Page 1 of Hooked On Them

Chapter1

Battery Acid Filtered Through a Jockstrap

Nora

I’d never wished for a Zamboni to run me over more than I did right now. Actually, scratch that. Make it two Zambonis, just to be thorough.

Not only had my coffee maker crapped out this morning, but I’d been running late and was left with no other choice but to chug a disgusting gas station brew that tasted like battery acid filtered through a jockstrap. And now, to top off this already stellar morning, I had to deal with this colossal man-child gliding around my ice like he owned the place.

Dominic Wilson. Hockey’s golden boy. One of the Tri-State Titans’ best players. And the current bane of my existence. I’d rather teach basic skating to a herd of drunk elephants than deal with his ego for one more minute.

He was doing everything in his power to avoid the edge work I’d specifically assigned for the morning’s skating skills session. Instead, he was showing off, launching himself into unnecessary jumps and sprints, completely ignoring the fundamentals that might prevent him from getting his ass handed to him this season. The way he moved reminded me of a peacock who’d had too many energy drinks.

I blew my whistle so hard I nearly passed out from oxygen deprivation, and my ears rang from the sound. “Wilson! What part of crossover progression drills translates to doing whatever the hell you want?”

His six-foot-four frame came to a dramatic stop inches from where I stood at the boards, sending a spray of ice shavings that miraculously avoided hitting me. I knew that move was deliberate, and he had the precision to threaten without following through.

“Coach Hastings, what seems to be the problem?” He flashed me a million-dollar smile that had probably gotten him out of trouble his entire life. The kind of smile that made me want to assign extra drills out of spite. “I was just warming up.”

“For what? The circus?” I folded my arms across my chest and straightened my spine. He had seven inches on me physically, but mentally, I was taller. At least, that’s what I continuously told myself when dealing with grown men who acted like toddlers. “Your crossovers are a mess, your transitions are sluggish, and you’re coasting when you should be working.”

His smile faltered for a microsecond before returning with renewed arrogance. “My dad says my crossovers are textbook.”

Oh, here we go. The Dad Card. Garrett Wilson, Sr., grade-A asshole, former NHL star, and now, apparently, a coach. There wasn’t a team in the league that would ever consider letting him touch their team.

“Well, unless your dad is suddenly signing your paychecks or the one blowing this whistle, his opinion matters about as much to me as a broken stick.”

This wasn’t my first rodeo with players testing the waters with me as a coach. All new coaches were tested, but being a female and having a dad who was a very successful head coach of an opposing team added to the fun. What also added to the fun? My dad and Dominic’s dad were mortal enemies both on and off the ice.

Dominic leaned on his stick, casual arrogance personified. “I scored eighty-two points last season. I think my skating is just fine.”

“And you could have scored a hundred if you weren’t compensating for your edges.” I planted my hands on my hips, fixing him with a stare that had made grown men cry. Okay, not really, but I’d come close a time or two. “The choice between average and great is yours. But hey, if mediocrity is your comfort zone, who am I to push you out of it?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched beneath the stubble. I could practically hear the gears grinding in his head, calculating whether to double down on the attitude or concede. “My technique got me this far.”

“And it’s precisely what will keep you from going further.” I gestured to the ice where a group of players was practicing exactly what I’d asked, like the functional adults they were. “Nothing has changed since last season. You’re leaking speed on your inside edge recoveries. And your outside edge grip? Barely there. Your transitions waste motion. And your power generation is all upper body with no drive from your lower body or core. I need you skating more like Collins.”

“You figure skaters and your thing with perfect edges. Some of us play a contact sport.” He rolled his eyes, but I caught the way his gaze flickered to Miles Collins, who was executing perfect edge control.

I smiled sweetly. “Let me know how that philosophy works when you’re getting skated around by rookies half your size. I’m sure that’ll make a great highlight reel.”

Dominic narrowed his eyes at me before turning and yelling across the rink, “Collins! Come here!” His voice echoed off the rafters like a petulant child calling for backup.

Miles skated over, stopping without sending ice flying. How these two men were best friends was beyond my comprehension. On the ice, they were an unstoppable duo, and as far as I could tell, it was the same off the ice too. They were like a buddy cop movie come to life. One by-the-book professional, one loose cannon with authority issues.

“You rang?” Miles’s expression suggested he knew exactly what kind of drama he was being dragged into.

“Back me up here. Hasn’t my skating gotten us through plenty of tight spots?” Dominic already looked like he’d won the battle, wearing the smug expression of someone who’d never heard the word ‘no’ in his life.

Miles glanced between us with the diplomatic expression of someone who’d played peacemaker between Dominic and authority figures a thousand times before. “Your skating’s solid, but Coach Hastings knows her stuff. I’ve added two miles per hour to my top speed, and it’s only been a week.”

I bit back a satisfied smile, forcing my expression to stay neutral even as warmth bloomed in my chest at the genuine respect in Miles’s eyes. Getting validation when I’d just started working with the team a week ago meant more than I cared to admit. But this wasn’t about collecting gold stars. It was about breaking through Dominic’s titanium-grade stubbornness.

“Traitor,” Dominic muttered, shooting his friend a betrayed look that belonged more on a sulking teenager than on a grown man.

“It’s not betrayal if it’s for your own good.” Miles clapped him on the shoulder. “Just try the drills. Worst-case scenario, you waste an hour proving her wrong.”

Wilson exhaled with enough drama to fuel a daytime soap opera, like I was demanding he give up his firstborn child instead of fixing his sloppy technique. “Fine.”

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