Page 16 of Wrong Score

Reeve's shoulders relax a bit, but I can still see a hint of tension around his eyes. I hesitate for a moment before asking, "Have you talked to Keely recently? Did she ever respond to her dad, or has he texted anything else?"

Reeve's brow furrows and he opens his mouth to respond, but before he can get a word out, a deep, familiar voice cuts through our conversation.

"Ahem."

I look up to find Coach Bex looming over us, his imposing figure blocking out the overhead light. His face is set in its usual stern expression.

"Summers," he says, his voice low and controlled. "A word. In the back by the stewardess cart."

It's not a request; it's a command. I feel a flash of annoyance that he thinks he can order me around like one of his players. He doesn't wait to hear my reaction or my agreement to meet him. Instead, he continues to the back of the plane, confident that I'll follow.

"We'll catch up later, okay?"

Reeve nods, and within seconds, he's already up and heading back to his seat a few aisles ahead of me. I slide out of my own seat and into the aisle with irritated heat biting at my cheeks but I try to remain cool and calm. The last thing I want to do is lose my cool at thirty-five thousand feet above ground with nowhere to stomp off to when Coach undoubtedly says something rude during this conversation.

When I reach the small area in the back of the aircraft near the stewardess cart, Bex is standing there waiting.

"After you," he says, and I hate the way his British accent makes the command sound so prim, proper and genteel when it's anything but.

Two curtains separate the little kitchen space back here with snacks and refreshments from the main cabin.

I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed when I realize that there is no stewardess to be found who will witness whatever argument is about to be had between me and the tower of a man taking steps behind me. She must be in the cockpit taking the pilot and co-pilot a cup of coffee.

As soon as I get deep into the small space, trying to keep as much distance between us, I turn around, the airplane's side wall at my back. Bex is right there in front of me, his broad shoulders nearly filling the narrow space.

Up close, I catch a whiff of his cologne—something woodsy and masculine that makes my head spin for a moment before I regain my composure.

"You don't have the right to order me around you know? I'm not a player on your team," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "If you're worried about me corrupting your players with my journalistic wiles, I can assure you—"

His eyebrows knit together, his eyes focusing directly on me, cutting me off. "You can assure me of what Summers? That whatever dirt you have on Reeve isn't screwing up his game? Go on then… lie to me some more."

I want to tell him to jump out of this aircraft without a parachute but I bite my tongue.

I know that Keely isn't ready to tell Coach Bex and Sam about her father and her fears that if the information came out that it might cause issues with sponsors, so even though I'd like to not be the punching bag for Bex's anger right now, I'll protect Keely for as long as she needs. This isn't my story to tell.

As Bex looms over me, his imposing figure virtually caging me against the wall of the airplane, I can feel the heat radiating off his body. His eyes, usually cold and distant, now burn with an intensity that makes my breath catch in my throat.

"I don't have any dirt on Reeve," I insist, trying to keep my voice steady. "And I resent the implication that I would use anything against him or the team."

Bex leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Then why the hushed conversations? The secretive glances? Don't think I haven't noticed, Summers. You're holding something against him aren't you? Something that has him distracted."

I can feel my heart racing, a mix of anger and something else I don't want to name. "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, people might confide in me because I actually listen? Unlike some people I could mention."

His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "Are you suggesting I don't listen to my players?"

"I'm suggesting that maybe if you weren't so hell-bent on making everyone think that you only care about hockey and winning a championship, you might actually learn something about your players besides their stats," I snap back.

"You're right, I don't care about anything besides hockey," he says, his eyes searching mine, curious if I believe him.

I don't.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that,” I say.

Autumn, Keely, and most everyone in the Hawkeyes franchise seem to see something that I don't, but I'm not planning on digging under Bex’s gruff exterior to find the supposed heart of gold underneath. Without the option of building a family someday, this career is all I have and getting too close to the source could jeopardize it all.

"What's it going to take for you to believe me?" he asks, his voice low and steady.

We’re so close now I can see the flecks of gold in his darkening hazel eyes, the slight stubble on his jaw as if he forgot to shave this morning. His full lips are dangerously close—too close.

---