Page 19 of Coach's Temptation

Frustrated, my phone sails across the room, bouncing off my laundry hamper before landing with a thud on the carpet.

"Real mature, Natalie," I mutter into my pillow, but it doesn't stop the ache in my chest or the burning behind my eyes.

Chapter Five

Hunter

Logan’s house is exactly what a pro hockey player’s house should be.

Big, warm, filled with the scent of whiskey and enough Ridgeview Tavern wings to feed a small army.

The oversized sectional sofa in the living room swallows half my team, the giant flat-screen blaring a game we're all keeping one eye on flashing with playoff game one kicking off the series between Pittsburgh and Boston.

But my focus is on one thing, and one thing only.

The big stack of cash in the middle of the poker table.

I stare at my cards in one hand, the other fiddling with poker chips as I roll them over my knuckles and plot my next move.

Logan's place has always been a sanctuary before gameday's. No press, no expectations, just the tradition of shuffling cards and the easy flow of bullshit between me and my players.

Cards slap against the felt as Connor shuffles dramatically, flicking chips between his fingers like some Vegas high roller.Ryder kicks his feet up on an empty chair, popping a fry into his mouth like he doesn’t have a damn care in the world.

"I'm telling you, Tuna's got this look in his eyes." Connor deals us all a hand and fans his own cards out, those scratch marks on his forearm still visible. "Like he's calculating trajectories for maximum damage."

"Your cat weighs eight pounds," Ryder says, tossing chips into the pot. "Maybe stop buying the fancy organic food."

"Says the guy who got taken down by a shoulder massage today." Connor raises his eyebrows.

I go rigid. The poker chip stalls between my fingers.

Connor wiggles his eyebrows at Ryder, who just smirks, stretching his freshly massaged shoulder like it doesn’t mean a damn thing. Meanwhile, my brain decides now is the perfect time to replay the way Natalie’s hands slid over his skin.

Fucking fantastic.

I need my head in the game. I need to be thinking about our first shift, about power play strategies, about shutting down Vancouver’s forecheck. Not about the way Natalie Hayes dragged her nails over Ryder’s skin like she wasn’t deliberately screwing with me.

She knew I was watching. Shefeltme watching. And she didn’t stop.

Hell, she pressed harder. Let her nails graze his skin like it didn’t mean anything.

Like it wasn’t driving me out of my damn mind.

I toss a chip into the pot, jaw clenched.

She was just doing her damn job, you moron.

Logan groans, flipping his cards. “Can we focus? Some of us would like to take Coach’s money before playoffs start.”

I snort. “Keep dreaming, Kane.”

I lay my cards out, savoring Connor's groan as I rake in yet another winning pot. At leastthisis something I can control. Thewin helps steady my pulse, push away thoughts of weight rooms and beautiful dark-haired physical therapists.

I focus on the shuffling of the deck, trying not to imagine Natalie’s voice in my head, chirping me for being too competitive. Or the fact that if she were sitting at this table, she’d probably call me a sore winner right about now.

Or beunderthe table with her lips wrapped around me. Either would be fine.

The chips pile up in front of me as I take another hand. Then another. Blake grins, scooping up his own win with a flourish that reminds me he's still riding high from his proposal.

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