Page 77 of Coach's Temptation

But the point remains… he's saying these words.

He'strusting me.

Blake’s brows lift slightly, like he expected something different. Hell,Iexpected something different.

But Hunter’s jaw is locked tight, his teeth clenched so hard I swear I can hear it. He doesn't like it. Doesn't like my decision. But he’s backing me up anyway.

And that?

After years of enduring my parents' constant criticism and negativity - two people so miserable in their own lives they used me as their emotional punching bag…

That means everything.

"Let's get to work."

Chapter Nineteen

Hunter

Istare at my phone, the screen's glow harsh in the darkness of my hotel suite. Vancouver's city lights paint shifting shadows across the wall, but I barely notice them. All I can see is Natalie's face from earlier—the flash of hurt in her eyes when I snapped at her in the medical room.

Damn it.

I've never lost my cool like that. Not with staff. Not with anyone who matters.

My thumb hovers over her contact photo. Such a simple thing to type out an apology. To acknowledge she was right about Blake's injury.

But the words won't come.

"You're a selfish bastard, Brody." I mutter, rubbing my face so hard it hurts.

The weight of tomorrow's game sits on my chest like a fucking dead weight.

Usually, a 3-0 lead in any kind of series would feel comfortable, let alone the playoffs. But somehow, this lead?

It doesn't feel comfortable. Not against Vancouver. Not against the team that ripped everything from me twenty years ago. I need this clean sweep series. Need to crush them so completely they'll never recover.

I click open the message thread with Natalie."How's Blake?"

I delete it and curse at myself.

I try again. This time, typing"Baby, about earlier…"

Nope.Fuck.I delete that too.

She's probably still working, making sure Blake's shoulder has any shot at being game-ready by morning. The last thing she needs is me interrupting her with weak attempts at an apology for a stubborn old bastard.

I toss my phone onto the bed, disgusted with myself. It bounces against the pristine white duvet and I fall back against the mattress along side it.

Then just as I close my eyes, a sharp knock at the door hammers into the silence that's threatening to destroy my sanity.

I drag myself off the bed, muscles protesting after the longest damn day of my coaching career. The knock comes again, more insistent this time.

"Fuck… I'm coming," I growl, padding across the plush hotel carpet.

I pull my robe tight around my waist and yank open the door, ready to tear Jordan a new one for bothering me at this hour.

Instead, I freeze.

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