Page 42 of Coach's Temptation

I don't give her the satisfaction. Can't trust myself around her when she's wearing my clothes like that.

I turn and walk out the door. I've got somewhere else to be.

Somewhere that, just like my damn hoodie, probably smells like her too.

***

A few hours later, with my team happily distracted at Ridgeview Tavern, I grip the keys to Natalie's apartment in my fist, the cold metal sticking into my palm like a painful reminder that I probably shouldn't be here.

But she left them on my kitchen counter this morning, scattered amongst her endless trail of other belongings that she leaves laying around the fucking place.

I glance over my shoulder. It's dark, and I've waited until now to meet the guy I've lined up to help Natalie sort this place out.

The lock sticks as I push the key in, then with a jiggle and some creative cursing, it gives.

The second I step inside, it hits me.

Vanilla and jasmine andher. I close the door, breathing in that lingering scent of dampness that I ignore, instead choosing to focus on the smell of her shampoo that she always smells like after practice.

Then I see everything.

Water drips steadily from three different spots in the ceiling. Buckets catch what they can, but dark stains spread across the ceiling like bruises.

I drag a hand down my face, exhaling hard as I scan the space.

Jesus Christ.

It’s even worse than I thought.

My chest tightens. This is where she's been living? While I'm up in my mountain fortress with heated floors and smart appliances that talk to me… she's been dealing withthis?

The most stubborn woman on the planet had been sleeping here. Showering in this goddamn disaster. Coming home to a place that was actively sinking around her and pretending like it wasn’t a big deal.

She still thinks she has to wait three weeks for some half-assed contractor to maybe fix it. She has no idea I’ve already handled it.

Or at least, I'm about to.

I take another step forward, my foot catching the edge of a damp towel.

A framed photo catches my eye. It's a picture of a younger Natalie with an elderly woman, both grinning at the camera. Her grandmother. She told me about her. She's the one who left her this place.

I run my finger along a water-warped bookshelf. She told me once how she used to curl up in that window seat while her grandmother baked cookies, reading romance novels and dreaming of her own happy ending.

Now that same window seat is covered in towels, soaking up water from a leak above.

A glint of something pink catches my eye on the kitchen counter. Her Chapstick. Of course. Her whole life is scattered like breadcrumbs between here and my house.

I pick it up, rolling the tube between my fingers. Vanilla cupcake flavor. The same one that's probably buried in my couch cushions right now.

A smile tugs at my lips.

My phone buzzes and there's footsteps at the door before a gentle knock.

10:45 PM. Right on time.

I open the front door to find Mike Peters, Iron Ridge's best contractor, standing there in work boots and a weathered jacket.

"Coach Brody." His eyes widen. "Thanks for calling."

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