Page 10 of Coach's Temptation

I stayed in my office for hours, staring at that damn photo my mother gave me on my desk. Me, twenty-two years old, riding the high of an NCAA championship win. Before my knee blew out. Before everything changed.

This morning before practice, I noticed a thin fracture running through the glass on the frame. Guess I slammed it down harder than I thought.

Vancouver.

Of course, it’s fucking Vancouver.

The team finishes the drill and gathers at center, sweat beading along their brows, waiting for the next task.

The boys' practice jerseys are soaked through, dark patches spreading across their backs. Even Blake's captain's 'C' is barely visible through the sweat-dampened fabric.

But it's playoffs. I'm going to push them harder than ever.

Logan hunches over, hands on his knees, sucking in air like it's going out of style. Ryder's practically wheezing next to him, and Connor's sprawled on the ice, mask pushed up to reveal his flushed face and that ridiculous growth on his face.

"Alright, next drill—"

The words die in my throat as the arena doors slam open.

A deep, familiar voice shouts across the ice behind me and I spin to find the source of the interruption.

“Well, I’ll be damned. The great Hunter Brody, running a playoff practice.”

I turn, already knowing who it is before I see the cocky grin.

Wes Callahan.

Vegas Knights head coach. Former Vancouver assistant coach. And the guy who once thought I had a shot at making it big.

I smirk, shaking my head. "Fuck me. Why the hell are my reception girls letting the enemy in to spy on my boys?"

Wes shrugs, hands stuffed into the pockets of his Vegas team jacket. "What can I say? I hear Iron Ridge has a five-star rink and a coaching staff line-up worth stealing secrets from."

"Been a long time, man. Good to see you." I shake his hand, his grip just as solid as I remember. I spot Jordan, my assistant coach, at the boards and give him a wave. "Run the next drill for me, would you? Two-on-one rushes, focus on keeping defensive gaps tight."

"Got it, Coach," Jordan answers, already blowing his whistle to organize the team.

Wes watches on with a smile. I'm not sure how I feel about another NHL coach watching over my practice, but damn, it's good to see an old face.

"Wes, you’re a long way from the Strip," I mutter, watching carefully as he takes in my players shuffling back into position. "What can I help you with?"

"Can't an old friend stop by to check out his finest prodigy?" Wes nods toward the action, that same smile that he used to give when he watched me on the ice all those years ago appearing. “So… Vancouver, huh? How you feeling about that?”

My grip tightens on the clipboard.

All damn morning I've been trying to focus onmyteam, and not the one we'll face in a weeks time.

I watch Connor make another ridiculous save, sprawling across the crease like a lunatic, barking at Blake to ‘get the hell out of his kitchen.’

"They'll be tough." Wes shakes his head and smiles. "But you've built a hell of a squad here, Hunter."

“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough. “I’m proud of them.”

I mean it.

We weren’t supposed to be here. This team clawed its way into playoffs, scrapped and fought for every damn win. They proved the analysts wrong, the critics wrong—hell, even me wrong.

“You didn't answer me, Coach." Wes tilts his head, studying me like he used to. "Vancouver. How are you feeling?”

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