Page 17 of Coach's Temptation

I stifle a laugh.

Hunter does not.

As Ryder stands up, a dumbbell slams back onto the rack with a brutally loud clang. Hunter grabs his towel, swipes it across his face so aggressively he might rip the skin off.

"Five more minutes, then hit the showers," he barks at the team before stalking toward the door.

I stare after him, pulse thrumming in my ears.

Ryder rolls his shoulder, nodding in approval. "Damn, Nat, you’ve got magic hands. Thanks."

I smile, wiping my hands on my leggings. "Just don’t go throwing that out on the ice five minutes into warm-ups tomorrow, okay?"

He winks. "No promises."

The weight room gathers momentum around me, the clang of metal, the steady beat of music, the low murmur of the guys finishing up their final set of reps.

Normally, I love this part of the job. Being in the thick of it, keeping these guys in peak shape, making sure they don’t completely wreck themselves before playoffs.

But right now?

I'm beat. And I need to get out of here.

***

By the time I unlock my apartment door, exhaustion drags at my limbs. I push inside, toeing off my sneakers, and flick the light switch. The overhead fixture blinks twice before finally buzzing to life.

The ancient radiator clanks and wheezes as I drop my bag by the door. This place might be falling apart, but every creak and groan feels like home.

Grandma's touches are still everywhere. From the faded floral wallpaper she picked out in 1985 to the worn spot on the hardwood where she'd rock in her chair while watching her 'stories'.

I move over the floorboards and light her favorite vanilla candle on the windowsill, the same ritual I've performed every night since she left me the apartment three years ago.

"Hey Grandma," I whisper, placing the lighter back beside the candle.

The flame flickers, the gentle light catching on the water stains creeping down from the ceiling.

I grab a frozen dinner from the fridge - another ancient relic that desperately needs replacing. The microwave groans to life and while my sad excuse for dinner spins, I lean against the chipped counter and remember the look on Hunter Brody's face as I massaged Tyler's shoulder.

Who does he think he is anyway? Getting all stroppy and pissed off. He's the one who laid down those stupid boundaries, insisting we keep things "professional."

Yet there he was today, glaring daggers at me across the weight room like I'd committed some cardinal sin by doing myactualjob.

Isn't this exactly what he wanted? Me, being the consummate professional, treating every player on the team the same way - including him? If anyone has the right to be frustrated, it's me.

I snatch my dinner from the microwave when it chimes and move into the living room. A mediocre frozen lasagna drowning under a pool of shiny, bubbling cheese and another night all alone?

Pure heaven.

Not.

In a weird way, I wouldn't have it any other way. I love Iron Ridge. I love my job, grumpy coaches aside.

Even my apartment, with the living room that desperately needs new carpeting and that leak in the bedroom ceiling that isn't getting any better… The list of repairs grows longer every month, but on my PT salary, I'm lucky to keep up with the property taxes and utilities each month.

But I can't leave. Won't leave.

This was where I spent every weekend as a kid, baking snickerdoodles with Grandma while my parents "worked through their issues" at home.

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