Page 138 of Cross Check

I hate when people showboat, but I really liked that.

“I spoke too soon,” Jude grumbles.

“You jinxed Baystrong. You know the second you talked about how well he was playing, it stopped being true.” I hand him the whiteboard that has the face-off play I drew up. “We still have two minutes on the clock. That’s plenty of time to even the score.”

Except, it’s not. Prescott, our center, misses a pass that results in a turnover, and the Stars race back down the ice. A frustrated groan works its way up my throat at the exact moment Connor McKenzie dekes out Bradshaw and Reynolds, our star defenders, and sets up a perfect drop pass for Grant.

Grant carries the puck into the open space in front of our goal. Without any hesitation, he scores for the second time in less than a minute, sending Baystrong onto his back with a failed save.

“Fuck.” Jude hangs his head and sighs. “I’m never talking about awards again.”

“Glad you learned your lesson there, J.” I rub my temples, relieved when Everett doesn’t do another victory lap by our bench. I’m not sure I’d be able to get through that without a visceral reaction. “I’m going to be happy if the next sixty seconds don’t turn into a blood bath.”

Fate is merciful and allows us to end the game in humble defeat. Our players make quick work of heading to the locker room. The taunts from a group of fans who thought we had the game in the bag follow them down the tunnel, and I sigh.

I’ve never liked to lose.

“Do you want to talk to them about what went wrong, or should I?” Jude asks.

“They pay you the big bucks so you can be the bad guy.” I pat his shoulder. “Have at it, boss.”

“It’s the worst part of this gig.” He rolls his eyes. “I’ll let you play the good parent after I’m finished. You can talk about camaraderie and comebacks.”

I laugh. “This is why being an associate coach is so damn fun.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you? I’ll see you in a few.”

“Sounds good.”

I grab my notepad and step out of the box, careful as I walk toward the locker room. I wave to a group of girls sitting along the glass who are wearing my old college jersey, and they jump up and down with recognition.

“Coach Green.”

That voice has become a fixture in my life. Deep but tinged with humor. The husk of a laugh curling at the end of my name. I hear it over FaceTime while I watch him make dinner. It’s there again when he calls me to say good night after a loss, a hurried goodbye I hold close every time.

I turn my head. My eyes meet Grant’s, and they’re twinkling with glee.

“Hello, Everett.” I toss my ponytail over my shoulder. Unbothered and unaffected by his close proximity. “Did you come over here so I could tell you that you played well tonight?”

“No, but I’d love to hear it.” He leans forward and rests his chin on the top of his stick. He tosses an easy smile my way, the dimple on his sweaty cheek popping effortlessly. “I respond very well to praise and positive reinforcement.”

I stop in my tracks and face him. His grin picks up as I step toward him with a hand on my hip. I follow the slow bob of his throat when he swallows and stands up straight.

“You were a very good boy out there, Everett,” I croon, considering it payback for that goddamn wink. Blatant flirting is new for him. I want to call him on it, but I liked it too much to chastise him. “I’m going to give you a gold star.”

I grab his right hand and yank off his glove. I uncap the permanent marker I keep in my pocket with my teeth and bend his wrist. On the side of his hand, above his thumb, I draw a big, obnoxious star. Feeling bold, I add a heart at one of the bottom points.

“Holy shit,” he whispers. A choked sound follows, and the rumblings of a whimper fill the space between us. The noise is magnified with no one else around, both teams long gone and no coaching staff left on the ice, and I wonder what it would sound like muffled in the crook of my neck. “I’m going to turn this into a tattoo.”

“Please.” I snort. “You would never.”

“Guess you’ll have to wait and find out the next time we see each other.” Grant takes his hand back and stares at the marking. “Damn. I score the game-winning goal and you touched me? I won twice tonight.”

My skin heats. My heart soars to my throat. He’s acting even bolder than I am, fast and loose with his affection when he used to be so much more cautious. It’s intoxicating. An adrenaline rush that hits like a two-finger pour of the richest liquor, and I’m so far past the danger zone.

“You can’t say those things to me,” I murmur, trying to get a handle on this conversation. “Not where anyone could hear you and misinterpret what’s going on.”

“Yeah?” He steps closer. I can smell the sweat clinging to his jersey. I can see the flicker of lust behind his eyes as he maps out the necklace I’m wearing and the buttons on my shirt. “Tell me to stop, Lia, and I will.”