Page 114 of Coach's Temptation

"You good, Coach? You look like you haven't slept."

I snap my head towards him, barely restraining the growl in my throat. "I'm fine."

Blake doesn't buy my bull shit. Seems to be a lot of that going around lately.

I change the subject and ignore the way his eyes narrow, first at me, then behind me to where Natalie has just crouched down to her medic bag.

"How's that injury feeling today? Don't let me down, will you?"

Blake rolls his shoulder experimentally, that signature cocky grin spreading across his face. "Never better, Coach. Natalie's got me moving like I'm twenty again."

My jaw clenches at the mention of her name. Then the sweet musings of her tone drift over my shoulder, smacking me right in the chest with how peaceful and melodic they sound right now.

"His range of motion is back to ninety-eight percent." Her voice comes from behind me, professional and clipped. "The inflammation is minimal. He's cleared to start."

I turn, desperate to catch those emerald eyes I've been drowning in for months, but Natalie keeps her gaze locked on Blake's shoulder, deliberately avoiding me.

"Thanks, Nat." Blake's voice softens with genuine appreciation. "Couldn't have made it here without you."

She gives him a quick smile—the kind she used to save for me. And fuck, that hurts.

She zips up her med kit, movements precise and controlled. "Just remember the stretches we discussed pre-game."

I clear my throat. "Natalie—"

But she's already walking away, clipboard pressed to her chest like a shield. Not once do those gorgeous green eyes meet mine.

Shit.The distance feels wider than the fucking ice rink between us.

And I fuckinghateit.

Blake lets out a low whistle. "Damn, Coach. What did you do?"

I shoot him my deadliest glare. "Focus on the game, Maddox. That's an order."

The Nest shakes as the anthem is sung, the team are roared on the ice and the puck drops.

And fuck me…

Vegas comes at us like a freight train. Their first line slams Connor into the boards so hard the glass rattles. My fingers dig into the rail.

Breathe. Focus.

But my eyes keep drifting to where Natalie stands, her face tight with concentration as she watches Blake test that shoulder on his first shift.

Vegas's center drives hard to the net, catching Ryder with an elbow that sends him sprawling. The crowd roars in protest. No call.

"Come on!" I bark at the ref, but my voice sounds hollow today, even to me.

Across the ice, Wes fuckingpreensfor the cameras, gesturing dramatically at every play like he's conducting an orchestra instead of coaching hockey. His smirk burns under my skin when our eyes meet.

It's all for show. The media is eating up the storyline, just like Greg said they would.

The rules of the contract are simple: Win the Stanley Cup and Team USA is yours.

What isn't simple?

Figuring out why, for someone who's spent their entire fucking life dedicated to the sport, that doesn't seem to matter to me anymore?

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