Page 18 of Coach's Temptation

Where I crashed on her lumpy pullout couch during college. Where she held me when I got the devastating news that my knee had officially ended myverypromising dance career.

I was seven.

And the world needed to see my completely offbeat, aggressively enthusiastic recital performance ofSwan Lake. My ballet teacher strongly disagreed.

But Grandma?

Grandma swore I had star potential. Even if that potential involved two left feet and a dramatic final bow after tripping over my own shoelaces.

I shovel another bite of lasagna into my mouth, barely registering the rubbery texture. It’s objectively terrible. Mushy pasta, weirdly sweet sauce… but I eat every last bite anyway.

It’s fuel, not a five-star meal.

And really, what does it matter?

It’s not like I have anyone to impress. No fancy date nights. No romantic dinners for two. Just me, my questionably edible dinner, and the old sitcom rerun playing on mute in the background.

With a sigh, I drop the empty tray onto the coffee table and push off the couch and head toward the bathroom.

A scalding hot shower helps a little, loosening the muscles in my shoulders, but it does nothing to quiet the thoughts still looping in my brain.

That clenched jaw, the tight grip on his towel, the fire in his gaze when he stalked out of the weight room.

By the time I climb into bed, bundled in my favorite powder-blue sleep shirt that's covered in tiny, smiling coffee cups, and burrowed beneath the one luxury I refuse to skimp on—a ridiculously plush, oversized duvet—the apartment is still.

The rain that started an hour ago taps against the window, a rhythmicdrip, drip, dripthat should lull me to sleep.

But instead of going to sleep, I'm staring at my phone.

The screen of my phone illuminates my face in the darkness. Three days. Seventy-two hours of radio silence from Hunter Brody.

This is good. This is exactly what we should be doing. Maintaining those precious professional boundaries he's so obsessed with.

Then why do I keep waiting for my phone to light up with his name?

My thumbs hover over the keyboard.Just checking the injury reports are in order for tomorrow.Delete.

Connor mentioned his wrist was bothering him.Delete.

Miss you.Delete delete delete.

I bite my lip, then type quickly before I lose my nerve:Hey, just making sure you're still alive. You looked beat in the weightroom earlier. Would be a shame if our head coach died right before Vancouver.

Send.

My heart pounds as I watch the message status change from "Delivered" to "Read."

Three dots appear at the bottom of the screen.

I hold my breath.

The dots vanish.

In the darkness of my silent apartment, one whole minute passes. Then five.

Nothing.

Fuck. He really did mean it this time.

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