Page 110 of Coach's Temptation

I’ve heard Hunter talk about Wes before. About his coaching style, his experience, how he’s one of the sharpest minds in the league. And I know, despite everything, there’s respect between them because of their links back to Vancouver when Hunter was a rookie.

But right now?

Right now, that respect is buried beneath one unavoidable fact…

This isn’t personal.

But this is most definitelywar.

"Well, well." Wes's voice carries around the tavern. "If it isn't the miracle worker of Iron Ridge."

Hunter straightens, shoulders going rigid. "Wes."

"Quite the setup you've got here." Wes gestures at the decorations, that Vegas smirk playing at his lips. "Very... small town charm. yeah, we do it a bit differently where we're from, don't we boys?"

The way he says it makes my skin crawl. Like Iron Ridge is cute but ultimately insignificant compared to the bright lights of Vegas.

"What are you doing here, Wes?" Hunter's voice is low, controlled.

"You know me, bud. A guy checking in on an old friend." Wes spreads his arms wide. "Besides, I hear there's quite the celebration happening tonight. Thought we'd join the party."

Lucy grabs my wrist under the table. I realize I'm gripping my wine glass so hard my knuckles have gone white.

I watch as Eli, ever the diplomat, slides a round of drinks toward the Vegas contingent. The tension crackles, but it's almost playful - like two prizefighters touching gloves before a match.

Connor throws a cocky wink at their backup goalie. Blake and their captain exchange friendly nods from across the bar.

Then Wes lifts his glass, and something in his posture makes my stomach flip.

"To the best man winning."

His voice carries that Vegas smoothness, but there's an edge underneath. A double meaning that slices through the air.

The Icehawks cheer and raise their glasses, caught up in the pre-game electricity.

But I can't move. Can't breathe.

Because I see the way Wes's eyes lock onto Hunter.

This isn't just about tomorrow's game.

Hunter meets Wes's gaze steadily, something unspoken passing between them. And in that moment, I see it happen before my very eyes.

MyHunter disappears.

The man who held me in his kitchen this morning, who restored my grandmother's rocking chair, who whispered "I loveyou" against my skin as we made love in my new apartment for the first time… he'sgone.

In his place stands Coach Brody. Square shoulders. Jaw set hard.

A man with ambitions bigger than our small mountain town. Bigger than the Stanley Cup. Bigger than us.

I grip my wine glass tighter, trying to calm myself as the room spins slightly.

All those late-night calls, the way he dodged questions about Team USA, how he tensed every time Vegas came up in conversation.

It wasn't just about tomorrow's game. It wasn't about the series or the trophy.

It was about this. About more.

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