Page 35 of Coach's Temptation

I raise a brow, waiting.

She twirls her fork in the sauce, avoiding my gaze. “They bickered. They criticized. They made me question every life choice I've ever made. So, you know… standard family bonding.”

She exhales, shakes her head and pulls her hand through her ponytail.

“Let’s just say, I never want to end up like them.”

Something sharp flickers in my chest, something I don’t quite understand.

I take a slow sip of beer.Never wants to end up like them?

Does she mean she never wants to get married?

Huh. Not my business.

I clear our plates while Natalie wanders the kitchen. A new wine bottle opens with a satisfying pop, and I pour us each a fresh glass.

She pauses at the stack of newspapers on the corner of the counter. "Didn't take you for a morning paper kind of guy."

"I'm not." I hand her a glass. "They're clippings and old papers. My parents saved everything. Every game I ever played, every article which so much as hinted at me."

"That's so nice." She picks up the top paper, and I see the moment she realizes what she's holding. Her fingers tighten on the yellowed edges. "Oh."

The bold headline stares back at us both: "Future NHL Star's Career Over Before It Begins?"

"Hunter, I-"

"It's fine. It was a long time ago."

"You've obviously been thinking about it." She looks up, her voice soft.

I take a long sip of wine, letting the rich cabernet coat my tongue. The familiar ache in my knee throbs with phantom pain. "Yeah."

"Because of Vancouver?"

I nod, unable to form the words. Twenty years, and that city still haunts me.

She sets the paper down carefully, like she's handling something precious. And maybe she is. Those papers are the last remnants of who I used to be, before I became the man standing in this kitchen, trying not to notice how gently she touches the pieces of my past.

Natalie's fingers flick over the old clippings, lingering on each one.

Photos of a younger me, cocky grin plastered across my face, Vancouver Canucks jersey bright in the camera flash. The injury report. The articles detailing my fall from grace.

Her brow furrows. "Wait. You were with Vancouver?"

I look up, blinking. "You didn't know?"

"No. I mean, I knew you played before coaching, but—"

Those big beautiful eyes look up a meet my own, and I see the moment it clicks. The weight of this playoff series, exactly what it means to me.

"They cut you."

Her voice is careful, measured.

I nod as my throat bobs beneath a hard swallow. "Busted my knee. They replaced me before I was even out of surgery."

The silence stretches. I can see her wrestling with what to say, searching for the right words. But I don't need her sympathy. Don't want it.

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