Page 57 of Coach's Temptation

But then… Just as we start to let loose…

The kitchen door swings open with a whoosh, and I freeze mid-kiss.

Fuck.

Hunter's hands cast me aside and I swipe at my mouth, patting down at my dress all at the same time. Hunter clears his throatand I spin around to see Greg frozen at the door, eyes wider than a five-year-old on Christmas morning.

"Uhhhh…" Greg's eyes look anywhere but at us. "Beer bucket's low. I'll just… um, restock and—"

Shit. Hunter and I sprung apart. Too fast. Way too fast.

My lips burn. My chest heaves. My hair's a mess from Hunter's fingers. There's no hiding what we were doing.

Greg's still stopped dead in his tracks, one hand frozen on the door handle. His eyes dart between us, taking in my flushed face, Hunter's rumpled shirt where I grabbed it and the fridge loaded with beers.

Then, as realization hits him, a smirk that spreads across his face makes my stomach drop.

He says nothing. Not a single word.

Just walks to the fridge, grabs an armful of beer bottles, and backs out. The whole time wearing that knowing smile that makes me want to crawl under the counter and fucking die.

The door swings shut behind him.

Hunter drags a hand down his face, exhaling hard. "Fuck."

The heat is still there, simmering under the surface.

I lick my lips, ignoring the way his gaze tracks the movement. “So, uh… you wanna go ahead and fire me now, or should we wait until the rumors spread to ownership?”

Hunter doesn’t answer.

Just stares at me.

Like he’s deciding if he's just made the biggest mistake of his life.

Chapter Fourteen

Hunter

It’s been three days since theincident.Three days since I had her against that counter, tasting her, devouring her, breaking every rule we’d set in place. Three days since Greg walked in,saw everything, and left without a word.

And that’s the part that’s been fucking with me the most.

Greg. Hasn’t. Said. Anything.

No awkward looks. No knowing smirks. No jokes at my expense.

Nothing.

Which means either he was too drunk to remember, because let's face it, that was one hell of a celebration. Or, he’s keeping that ace up his sleeve, just waiting to drop the hammer at the worst possible moment.

I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose as I lean back in my chair.

My desk is a disaster. Game film, scouting reports, empty coffee cups stacked like a damn art installation.

Winning Game Two against Vancouver on home ice should’ve felt satisfying. We're 2-0 up in the series, but all it’s done is give me more to obsess over. More ways to get better. More ways to push harder.

More ways to distract myself from the one thing Ireallywant.

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