a sound. Shit.
His blades carved into the ice with a grinding slide as he came to a stop and caught his breath. Samantha was already past the center line when he looked up, picking another puck off the perimeter to shoot it back at him.
“Keep your eye on me this time.” The command was layered with a challenge in her tone that said Dylan hadn’t before.
He took off down the ice again, pissed and ready to get the puck into the net no matter what. That attempt came up the same as the others. So did the next six before he chucked his stick into the boards. The resounding clunk was far from satisfying.
What the fuck? He played better than this. Frustration burned the edges of his vision black. The urge to growl, curse and make up excuses clamored up his throat before he swallowed it down with another gulp of water from the bottle he’d left on the boards.
“Let’s try it again.” Samantha breezed past his back, the statement lofted out of panting breaths that gave him a bit of satisfaction. At least she was winded too. Shit. He checked the stands and surrounding area to ensure no one was watching, not even Coach. His latest performance wouldn’t help his contract.
Why had I thought this would be a good idea? Because coming off his entry-level contract meant he could finally get a really good deal, if his game warranted it. One that would determine the next three to six years of his life, career and future contracts.
As a restricted free agent, the Glaciers were required to extend him a qualifying offer or he became an unrestricted free agent, freeing him to negotiate with any team he wanted. That never happened with someone actively playing on the pro team. He didn’t even consider that the offer wouldn’t come. It was all about the terms.
He slammed the water bottle down, crammed his glove back on and picked up his stick from the ice. Anger brewed with determination in a heady mix that muddled his concentration when he needed to focus. This wasn’t a game, thankfully. But the adage you play how you practice held weight.
Deep breaths helped to calm the fire as he skated around the back of the net. He had no idea wh
at the point of this particular drill was outside of demonstrating exactly how piss-poor his offensive one-on-one skills were. Samantha had already succeeded at highlighting that particular weakness while also plucking at his temper, which never helped, not even in a fight.
He took point behind the net, eyeing the length of the ice, marking a mental path down the surface before he took off. He kept his head up, guiding the puck on instinct, and focused on Samantha, who moved backward, stick down, anticipating.
Dylan put on a burst of speed and sailed the puck ahead with a shot into the boards. He raced to get the rebound, hooked the puck and slid past her on his way to the goal. Victory screamed through his blood as he slapped the disk into the net. Finally.
He pumped his fist, his adrenaline running higher than justified given the play. Hell, what did it matter?
He swung around to grudgingly give Samantha the props she’d earned. “You made me work for that.” And regardless of how annoyed he might be, there were things he could learn from her. At least he’d been right about that.
Once again Samantha was at center ice, but her stick was held loose at her side, shoulders rising and falling with each deep breath, her fatigue finally showing.
He headed toward her. The cool air whisked over his damp skin and rushed into his lungs with each inhalation. “Nice playing,” he said after he skidded to a stop a few feet in front of her. “You ready to show me some of that fancy stick—and footwork now?”
“Are you really going to listen to me?” she challenged with a flick of her chin.
He caught the higher pitch in her voice. The faint softness that wasn’t weak but wasn’t masculine. Up close and still, he stared hard at the woman behind the face cage. Long lashes around pure blue eyes, a thin nose, pink lips and smooth cheeks flushed red. Even obscured by the helmet, that was one pretty face that stared back at him.
One he’d been unable to get out of his mind.