Page 77 of Face Off With Fate

“What’s the problem, Monroe? Never seen a naked woman before?”

The bed dipped as she climbed back on.

“I’ve seen a naked woman. That’s not the problem…” I’ve never seen you naked. “What are you doing?” I asked, catching a flash of something as I opened my eyes.

“Keep ’em closed, unless you want to see skin.”

Now I wanted nothing more than to reopen them.

“Okay, you’re good.”

She’d traded the robe for a San Jose Stars shirt so oversized she was swimming in it, the hem brushing dangerously high on her thighs.

“Whose shirt is that? Did one of my players give it to you?”

Who the hell was I?

She gave me a flat look. “Yes. In fact, I have one from every member of your team. Making my rounds through the roster, actually.” I deserved the middle finger she flipped me. “They sell loads of these at the flea market, asshole. Though sometimes the quality is questionable.” She motioned to the tagline under the green star outlined in blue with a giant ‘S’.

San Jose Starts.

“Guy let me buy it for five dollars, given the typo.”

I shook my head, fighting against the pull to smile. “You know you could ask me for a shirt, and I’d get you one for free.”

“Fine. Get me a shirt, Coach. Next question.” She tucked a damp lock behind her ear. She looked bare-faced and innocent, the complete opposite of what was swirling in my mind.

My eyes—and apparently my brain—wanted to travel south. I forced a blink, trying not to imagine what was underneath that shirt.

Tiny shorts? Underwear?

Every possibility made my chest tighten and my pulse race. I gritted my teeth and forced my attention on the TV instead.

Focus on the screen. That’s all you’re allowed to look at.

“What’s your beef with the NHL?”

I stiffened.

That was one way to kill the mood.

Normally I’d dodge the question. For some reason, I found myself answering.

“The organization threw me under the bus back when I was a player. Had a career-ending injury in the middle of the season, and instead of backing me, they painted me as a problem.” I let out a humorless laugh. “A troubled player who couldn’t handle it, that’s what they said about me in the press. As if I didn’t just lose everything I’d worked for since I could skate.”

Her eyes softened, making me want to keep talking.

“I was angry. I was lost. But instead of helping me figure it out, they hung me out to dry.” I pushed the steak around my plate, letting another confession slip out. “When I came back as a coach, I decided I wouldn’t play their game. That I didn’t care if they liked me or not since they’d proven I couldn’t trust them. And now, I have to fix the very fucking thing they created.”

There was a beat of silence before she broke it by shoving her fork in my face. “Cheesecake. You need a bite of cheesecake.” The tines press against my lips. Her brow ticked up in challenge when I didn’t immediately open.

I sighed. Relenting.

“Good boy.”

I choked on the bite, graham cracker crust scattering across the towel I’d thankfully put down.

“I find I always feel better after a mouthful of something.”