Page 14 of Puck Fest
Danny Masterson is supposed to be a professional obligation. A crisis to manage. A player who needs damage control and media training and supervision.
He's definitely not supposed to be someone whose opinion seems to matter.
I pull up the video one more time, watch him step between the fan and Tate, and try to see him the way I’m supposed to: as a liability who needs to be controlled.
Instead, I see someone who cares enough about people to put himself in danger without thinking twice.
Someone with green eyes that shift to gray.
Someone who called me Noah like it meant something.
I sigh, close my laptop, and head home.
Tomorrow, I’ll schedule his community service. I’ll set up the media training. I’ll draft the statement about his suspension.
I’ll do my job the way I’m supposed to.
And I’ll ignore the fact that when he smiled at me, something in my chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with work.
This is fine. I’m fine.
It’s just attraction. Physical chemistry. Completely manageable.
I just have to make sure it stays that way.
CHAPTER 5
DANNY
The smellsof the downtown rink hit me as soon as I walk inside. Cold, air, rubber, and fresh ice. And they charge me up, same way they do at every arena I play in.
It’s 9:45 AM on a Saturday, which means I’m early. Again.
I blame Noah Enver for making me paranoid about punctuality.
There are about thirty kids here already, from maybe six to twelve years old, all wearing hockey gear that’s either too big or too small. They’re skating around, shooting pucks, completely unaware that in fifteen minutes they’re going to be stuck with me for three hours.
“You’re early.”
I turn when I hear his voice. Noah’s standing behind me, holding a clipboard and wearing jeans instead of a suit for the first time since I met him. I have to drag my eyes away. He looks younger. More approachable. Also annoyingly attractive, which I need to ignore for a hell of a lot of reasons.
“You told me not to be late.”
“I told you to be here at ten. It’s 9:45.”
“Better early than late.”
“You’re just full of surprises.” He checks something on hisclipboard. “Okay, here’s the plan. You’re working with the older kids, ages ten to twelve, on defensive drills. There’s another coach handling the younger group.”
“Defensive drills. I’m a forward.”
“You’re also six-four and intimidating as hell. The kids will listen to you.”
“I’m not intimidating.”
Noah looks at me like I just said something incredibly stupid. “You threw a man into a barricade four days ago. You’re intimidating.”
“That was different.”
