Page 39 of Not My Coach

“Not a problem,” he responds and holds the door open for me.

We walk to the locker room in silence as I try to get my head in the game. We are going up against the Buffalo Norsemen. They are the lowest-ranked team in our division. They haven’t won a game in the last twelve that they’ve played. Tonight should be an easy sweep.

Our boys are ready. They’re hungry for another win, and they are going to go out there and play our game, not play down to theirs. We’ve got this.

It’s two minutes to puck drop, and Evie still isn’t in her seat. Her parents are there, but not her. I’m dying to see my sweetheart again.

We get through the anthem, and I peek back at her seat, which is still empty. Luscious brown hair on the stairs catches my eye, and I immediately know it’s Evie.

My eyes consume every inch of her, my heart flutters, and my dick pulses—a dangerous combination.

She is wearing an oversize Nighthawks jersey that reaches the tops of her thighs, which are covered by sheer black tights that have tiny diamonds arranged every few inches. I can’t tell if she’s wearing shorts or not, and it drives me fucking insane—and she knows it.

She descends the stairs, wearing a smirk that’s made just for me. A jacket covers the sleeves and back of the jersey, and I can’t see whose it is. I would guess Brett’s. But then she drops the shoulder of the jacket and shows me number 81.

That was my NHL number, and she knows it. She made a jersey just for me? My girl is wearing my fucking old number, and I can’t scream it in everyone’s face?!

My emotion is showing too much on my face. I know people will notice the way I am eating her alive with my stare. Neutralizing my body and face, I turn back to the game and do my best not to turn around.

I’m mildly successful—for about five minutes. But once the game picks up and my job requires my attention, I get lost in the game and intensity.

The first and second period are a complete blowout. The score is six to zero as we head onto the ice for the third and final period.

I fight to glance at her until there’s only two minutes left on the clock, and everyone else is watching the players, so I can watch her.

Who the fuck is that?

My heart races, and my jaw clenches as I see a guy, drunk out of his mind, in Evie’s face, talking to her. She brushes him off and looks down at me, shrugging lightly. Like she’s telling me it’s no big deal. But it doesn’t feel that way to me.

It feels like that guy is five seconds away from getting his teeth knocked into his throat.

In her lap, she swivels her fingers, telling me to look away.

I don’t.

The building is electric, fans cheering and going crazy as we move into the final minute of play.

My blood is boiling as he leans against her shoulder, bumping it with his.

She is pushing into her mom, trying to put some space between him and her. But he’s not getting the hint.

How much do I really care about this job right now? I can always coach somewhere else. As much as I love this team and the Nighthawks club, I will leave it for her. I can deal with that.

I can’t tolerate that guy touching my girl.

My lip curls, and my nostrils flare as he turns toward her, his right hand landing on her thigh and his left arm falling over her shoulders. She winces.

Red isn’t a dark enough color to describe what I see, and I become unglued.

“Fuck it,” I growl and throw my clipboard onto the ground.

The noise around me falls silent as I clench my fists, turn around, and smack the glass between Evie and me as hard as I can.

There’s no going back from this.

Everyone in the section looks at me, but I don’t give a single fuck. Take photos, videos, anything. I don’t care anymore.

“HEY!” I yell at the guy, wishing my stare were hot enough to melt the glass between us. The crowd goes completely quiet. “Get your fucking hands off of her!”

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