Page 3 of Falling Offsides

He exhales through his nose, chest deflating. “Fair enough.”

“I want to spend time with you,” I say, surprising myself with my candidness. “I just… need space. To do it right.”

He nods. “Okay, Tiggy, whatever you need.”

“Coach...”

“Shit. Sorry, hon—Court. Glad to see you still don’t make anything easy,” he chuckles with a shake of his head, putting my ID in my hand with the lightest squeeze before he takes a step back.

Just like that, some of the weight falls from my shoulders.

Swear to god,I always forget how cold hockey arenas are. My hands are shaking—I don’t know if it’s from the cold or the nerves that I’m still working through—and my knee is throbbing as the ice water seeps through my leggings.

I should’ve opted for the thermal ones that I packed to Delilah’s dismay. The furry ones on the inside that aren’t made to make my ass look bootylicious but keep me warm. Instead they’re in my case in the PR and marketing offices.

Maneuvering myself to the corner of the rink, I crouch so I can give my knees a break from the cold while I watch Dad order the vet players around.

Number Sixteen skates to my side, giving my camera a wink. Delilah is right, he’s a charmer. Dark, sunbleached curls andsapphire blue eyes. Yeah, Matheo Hillier is a dreamboat, he’s also the team’s biggest player. It’s a fact that’s as well known as his attitude on the ice.

The camera clicks.

Hillier grins.

Another click.

His tongue sticks out as he shakes a rock and roll hand in my direction.

Another click.

He drops a puck and slaps it across the ice before chasing it to the other end of the rink.

I edge closer to the empty goal, getting a shot of the rookies and the drafts working with Dad’s assistant coach.

The Comets are mid-drill, tearing up the ice. Whistles are blowing in different areas of the rink. Voices are booming with instruction. These guys are a feral machine.

The atmosphere is so alive. So contagious. My blood has never pumped so hard in my veins than as I crouch right next to the empty goal. Players zooming past me in every direction.

“Jesus,” I stutter, balancing myself when seventy-four races behind me. The speed of him is insane as he calls over his shoulder, “Wake up, new girl!”

Jayden Morrow.

Now, he is gorgeous. Tan skin, hazel eyes… so goddamn tall that I crick my neck even looking up at him from a distance, snapping a photo of him as he drives the puck between the drill cones with a precision that has my heart in my throat when he reaches the end of the drill line, spins more gracefully than any man should be able to and passes the puck to Sylkes.

Number twenty-one follows the same drill. Where his line-mate was ridiculously fast, he’s clean and precise. There isn’t a single waver as he comes to a snowy stop at my side when dad blows his whistle to end the drill session.

The players converge in groups. Talking and giving each other analysis on their conditioning.

This is what I love the most about hockey. It’s what I remember from my childhood. Before my parents divorced.

Family.

I remember these people being my family. The arenas being my homes. I was always so desperate to come to work with Dad. Those days are my favorite memories of us. This is why I accepted the summerposition here. To revisit those memories, maybe make some more. Remind myself that even though we are on different coasts, Coach Nilsson is still my dad.

Moving from the goal where the goalie coach is gathering the goaltenders, I make my way to the boards.

The players are circling the ice, preparing to take their last shot for today’s informal training session.

I situate myself right up against the boards to the side of the goal. It’s the best way to get the action shots the marketing team asked for.