Page 19 of Wrong Score

Her eyes narrow slightly. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

The elevator dings as we get to her level.

"Look at that, fresh out of time. Just as well. You and I don't fight well in closed spaces. Best we don't tempt fate again," I say, reaching out a hand to keep the door open as she exits. The last thing either of us needs is to be stuck in this lift together any longer than necessary.

She stomps out of the elevator with that air of confidence that amplifies all the ways that I'm attracted to her.

I pull my hand away to let the lift door close, but just before the doors begin to move, Rowan glances over her shoulder at me. "Don't forget Bexley, you kissed me."

The use of my first name catches me off guard; it's the second time she's used it—both today, and the sound of my name off her pink glossy lips sending an unexpected thrill through me, just like it did on that aircraft.

"Goodnight, Coach," she calls over her shoulder, not glancing back.

She starts walking down the hall and I can't stop from watching her hips and ass sway right before the doors close completely.

For a moment, I'm tempted to hit the 'open' button on the elevator doors to stop them from closing. The need to close the distance between us and feel her sweet lips on mine and her soft body pressed against me has me tightening my fist, bending my room key almost in half.

"Fuck," I curse out loud.

I'll have to go back downstairs and get a new one.

I hit the button to send me back down to the lobby to get a new key, giving me time to consider one undeniable truth:

I can't stop thinking about Rowan Summers.

And that, more than anything, scares the hell out of me.

It's the next day at the game when I realize that we've just ended our second period and I haven't seen Rowan in the crowd around us.

She'd been on the bus with us, chatting with some of the players at the back of the bus. I'd caught snippets of her conversation with Briggs, something about his pre-game rituals. She seemed so at ease, laughing and joking, while I'd sat at the front, pretending to be engrossed in last-minute strategy notes.

But now, as the team files out of the locker room and back onto the ice for our last period, there's no sign of her. It's not like she needs my permission to go anywhere, but a nagging worry tugs at the back of my mind. This isn't our home turf. The away crowd can get rowdy, especially when there's alcohol involved. And Rowan, with her golden hair and quick wit, stands out in a crowd.

I scan the seats again, my eyes drawn to the seat five rows back where she usually sits during home games. It's strange how accustomed I've grown to her presence there, like a persistent shadow always in my peripheral vision. Now, the seat is occupied by a man twice Rowan's size wearing the opposing side's jersey and giving me the stink eye.

"Coach!" Ezra's voice cuts through my thoughts. "We're ready to get back on the ice."

I turn to my assistant coach, forcing myself to focus. "Right then. Let's go, shall we?"

As my team heads down the players tunnel and out onto the ice for our final period, I push all thoughts of Rowan to the back of my mind. We only have a one-point lead and the third period is turning into a nail-biter. I can't afford any distractions, not with so much on the line. We're in a crucial part of the season, each game a steppingstone towards the playoffs. My team needs me at my best.

The referee's whistle blows, and the game begins. Almost immediately, I'm swept up in the familiar rhythm of play. My eyes track the puck as it zips across the ice, my mind already three moves ahead, analyzing patterns and planning strategies.

"Briggs, watch your left!" I shout as our center narrowly avoids a brutal check. He recovers quickly, snagging the puck and racing towards the opposite goal.

The thought of whether that kiss on the plane is why I'm concerned about her well-being catches me off guard, and I nearly miss a dirty play by the opposition. I bark out a protest to the referee, who waves me off. Frustration bubbles up inside me, but I take a deep breath, regaining my composure. Losing my cool won't help the team and the last thing I need is Rowan writing something about me flying off the handle at a ref.

Before I know it, the buzzer signals the end of the game and we win 3-1, making another goal in the final seconds of the period.

In the locker room, the team all clammers with excitement, their energy high after another win. This is why I love hockey – the thrill of the game, the camaraderie of the team. This is the world I understand, not the art magazine that my dad built from the ground up before me or my brothers were born.

My mind drifts back to Rowan as Ezra takes the lead on congratulating the team and giving kudos to a few impressive plays that he and the rest of the coaching staff saw out there tonight.

Rowan's probably in the press box, furiously scribbling notes or chatting up other journalists. She's more than capable of taking care of herself, so why can't I shake this nagging feeling of concern?

I pull out my phone and look through the text messages that Cammy sent me about hotel and travel information, as well as Rowan's number.

I type in Rowan's number and send off a text.

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