Page 5 of Coach's Temptation

One last time.

I step closer, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum.

“Natalie." I grab her by the waist, my other hand coming up to grip her chin, pulling her head so she's looking right at me. Her breath catches with a whimper. "This is the last fucking time."

And then, finally, I kiss her.

She gasps as we stumble beneath the kiss. I press her into the wall, her thighs gripping my waist as we crash backwards.

The steam is suffocating, my pulse deafening.Fuck it.I reach down, grab the back of her knee, and hitch it over my hip.

"The last fucking time."

She moans, and I swallow the sound, my tongue sweeping into her mouth, claiming her, tasting her…

One. Last. Time.

Chapter Two

Natalie

I've seen weddings with less effort than whatever the hell Eli has done to Ridgeview Tavern tonight.

The place is decked out. And I mean,deckedthe hell out.

A massive Icehawks banner stretches across the bar. It's only slightly wrinkled from what I can assume was Eli’s last-minute attempt to staple it up after one too many pre-game beers. Over the top, in very questionable spray-paint handwriting, he’s scrawled:

PLAYOFFS, BABY!

As if the entire town isn’t already losing its collective mind over the Icehawks making it this far. As if every person here isn’t still riding the high of last night’s win.

Now we get to have the entire place to ourselves while we watch the final game of the regular season play out, the winner determining who the Icehawks will face in the first round of the playoffs.

It's just the Icehawks team packed into the tavern tonight, all decked out in their special edition playoff jerseys, beanies, and the kind of chaotic, barely-contained energy that comes when you’ve been celebrating for twenty-four straight hours and somehowstillhave adrenaline to burn.

And then there’s me.

Sitting at the bar, sipping myHat Trick- Eli’s very tequila-heavy signature playoff cocktail - doing my best to act normal. Like I didn’t spend last night tangled up in a very naked, very off-limits hockey coach.

Like I don’t have a rule about keeping things professional. Like I didn’t work my ass off to get here, earning my place on this team - not because of my hometown connections, not because of luck…

But because I’m damn good at what I do.

And because I love this town.

Because no matter how many offers I got to move somewhere bigger, somewhere 'better,' nothing could ever make me leave Iron Ridge.

It’s home. Always has been.

Connor slides onto the barstool next to me, stroking that new monstrosity on his face like it's a beloved pet. His 'playoff beard' has suddenly reached epic proportions, and the playoff campaign hasn't even begun.

We're talking full-on mountain man status. The auburn mess practically has its own zip code at this point.

"I'm telling you, Nat, the thicker this thing gets, the more goals I save. And the more goals I save…"

He gives me a look, flashing his eyes at me as if I'm jumping at the chance to finish his sentence like some kind of kindergartener.

I take a sip of my drink, grateful for the distraction from my Hunter-related thoughts. "Connor, you're looking more andmore like a lumberjack who lost a bet every day that passes with that thing growing on your face."

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