Page 12 of Her Hat Trick Daddies
“I’ve got some fires to put out myself,” Coach Henley adds. I follow their lead and stand.
“But you two go ahead and get acquainted,” he finishes, nodding toward David.
“Thanks, Coach.” I smile. “I’ll see you around.”
I thank them both as they walk out, then shift my focus to the man of the hour—David Decker.
“Mr. Decker, if you don’t mind, I’d love to set up an interview with you at your earliest convenience. I like to highlight the standout players early to build buzz ahead of training camp and the new season.”
He glances at the watch on his left wrist, then back at me. “I’ve got time now. And call me David.”
Well, that was fast. Good thing I’ve been in this position before. I slide my phone out of my skirt pocket and pull up the list of questions I keep ready in my Notes app.
“Mind if I record this?” I ask.
He narrows his gaze at me—his eyes brown with gold flecks, making it almost unreadable—and for a moment, I wonder if he’s going to decline. I can do the interview without the recording, but having it would make referencing quotes later a lot easier.
“I suppose not.”
“Perfect.” I press the button to start recording. “I understand you’re new to Denver?”
He leans back in the visitor chair, the legs dragging with a soft scrape across the thin, tired carpet—a sound that somehow makes the office feel even smaller, quieter.
“Yeah,” he answers, his voice low and steady. “I joined the team after Sven Hinter retired.”
“And you already made captain? That’s quite impressive,” I smirk, and David shrugs, dismissing the compliment as if it’s no big deal. He then crosses one leg over the other, which immediately draws my attention to his crotch, and maybe it’s just my mind wandering, but I can’t help but notice how mouthwatering that bulge is, just like his quick rise to the captaincy.
I shake my head, trying to rid my wild imagination and stay professional. “You’re from Minnesota, right?”
“You’ve done your homework,” he smiles. “Yeah, I played for the Minnesota Wild for twelve years.”
“Twelve years is a long run. Mind if I ask why you made the move?”
His brows furrow, his mouth tightening into a flat line, and a wave of anxiety immediately washes over me. Did I just cross a line?
David wears that gruff, commanding leader exterior like it’s second nature, the kind of cool authority that only comes with years of experience. But beneath the surface, there’s this subtle edge to him, something raw, that makes him even hotter.
“I was going through a divorce. Needed some space. When my agent told me that this opportunity opened up, I jumped at it.”
My tone softens as I notice the fatigued lines on his face deepen, and I suddenly grasp the weight behind his decision. “Sorry to hear that. Are you okay with sharing what happened between you two?”
He rubs the back of his neck, rolling it in a circle. “Maybe another day. For now, let’s just leave it at shit happens.”
“That it does,” I murmur, letting the moment settle before nudging us in a lighter direction. “So, tell me. What made you choose hockey?”
His expression brightens at the shift. “Oh, yeah. I’ve been on skates practically since I could stand. There’s an old video of my dad holding me up on the ice at ten months, sliding me across the rink like I was born to be there.” A smile plays on his lips. “That rink is actually where he met my mom—some R&B night in high school, of all things. He said she was the only one who wasn’t afraid to dance on skates. They were inseparable after that.”
I can’t help smiling. “Sounds like a story worth telling on its own,” I say, eyes catching his. “If only we were all that lucky.”
“You’re telling me. I thought my ex-wife was my forever,” he says, his voice dropping, more thoughtful. Regret, maybe? Then, with a half-shrug, “Guess I still have a lot to learn.”
“Somehow, I highly doubt that,” I reply, not ready to let him shoulder all the blame, even though I know absolutely nothing about his previous or current love interests.
He shifts in his seat, his gaze never leaving mine. Searching? Silently questioning? Like he’s trying to read something in me—my motives? My history with men? Why is he looking at me like I’ve sprouted a third eye all of a sudden?
“So… hockey. I don’t know. I just never found a connection with any other sport the way I did with hockey,” he continues, clearing his throat. “I played all through my childhood, stuck with it through college. Got drafted into the NHL at twenty-two, just after finishing my degree. Never looked back.”
So, depending on when he graduated, I’m guessing he’s somewhere between thirty-four and thirty-six.
