Page 69 of Coach's Temptation

Vancouver is a fuckingwhirlwind.

Press conferences. Interviews. Media requests every damn hour. My name plastered across every sports network, every headline teasing the possibility of theunthinkableafter we won game three last night.

3-0.

The Icehawks are one win away from sweeping the first playoff series in franchise history. And not just against any team—againstmyold team.

I should be soaking it in. Savoring every second.

Instead, all I can think about isher.

I barely saw Natalie before we left Iron Ridge. Barely had a chance to hear her voice, to look into those green eyes and see what she was thinking after our night on the rooftop.

She was quiet at the airport, then the second we landed, it was game mode.

Meetings, training, press. And when the final buzzer sounded last night and we skated off the ice victorious, I barely caught a glimpse of her before she was gone, straight into work mode to repair the players and have them ready for a quick turn around for game four tomorrow.

At least if we were back home in Iron Ridge, I'd get to see her pretty face.

Walk through my door late at night and find her curled up on the couch, her hair spilling over the blanket, waiting for me. At least I’d hear her soft sigh when I pulled the blanket over her. I’d get to feel her warmth next to mine when I finally gave in and dragged her to bed.Mybed.

But here?

Here, I go back to a dark, empty hotel room. Unable to do a damn thing about the burning in my chest to hold her again.

It’ll be over soon.One more win.

One more win, and we’re moving on. One more win, and we get a week to rest and reset.

A week back in Iron Ridge.

A week where I can finally haveherto myself.

The Vancouver skyline glitters through floor-to-ceiling windows of my hotel suite, a view that would've had me in awe twenty years ago. Now it's just another distraction from the task at hand.

I tap my fingers against the mahogany desk, willing myself to focus on the laptop screen. Vancouver's power play formations flicker past. But the X's and O's blur together.

My mind drifts to green eyes and soft moans and—

Focus, Brody.

A burst of laughter pierces through the wall. Female. Familiar. I grind my teeth, turning up the volume on my laptop.

CRASH.

"Oh shit!" More giggling to match the voices.

What the actual fuck? This is a five-star hotel, not a frat house.

I shove back from my desk, my chair scraping against hardwood. The sound echoes through my suite as I stalk toward the door, ready to tear whoever's out there a new one.

The hallway hits me with a wall of... vanilla? And something else. Sugar. Butter. The scent gets stronger as I round the corner.

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

The Icehawks are at war.

And apparently, it's with baking supplies.

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