Page 15 of Coach's Temptation

Oh. Hell. No.

I don’t turn around. I can’t. Because I already know who it is. And I already know that if I look at him, I’ll start thinking about things I shouldn’t.

Like how good he smells. Like how unfair it is that he can show up at 7 AM looking like that.

Shit. Ihaveturned around.

And now my face is directly level with his chest.

More specifically, with the bold Icehawks logo stretched across the firm, unfairly sculpted wall of muscle that is Hunter Brody’s torso.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

"Morning," he says, voice a deep, gravelly rumble that my stupid, traitorous brain immediately labels as hot.

"M-morning."

My entire nervous system malfunctions, and every nerve ending in my body lights up like the damn Fourth of July. So much for being a functional human being this morning.

If he’s trying to ignore me, he’s doing a piss-poor job of it.

Because yesterday was torture.

Walking around Icehawk HQ felt like navigating a high-stakes game ofAvoid the Coach. Every time I entered a room, he was already leaving. Every time I passed him in the hallway, his one-second glances barely lasted long enough to count as eye contact.

At one point, I caught him literally pivoting in the opposite direction when he spotted me coming out of the therapy room. Like a full body turn. A 180-degree,nope-ing out of the situation like I was an HR violation waiting to happen.

And now?

Now he’s standing too close at Summit Café, smelling like expensive cologne and hockey player arrogance. Hockey coach. Whatever.

Clara, grinning like she’s watching her favorite television drama unfold in real time, hands over the cup. "Here you go, Coach. Extra strong. Just how you like it."

Hunter grabs the cup, looks to me and doesn't say a thing. Doesn't tease, doesn't flirt, doesn'tdoanything except look at me, all serious and unreadable before muttering, "See you in there."

I exhale sharply, forcing my gaze away from his broad back as he disappears out the door and down the street.

Clara, still watching me, leans an elbow on the counter. "Huh. He’s all business today. Usually, he stops for a chat."

I roll my shoulders, ignoring the warmth still curling in my stomach. "Guess he’s locked in for playoffs."

Clara snorts. "Mmhmm. The whole town is. Here you go, sweetie. Enjoy."

I grab my coffee and take an aggressive sip, willing my heart rate to go back to normal.

***

A few hours later, once I’ve recovered from my coffee-shop trauma, I head upstairs to chat with Sophia about playoff marketing schedules.

Well… that’s the excuse, anyway.

Within ten minutes, we’ve abandoned all talk of ad campaigns and are deep into planning the centerpieces for her wedding.

Time well spent, if you ask me.

Just as we finally settle on the color scheme, my stomach betrays me, growling loud enough for Sophia to hear.

"Oh my God. Go eat something," she laughs, waving me off. "I can hear your stomach plotting rebellion."

---