Coasting (Gold Hockey Book 8)

by Elise Faber

  And she let him.

  Because she was suddenly nose-close to the broad expanse of his gorgeous chest, the spicy tang of man assaulting her senses, becoming abruptly aware that aside from being the prettiest man she’d ever seen, he had extremely kissable lips.

  He spun, giving her his back, and she had a millisecond to appreciate the sight of his shirt stretched tightly over his muscles before she heard it.

  It being the click of the lock sliding home.

  Coop turned back.

  His mouth descended.

  Three

  Coop

  God, how could such a delicate face belong to such a fierce warrior on the ice?

  Calle appeared slender, too thin to possibly be a force in the game, but Coop knew that her looks were deceiving.

  Her face might be angelic, her body thin, but she packed a punch.

  He knew from personal experience.

  A few weeks ago, she had been demonstrating her technique for bodying someone off the puck to a few of the smaller players and had asked Coop to be her example of a big brute.

  Her words, said with a beatific smile.

  And fuck, he had just skated right over, all confident that she wouldn’t be able to get the puck away from him, and totally missing the edge of mischievousness in her expression.

  The technique was important.

  The game was changing, and while no one would say the guys were small, there was a growing force of smaller-in-stature players on the team and in the league in general.

  “I’ve never been the heftiest,” she’d said, lips quirking as she’d nudged Coop in the back of his legs with her stick. “Not like this guy here. But we can be smart about where and how we apply pressure and try to win more of these battles.” Her pretty brown eyes had lifted to his. “Ready?”

  He’d grabbed the puck, turned partway toward the boards as she’d indicated.

  Still over-confident.

  Still laughing to himself that this tiny little waif of a thing in no pads was going to try to get the puck away from him.

  “Rea—fuck!”

  One second the puck had been on his stick, the next he was teetering back on his heels, fighting for balance while the puck was cradled on the blade of Calle’s.

  “That’s physics,” she’d said, lips curving. “They’re a bitch.”

  Coop had snorted and regained his balance, ignoring his teammates, many of whom were laughing so hard they’d nearly fallen over, and thanking the hockey gods that the practice had been closed to the media. The hockey blogs would have eaten him up and spit him out because he’d been bested by a girl, no matter that Calle had proven herself to be a talented player time and again.

  There were plenty of assholes in this world, and some of the sports bloggers definitely fell into that category.

  Of course, many of his teammates also did.

  Stefan, their captain, had lived with the shit-eating grin on his face for the rest of the day.

  Brit had skated from the goal, dropped to her knees, and bowed down to Calle.

  Blue, one of their most talented forwards, had gone so far as to have a shirt made up that just said, “Physics,” and had left it in Coop’s locker.

  And Coop? He’d grumbled and glared, but he’d also . . . fallen in love.

  Okay, not precisely. He’d already fallen for beautiful, angelic Calle approximately two minutes after seeing her—that being after Bernard had given her the floor at a team meeting and she’d diagnosed a problem with their offense as casually as if someone were choosing between Ranch and Caesar dressings on their salads.

  Pretty, but smart as hell.

  Talented, a smooth, efficient skater, even with the slight hitch in her stride that was the result of her injury, and thoughtful.

  She was a cerebral coach but never seemed to get bogged down demonstrating or explaining those ideas, and she should have been a chess master for how many steps ahead she could think, how she seemed to be able to predict how the play was going to develop, even before the players themselves did.

  A huge asset to the team.

  And hands down, the most incredible woman he’d ever met.

  That was huge, as the Gold crew was filled with a plethora of smart and talented women—Brit as their goalie, Rebecca as their nutritionist, Mandy their trainer, Bex as their publicist, not to mention that his mom had always been extremely capable and take-charge.

  The difference between all of those women and Calle was . . . well, he didn’t want to fuck any of them.

  Calle, on the other hand—

  All. The. Fucking. Time.

  But they were both doing their jobs. The Gold might be ripe for inter-organization romances and their subsequent happily-ever-afters, but that same formula just didn’t add up when it came to a player and a coach.

  There was a power dynamic. A risk of being called out for favoritism.

  He wouldn’t do that to Calle.

  Not to mention, he wouldn’t ask a male coach out on a date, so he sure as fuck owed Calle the same courtesy. Yes, he’d fallen and fallen hard. Yes, he wanted her, but he also respected her and her job. So no, Coop wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that.

  He’d flipped the switch in his mind—mentally ignoring how fucking great it had been to have her pressed to his back, how sexy she looked in fucking track pants and a hoodie, not to mention those power suits she wore on game day—and put Calle firmly into the Not Female category.

  They worked together and nothing more.

  The technique had been successful for the last year and a half.

  Today?

  He’d seen her as a woman again.

  He’d seen those tears, had hated seeing her upset, and she’d been . . . vulnerable. So how in the fuck was he going to be able to go back and think of Calle as just his coach?

  Coop had been weighing that as he’d gone back inside the arena, as he’d headed toward the weight room to get his workout in.

  But he’d gotten as far as the door to the Training Suite.

  Mandy, their trainer, and Blane, a teammate, had been there, standing close together and loving on their daughter.

  And he’d thought of Calle.

  The way she’d sounded on the call, and her douche bag of an ex—and yes, Coop knew enough about Calle to know she’d dated Jason Marchand, an AHL player who was talented but would probably never make it in the NHL because he was a fucking pain in the ass. He also knew enough about Marchand after playing with him for a season to know he was a tiny-dicked fuckhead who didn’t have half the smarts of Calle.

  But that didn’t change the fact that she was pregnant with his baby.

  Coop had spun around in the hall, headed to her office, wondering all the while, if he should just leave well enough alone, if he should try to forget what he’d seen.

  Even while knowing he wouldn’t be able to.

  So he’d kept walking and shown up just as she’d come out.

  One glance at her face had told him all he needed to know.

  He’d nudged her back inside, shut the door behind them, bent close and had opened his mouth to reassure her that he wouldn’t say anything about the pregnancy, that he was here if she needed absolutely anything—

  And then her lips had parted.

  Lips that definitely didn’t fit into the Not Female category. Lips he wanted to feel against his. Lips—

  It took every ounce of strength he possessed to turn his head, but it was surprisingly easy to lift his arms, wrap them around her, and tug Calle against his chest. “I won’t tell anyone,” he murmured. “You don’t have to worry.”

  She didn’t say anything, and he might have dropped his arms and retreated, feeling like the biggest sort of asshole who’d overstepped, if she hadn’t shuddered out a breath and dropped her forehead to his shoulder. Her body relaxed against his, and yes, he was a perv for being all too aware of how good it felt to have her against him. But then she sniffed, and Coop forgot about all the urg
es he was stifling.

  Instead, he stayed in place and rubbed his hand up and down her back.

  It was the single most perfect experience of his life being able to be so close to Calle, smelling the slightly floral scent of her hair, feeling her lithe curves against his body, knowing that she was allowing him to hold her, to be this close.

  Eventually, though, she exhaled and lifted her head.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, pressing lightly against the circle of his arms.

  Coop dropped them. “Why are you apologizing?”

  Her eyes lifted to his then fell to her tablet. “Because it’s so incredibly unprofessional for me to have unloaded on you this morning and now”—she waved an arm between them—“I just had a meltdown in your arms.”

  The corner of his mouth tipped up. “That’s what you consider a meltdown?”

  Calle sighed and turned away, her long brown ponytail flying over one shoulder. “I’m . . . not on my game, Coop, and I need to get my head together. I appreciate you not telling anyone. But we’ve got a big matchup tonight. The team needs these two points to stay ahead of the Sharks and—”

  And back to Not Female.

  Back to strictly professional.

  He understood that was what both of them needed to do, so Coop did what he needed, what Calle needed him to do.

  Another step back, him reaching for the doorknob, tugging it open.

  “I think the line combinations from the last game will really work well against their defense,” he said, stepping into the hall.

  Her expression evened out, the worry leaving, relief softening the edges of her eyes. “I agree,” she said, tablet still in hand as she followed him into the brightly lit space, but when he thought she’d turn away, dismissing him completely, dropping them both back into that player-coach dynamic again, her voice dropped. “Thanks, Coop,” she murmured. “For everything.”

  His heart skipped a beat. “No problem,” he said, then added, “It’ll be okay.”

  Her shoulders straightened, her chin came up. “Yeah. It will be.” She lifted the tablet, started to turn away. “See you on the ice.”

  Coop watched her walk down the hall, trying to put her back into the Not Female category.

  But his palms itched, still able to feel her beneath them, his nose was still filled with the scent of her hair, his chest burned where her body had been pressed to his, and his heart . . . well, that organ ached.

  It didn’t want Calle walking away from him.

  And yet he had to watch her go anyway.

  Coop kept his head down over the next few days.

  He’d pushed how it felt to hold Calle in his arms to the back of his mind and had interacted with her exactly as he had before the revelation. So what if he was dreaming about her every night? That wasn’t such a huge deal.

  He occasionally dreamed about Bernard.

  Though those dreams didn’t usually include him in bed with the much older man.

  So . . . he was losing it.

  Good times.

  He tossed his messenger bag over his shoulder, waved to the guys, and headed out.

  “Coop, wait!” Brit rushed out into the hall, breathless, hair wet and hanging down her back.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “We’re getting burgers tonight. Want to come with?”

  He lifted a brow. “Rebecca know about this?”

  Brit smiled and nodded. “Cheat day.”

  “What time are you going? I’ve got a couple of errands to run, but if I finish on time, I’m game.”

  “I’ll text you.” She punched his shoulder lightly. “I know you like to do the lone wolf thing, but we do enjoy spending time with you off the ice.” She leaned in, dropped her voice like she was imparting state secrets. “I don’t know if you know this, but you’re kind of cool.”

  He stifled a laugh. “Well, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re kind of a dork.”

  A nod, lips quirking. “Not untrue.”

  He grinned. “Thanks for the invite.”

  She waved, damp hair swinging behind her as she spun and disappeared back into the locker room.

  This team was something else.

  He’d played in the NHL for six seasons now, having worked his way up the ranks, but his three years with the Gold were a whole new experience. This team was a business, of course, a group of people who did their jobs and did them well, but it was more than that. It was a family—an awesome, sometimes nosy, but fun, caring tapestry of people tied together with a common goal.

  Winning another Cup.

  They had the crew to do it, too.

  Solid roster, number one spot in the league, and a win only two seasons before. Coop had been picked up right at the trade deadline, had been able to hoist the Cup, but part of him had felt like he hadn’t completely earned it.

  Yes, he’d been there for the final stretch of the season and for the playoffs, but it wasn’t quite the same as being a part of the team for the entire process.

  He wanted that, to earn another Cup from start to finish, not just hop on the train halfway through.

  Ego?

  Yes.

  But he was a professional athlete, so wasn’t some ego to be expected?

  Rolling his eyes at himself, Coop turned the corner for the exit and pushed out into the late afternoon sunshine. They were at the practice facility today, the parking lot filled with the familiar mix of players’ cars and those belonging to the parents of the kids practicing in the facility’s other rinks, but there was one car that immediately caught his attention.

  Mainly because the small blue hybrid had its hood popped and Calle was standing in front of it, face grim, cell in her hand.

  Coop warred with himself for exactly two seconds before crossing over to her.

  “Hey,” he said when he was within a few feet.

  She startled, eyes jumping to his. “Coop.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yup!” she said brightly.

  He paused, glanced between the exposed engine and her face, which was adorned with an almost maniacal smile. “You sure?”

  “Yup!” Somehow an even more chipper response.

  “Well, is there a reason that your hood’s open and you’re staring down at the engine like it’s the key to solving the mystery of how our universe came to be?”

  “Nope.” Her smile grew.

  All right then. Clearly, she didn’t want him interfering. He started to turn away.

  “Just looking for the battery,” she said, voice edging toward desperate.

  “Okay.” A beat. “You need some help with that?”

  She rocked back on her heels. “It’s only, I need to get to . . . somewhere, and I can’t be late and—” Breaking off, she shook her head. “No, I don’t want to keep you. You’ve spent all morning on the ice and in the weight room, I’ll just call a Lyft now and come back later to call my roadside service company.”

  “The battery on hybrids is usually in the trunk.” He walked around the back of the car and popped the trunk. Ah. Yup, there it was, a panel that could be removed to access the battery.

  Calle came around to stand by his side.

  “It’s here,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “I’ll give you a ride—”

  Her hair flew around her face as she shook her head. “N-no, it’s okay. I’ll”—she held up her phone—“just call—”

  Coop weighed his options. He could either argue with Calle—not likely to be successful, since she was as stubborn as he was—or he could attempt to take the matter in hand—which might still be unsuccessful and backfire, because . . . circling back to how much stubbornness was currently in this three-foot radius.

  Still, he chose option two.

  He snagged her cell from her hand, and while she was gaping at him in surprise, he grabbed her backpack from the open trunk.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “What?” Her eyes d
arted between the phone he’d shoved into his pocket and the backpack in his hand.

  “Anything else you need at the moment?”

  “Um . . .” Her mouth opened and closed a few times, brows drawn down into a cute little furrow. “No?”

  “Cool.” He shut the trunk, moved around to the hood and secured that, too, after which he retrieved the keys he’d spied sitting in the driver’s seat. A glance over his shoulder told him that Calle was still standing by the now-closed trunk, her mouth slightly agape.

  When she saw him glancing back at her, she visibly shook herself. “What are you doing?”

  “Come on,” he said, pocketing the keys and heading for his car.

  “What?”

  He stopped, turned back. “I’ll drive you where you need to go. Later, I’ll drive you back and you can call for a tow truck.”

  “No, that’s—”

  Another rotation. This time taking him back in the direction of his car.

  “Coop.”

  He bleeped the locks on his car. “Didn’t you say you were running late?”

  Silence.

  He climbed in, tossed the backpack behind his seat, and waited.

  The passenger’s side door opened, and Calle leaned in to glare at him. “This is beyond presumptive and bossy.”

  “And you’re late.”

  More narrowed eyes in his direction. A long-suffering sigh.

  Then she maneuvered herself into the seat and closed the door. He waited until she’d buckled in to ask, “Where to?”

  And was glad that he had because it gave him a couple of seconds to lock the doors and start pulling out of the spot when she stiffened, reached for the handle, and said, “You know what? I’ll—”

  Then it was too late, unless she wanted to try her hand at tucking and rolling, because he was turning out onto the street.

  “Hope I’m going the right direction,” he said, cheerfully, choosing to go right.

  She crossed her arms, sighed. “You are. I’m going to the doctor.” She told him which hospital and clinic, and he nodded. It wasn’t far off.

  “Oh.” He hesitated, wondering if he’d be a nosey asshole to press for details at this point. But then figured he’d already gone this far, so he might as well embrace his front row seat on the gossip train. “Everything okay?”