Page 2 of Coach's Temptation

But me?

I deserve fifteen minutes of pure silence, steam, and solitude.

I leave my office and stride down the dark hallways until I reach the Player's Lounge. I step inside and the moonlight overlooking the tiny town of Iron Ridge streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, with long silver shadows shifting slowly over the leather couches, illuminating the collection of framed jerseys on the walls.

The stone fireplace stands cold and dark, but even without its warmth tonight, the space breathes luxury. From the pool table lined with the Icehawks team logo, to the state-of-the-art coffee machine that Connor nearly blew up this morning, it's the best of the best in here.

But tonight… the entire fucking place is empty.

No players, no staff, no distractions.

Just me, the hiss of the sauna, and blessed, uninterrupted silence.

I shoulder through the steam room door with a bone-deep groan, already imagining the hot steam melting away the day's tension.

Blake Maddox, engaged… Fuck me.

My clothes hit the bench one by one. Suit jacket. Tie. Dress shirt. Each piece of fabric peeling away the weight of expectations, of responsibility.

Of being Coach Hunter Brody.

The luxurious steam beckons through the frosted glass door. My sanctuary. The one place in this whole damn building where I can just... breathe.

I grab a fresh towel from the stack by the door and wrap it around my waist, pushing open the door and—

"Holy fucking Christ!"

My heart stops. Actually stops.

This is it. This is how I die. Not from a game-winning heart attack, not from a Stanley Cup Final or from a bench-clearing brawl, but from getting ambushed in my own damn steam room by a five-foot-six physical therapist who might well be the hottest woman alive.

Yep.

Natalie Hayes lounges on the top bench like some kind of goddess, miles of toned legs stretched out in front of her. A white towel barely covers what it needs to, clinging to curves that have no business being this close to naked in Icehawk HQ.

Steam curls around her, making the whole scene look almost unreal. Like some fevered, impossible dream I shouldn’t be having.

Awetdream, maybe.

Her skin glistens under the dim light, damp and flushed, her collarbone gleaming with a single bead of moisture that trails lower and lower.

Her black hair spills over her shoulders, damp from the steam and curling just over her shoulders, and her head's tipped back against the wall, exposing the elegant line of her throat.

The sight makes my teeth clench down until they squeak.

"Natalie, what the hell are you doing here? You scared the shit out of me."

Her eyes fly open, those deep, emerald colored eyes that threaten to ruin my entire well-disciplined life.

"Oh, hello there, Coach." Her lips curve into that devastating smile that pulled me in the moment she set foot in this hockey club. "Sorry about that. I'd hate to have to give you mouth-to-mouth. You know, professionally speaking."

Jesus Christ, I'm her boss. Her fucking boss.

But those eyes could make a saint sin.

Her voice comes out all breathy and surprised. Yeah, not buying it.

She sits up straighter, the movement causing that damn towel to slip just a fraction. Just enough to send my blood rocketing south.

---