Page 36 of Coach's Temptation

I shrug, aiming for casual. "Happens to a lot of guys. Part of the game."

"But it happened to you." Her voice goes soft, too soft.

My knuckles whiten around my wine glass. I stare at the dark liquid, unable to meet her gaze.

"So what you're saying is..." Natalie's lips quirk up. "This playoff series, against Vancouver… it's really your very own villain origin story?"

A breath escapes me – almost a laugh.

"I guess you could label it something like that." I lift my glass and tilt it at her. "You know, instead of asking for a raise, you could get a second job in the media. They spin stories like that all the time."

She laughs and rolls her eyes. "Thanks for the tip."

The heaviness lifts, but something else takes its place. Understanding. She sees it now – why this series matters, why I've been so focused.

Why I've pushedheraway.

I shift back, clearing my throat. "Long day. I'm turning in."

I watch her gather the clippings, stacking them neatly on the edge of the counter again.

"'Night, Coach."

She disappears up the stairs, leaving me alone with memories I'd rather forget and feelings I shouldn't have.

I turn out the light and head upstairs, knowing that having her here with me, under the same roof?

Yeah, that scares me more than facing Vancouver ever could.

Chapter Nine

Natalie

Idrove here last night thinking that living with Hunter Brody was going to kill me.

Or him. It was honestly a toss-up.

Now, I'm blinking myself awake, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, my body sinking into sheets. I inhale, exhale, roll onto my back, and then just… lay there.

Because why not?

The mountain view through windows hits different at dawn. It's all purple shadows and golden light that makes everything in this incredible bedroom feel even more surreal.

For a solid three seconds, I let myself sink into the absurd reality of my life.

I am living in Coach Hunter Brody’s mountain-sized house.

I am sleeping in his guest bed, wrapped in sheets that cost more than my entire disaster-zone apartment.

And I havezeroregrets about it.

Regretfully, I drag myself out of bed, following the scent of coffee like a zombie seeking brains. My hair's a disaster, my borrowed t-shirt hits mid-thigh, and I'm not prepared for what waits in the kitchen.

Hunter Brody. In sweatpants and nothing else, standing in front of the stove, flipping eggs like he’s trying out forMasterChef: Alpha Male Edition.

My brain short-circuits at the sight of all that muscle on display. The man's built like a Greek god who decided to moonlight as a chef.

"What the hell is going on?" I squint at him.

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