Coasting (Gold Hockey Book 8)

by Elise Faber

  He wrinkled his nose. “Sometimes it’s not fair that you’ve known me for almost a decade.”

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “I get to have all the dirt.” A beat. “Like why you never drink iced coffee anymore.

  He snorted, shook his head. “You’ve always been relentless.”

  “I seem to remember a certain Scott showing me the definition of relentless.”

  “That was on the ice,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “Now that I’m retired to the boring world of contracts and negotiating deals, I’m much more relaxed.”

  “Oh sure,” she said, mirroring him and leaning back in her own seat, while waving a hand lazily up and down his muscled frame. “You’ve clearly relaxed in the gym”—he was more built than she’d ever seen him—“and in your professional life”—nothing like building up PMG to be the top name in the industry.

  “First,” he said. “Jasper”—his infant son—“is a night owl, like his dad, and he’ll only sleep if I keep him next to me while I’m on the bike—”

  “And while you’re lifting weights?” she interjected because no one got a body like Devon’s by solely riding a stationary bike.

  He ignored her.

  “—and PMG is only the top agency in the country because I have the best people working for me.”

  That right there.

  That was why a small part of her wished that she and Dev had worked out. He was the kind of man she’d want in her baby’s life.

  She glanced down at her lap, knowing she was being ridiculous.

  They never would have worked, and she wasn’t just going to jump into a relationship with someone solely so her baby could have a good dad. That had disaster written all over it.

  Plus, she had this.

  She didn’t need anyone. She’d figure it out and—

  Fuck. Okay, she didn’t have this.

  Calle knew absolutely nothing about babies. She’d held Jasper all of one time, and the kid had cried for five straight minutes until Becca had taken pity on her and swooped in.

  Could the baby just stay at the hospital until he or she was say . . . five?

  She knew how to deal with five-year-olds.

  And yes, she was well-aware of how absolutely insane she sounded. But she was going insane. She and Jason and the one-night stand. Her and Coop and what had happened in her office. Work and a contract that made Dev want to kill something.

  It felt like someone had taken all the individual pieces of her life, shoved them into a snow globe, and then had shaken the lot of them into a jumbled mess. Sighing, she rubbed her forehead, knowing that the stinging in her eyes was more because she was hormonal than from actual tears.

  She didn’t cry . . . except at SPCA commercials. That music—

  A hand on her shoulder.

  “Hey,” Dev said, shaking her lightly, waiting to speak again until her eyes met his. “It’ll be okay.”

  “I’m not so sure of that,” she admitted. “I’m a mess and . . . I don’t even know where to start or how to navigate this.”

  His fingers squeezed lightly. “Welcome to your first lesson in parenthood,” he said, lightly. “None of us know what the fuck we’re doing.”

  “You and Jas—”

  “I was afraid I was going to break him the first time I held him.” His lips curved at what was no doubt an incredulous expression on her face. “It’s true,” he said, holding up his battle-worn hands. They were calloused and scarred and very similar to her own. “You know it took Becca a long time to get pregnant and when she was, I worried something would go wrong or that she would lose it again. Then when he was safely here, I was worried these mitts would do something wrong, but it’s more than that. I spent so much time worrying about every decision, about everything I did, that I almost forgot to enjoy each step of the journey.”

  “What changed?” she asked.

  “Becca.” His expression warmed, all of the stormy emotions gone at the mention of his wife. “She set me straight. She’s never had a problem with knocking me around”—Calle’s lips twitched, knowing the sweet and gentle Becca would never do such a thing—“but what really got my head out of my ass was when she said, ‘We have plenty of money to pay for Jas’s therapy, so stop worrying about everything.’”

  Calle’s brows rose, unsure if he was serious. “Um . . . that’s a good thing?”

  “Well, technically, she yelled it,” Dev said.

  Calle’s brows dropped back down. “She yelled it?” Becca was on the quiet side, and it was hard to picture her yelling at all, especially at her husband, who worshipped the ground she walked on.

  Dev nodded. “Yup.”

  “Damn. Go, Becca.”

  He snorted. “That’s what Kels said.” A roll of his eyes. “But the point stands, I was stressed and worried for nothing—and I’m not saying don’t prepare or read or take the classes—but just know that you’ll find your way, the one that works for you and your baby. And further that, Calle, you’re not alone. You have people who love you. Not just the team but also the team of Scotts. You know that my mom will be all over babysitting.”

  Her throat was tight. “That was what Bernard said about his wife.”

  “I’m happy to referee as they battle it out.” Dev released her arm, tugged the end of her ponytail. “Plus, we’ve got a house full of way too much baby shit, and by the time your little one comes, we’ll get you stocked up on the big things. You’ll hire a nanny for when you’re with the team—”

  “They’re starting a day care at the practice facility and the arena.”

  “Good.” Dev stood. “When’s the baby due?”

  “End of August,” she said.

  “Perfect timing,” he said, eyes calculating. “You can coach through the season, have the baby over the summer and come back before the season starts in October.”

  “But training camp and preseason—”

  “The schedule is lighter then, and there are ways to see both. Maybe something virtual. You can watch a feed from home. Or attend as much as you’re comfortable with. I’m sure we can negotiate some terms.”

  She sucked in a breath and nodded.

  “You’ll get stuff done step by step. Dealing with what needs to be sorted now and leaving the later stuff until later.”

  “O-okay.” She was trying to look business-like and put together, but all of those pesky hormones were rearing their heads, and she was feeling very emotional.

  Luckily, Dev seemed to realize that because he rounded his desk, sat back into the plush leather chair, and then picked up the contract. “This contract offer is for five years, Calle. That’s huge.”

  “What?”

  “Five years and—” He named a figure that she hadn’t looked at because she’d been too focused on page eighteen. “Along with bonuses for making the playoffs and how far the team goes. More if the team wins the Cup again.”

  She blinked, trying to process what he’d just laid out.

  “So, first steps, Bernard knows, but not the board?”

  A nod.

  “Okay,” he said, “so the offer is more than generous and will give you the stability to plan ahead. My advice is you should sign.”

  “Shouldn’t they know about the pregnancy first?”

  “No,” he said. “You’re not required to tell them, and you’re technically a protected class. You intend to fulfill your end of the contract, so we should get the big details locked in, then you and the doctor need to figure out what you’ll do on the ice and for how long—”

  “The doctor says I can stay on ice for another month to start, and then we’ll talk.”

  “That makes sense, though the insurance company will probably make the final call on that when you tell the organization.” He tapped a finger to his lips. “That’s fine, we’ll deal with it. Plenty of coaches don’t spend a lot of time on the actual ice. We can get you a prime seat on the bench.”

  “Neither of us have ever liked warming the be
nch,” she grumbled, even knowing he was right.

  “But we paid our dues when we had to.”

  She smiled. “True.” A beat. “Do you think Bernard will object to me rolling out a recliner to the ice?”

  He grinned. “I think you keep making the offense play like they’ve been doing, and they’ll bring you a throw blanket to keep your tootsies warm.”

  Calle burst out laughing then sighed. “I need to tell the board.”

  “You will. Sign everything tonight, protect yourself and your baby. Then tell them.”

  “It feels a little shady to spring it on them like that.”

  “You said you told Bernard. Did he care?”

  “No,” she admitted. “I told him, he reassured me, and then gave me the contract.”

  “I’m guessing if he had concerns, we would have heard from the board already.”

  True.

  They had been here for—she glanced at the clock—nearly five hours. Ample time to inform the board and rescind the offer.

  Also, shit. They’d been here for five hours. It was nearly ten.

  She needed to let him get home, back to Becca and Jasper. That, along with the rest of it, propelled her past the rest of the reservations, and she gave her assent. They spent the next little while, going over the pages, Dev explaining everything, before she digitally signed the offer and was under contract for the next five years.

  He hugged her as she stood and gathered her things. “You got this.”

  “I have this,” she agreed, feeling slightly more confident because Dev believed in her.

  He walked her to the door.

  “Good thing you got that two-bedroom, huh?”

  “That is true,” she murmured. “Almost like I planned it.”

  A tug to her ponytail. “Don’t be a stranger,” he said softly. “And call Becca, she’d love to talk pregnancy with someone. You should probably start looking for a nanny. Full-time ones can be hard to find.”

  Ice-time plan. Call Becca for pregnancy details. Nanny.

  She straightened her shoulders, feeling better to have some sort of plan.

  “Take it one step at a time, and you can do this, honey.”

  For the first time, she thought she could.

  Calle walked out the door, remembered what she’d forgotten, and turned back, asking, “Oh, by the way, I still don’t get what’s so important about page eighteen.”

  A ghost of a smile crossed Dev’s face.

  “Page eighteen gives you the freedom to date one of the Gold players if you both consent and let HR know.”

  Her jaw dropped open. “What?”

  Dev nodded. “Anyone come to mind?”

  Someone did come to mind. Someone who was definitely not involved in any of those plans she and Devon had just come up with. Devon . . . who was now staring at her with a considering expression and one brow raised.

  Fucking people and the one-brow-raises.

  That someone was Coop.

  H. E. Double hockey sticks.

  Eleven

  Coop

  He might have made some big decisions on the plane ride home, but that didn’t mean Calle was receptive to them.

  In fact, she hardly seemed to see him at all over the next couple of weeks.

  She was never alone at the rink, or the practice facility, or anywhere where he might have a minute to talk to her by herself. There always seemed to be an important conversation taking place with either Bernard or Mandy or one of the other players.

  But not with him. Never with him.

  She spoke with Blue. With Brit. With Stefan. With Max. With every other fucking player.

  But not him.

  Two weeks and the only time she’d been forced to communicate with him at all was during the games . . . and she made sure to do that alongside another player.

  It was deftly done, so easily excising him from her life.

  The move still pissed Coop off.

  She’d let him in, just slightly, given him a glimpse of what the possibility of them might look like, and then, in one instant, she’d taken it away.

  He felt like stomping his foot, demanding It isn’t fair!

  Then he pulled his head out of his ass.

  Because seriously, his mom would kill him if she caught one whiff of what was going through his head. As though he had any bearing on what Calle chose to do with her life, or whether she decided to let him into it. It was arrogant. Pushy—

  His dad would probably approve.

  Coop snorted and bent to tie his skates.

  Lots of people he knew came from divorced parents or broken families. Which wasn’t a surprise, he supposed, since half of marriages ended in divorce. But he’d grown up with happily married parents in a middle-class household. His mom was a teacher, his dad, a manager at a car dealership. There had been plenty of love and support and while they hadn’t had an extra two hundred dollars to spend on the newest pair of Jordan’s, Coop had always known he was safe with his family, that would be food in the fridge, and his parents would always be there for him.

  That had changed somewhat as he’d gotten older—when he’d been followed around a store by a clerk certain he was going to steal something, just because his skin was darker than theirs, or pulled over and stopped for no reason when driving to a friend’s house that happened to be white.

  It was a strange and infuriating dichotomy at times, knowing that he could be as successful as he was and still be reduced to a color.

  But his parents had always been frank with him, laying out reality in a way that had scared him shitless as a teenager moving to another state to live with another family—who happened to be white—and that frankness had given him the tools to navigate a world where he was often judged because of his skin.

  Coop was well-aware it shouldn’t have to be that way, but he also wasn’t delusional. Changes might be coming to the world they all lived in, albeit far too slowly, but that judgment didn’t just disappear on a whim.

  Sighing, he switched to the other skate, thinking about all the times he’d been discriminated against, knowing that he was luckier than many of the kids he’d grown up with. But that didn’t change reality, and the problems in society didn’t go away, no matter how much money he made.

  But he also didn’t think that this situation with Calle was about his race. They’d been together two seasons, and he would have seen something before if it was.

  Instead, he thought she was running scared.

  Case in point, she’d just walked into the locker room, taken one look at him then dropped her eyes to her feet and hurried across the space to Blue.

  Yup. This distance was because he’d gotten too close.

  And she was going to do what she had to do to keep that barrier in place.

  Like his mom had with his dad.

  Family history told a winding tale of his dad’s attempted courtship with his mom throwing up roadblocks every step of the way. She’d had a bad childhood, had come from a broken home and it had left deep, heavy scars. But his dad had seen what was beneath and he’d pushed, shoved, cajoled and romanced, and then pushed and shoved some more to weave his way into his mom’s heart.

  “It was all worth it,” his dad had told Coop on numerous occasions. “Nothing truly worthwhile is easy. Whether it’s hockey or a good woman.” This was often accompanied by a firm clap on the shoulder and, “Learn to tell the difference between cotton candy and a Snicker’s bar. Both taste good, but only one has substance.”

  Well, he’d seen Calle. He’d tasted Calle.

  He knew she wasn’t cotton candy.

  She was a fucking Snicker’s bar, and he wanted to devour every last bite.

  He just needed to figure out how to undo the wrapper.

  Operation opening the wrapper commenced during practice by taking a page out of his dad’s book at practice a few days later. The team had been off for the weekend and now were back at the rink, prepping for an extended road trip with a c
ouple of practices and then flying out in two days.

  And by taking a page out of his dad’s book, Coop basically meant being a pushy, pain in the ass until he managed to get through that outer wrapping of Calle’s.

  As with most of the other teams Coop had played for, the Gold were given the drills beforehand, and they were expected to come to practice prepared to roll so the coaches could focus on solving big team issues rather than chalk-talking skating and passing drills. If a player had a specific skill or issue to resolve, that was generally done before or after practice when all the guys had free access to the ice. Or, if it was a larger problem, then players took it upon themselves to secure additional time separate of the team’s slots

  Coop had done this a few times over the years, once after a groin pull had wreaked havoc on his skating stride and he’d needed the help of a skating guru—a former professional figure skater who was well-known for being able to break down the minutia that went into a player’s stride. She’d been tough as hell, but part of the reason his skating was better now than it had ever been. Another time, he’d arranged extra practice when he was really struggling to pick up a new system and knew he needed to get his shit together or he might end up not playing.

  But he hadn’t needed to do that with the Gold.

  Until now.

  He found that he was suddenly very confused by Calle’s new offensive play and needed some extra help . . . in the form of a private lesson.

  Or maybe private lessons.

  Of course, said private lesson would be a whole lot better if he could swing it off the ice, but for now, he’d settle for her just looking at him, for just a few moments of that pretty gaze where he tried to communicate to her that if she shed that outer protective layer around herself, she would still be safe.

  The question was, how to do that?

  She was worried about her job.

  He was, too, for that matter—though it was probably horribly irresponsible that it wasn’t the thing he was most worried about. In fact, Calle topped his list of concerns. He stewed over how she was feeling, wondered if he could finagle a way to go to her next appointment or how pissed she would be if he just showed up. He wanted to find out if Jason had really relinquished his rights and then track down the other man and tear him to pieces no matter what he’d ultimately decided.