Page 98 of Coach's Temptation

Hunter’s eyes sparkle mischievously. “The kind I’m not telling you until we get home.”

I bat my lashes dramatically. “Oh! Come on, Hunter. Pretty please?”

I double down and put on my best 'adorable' pout.

“Nice try,” he chuckles, brushing my hair behind my ear. “But no.”

“What if I bribe it out of you?” I whisper, lips grazing his jawline softly. 'What do you say… two blow jobs tonight?"

He inhales sharply. "Nat—"

"Two blow jobs and we can play 'choose your own entrance'?"

"Natalie—" He goes to say no, but then frowns and gives me a weird look. "Wait. What?"

"Choose your own entrance. You know… front or back."

A low growl leaves his throat and I see the physical restraint it takes for him to claw back any images currently swarming his mind.

“Tempting, Nat, but fuck… Can't believe I'm saying this, but it’s still a no.”

I sigh dramatically, feigning annoyance even as happiness dances in my chest. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”

He smiles warmly and squeezes me tight. "Do we still get to play your game?"

I shake my head, and he tickles me until he's got me pinned in the wobble of the boat. He tilts my chin up to kiss me, slow and sweet, lingering until the boat docks again.

Reluctantly, we step onto solid ground.

My heart feels lighter than air as the sky turns dark, but Hunter's phone buzzes insistently, interrupting our moment.

I watch as Hunter glances at the screen, lips thinning slightly before he quickly pockets it.

“Everything okay?” I ask quietly, searching his eyes.

“Yeah,” he replies, the smile returning but a bit forced. “Just hockey stuff. Let’s get to dinner. We’re late.”

By the time we get to the team dinner, the historic restaurant buzzes with energy and laughter, the air charged with excitement from clinching our spot in the Stanley Cup Finals.

Hunter’s hand rests possessively on the small of my back as we navigate the crowded private dining room toward our seats.

But as the appetizers appear, Hunter’s phone buzzes again. He frowns, rising from his seat and squeezing my hand apologetically.

“Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”

I watch him disappear, unease prickling once more beneath my skin. Across the table, Connor leans in toward Blake, voice hushed but still audible.

“You hear about Coach and Team USA?”

Blake nods, his eyes serious. “Yeah. Wes Callahan mentioned it in the Vegas presser after they clinched their spot. Hunter’s at the top of the list, but Wes wants it too.”

Team USA? The Olympic coach?!

My pulse quickens, panic simmering.

Olympic coaching?

Hunter hasn’t mentioned anything like that. But then again, he’s been distracted lately, taking more calls than usual. I'd just put it down to regular media excitement and interviews that come hand in hand with leading a team to the Finals.

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