by Lia Riley
He pressed two fingers to his temple. He’d kill for another Jed West on the team, a natural leader with the rare combination of poise and skill.
The press corps stuffed into the room’s perimeter, holding their collective breath.
Waiting.
Waiting.
The silent question was almost audible. Will Tor Gunnar go rogue?
The powers that be had made one thing crystal clear. With the lockout in effect, NHL staff were instructed to cut off contact with players. Violating the terms was to risk bringing down hell, everything from fines to forfeiture of future draft picks. Simply walking in here took steel balls, especially with the jackals from the press prowling the room’s perimeter.
But these guys were family. His family. And he’d be damned if he let them go without some sort of send-off. He wanted them to know he was here. That he cared no matter what . . . win or lose, rain or shine, good times and bad. This game was bigger than a paycheck, bigger than a contract.
They were brothers in arms.
Take Munro and Nicholson on the right, defensemen with matching navy blue Mohawks. Once fierce rivals, they had even gotten into a fistfight their first year, but were now next-door neighbors in Cherry Creek. There was Petrov, the center who’d finished the game stuck in the penalty box, engaged to wingman Ericksen’s twin sister.
Tor turned to face Patrick “Patch” Donnelly, hunched in front of an end locker. Even though the kid would be the death of him, he lived and breathed the sport as if it was more than a game, something vital to his existence. Patch glowered back, elbows propped on his knees, hands clasped, a picture of forced calm, his eyes as bright and menacing as a caged tiger’s.
He’d demonstrated that same feral intensity at Boston College when Tor had personally recruited him after hearing rumors of a prodigy player who’d almost joined the seminary to become a priest. A walking contradiction who had a broken nose and reputation for brawling, and yet had majored in theology and was conversant in Catholic conciliar traditions—everything from Nicaea to Vatican II.
One of the journalists coughed in his fist and Tor refocused, remembering his greater audience. He’d deal with Donnelly’s anger issues later. He’d come in here to exploit an elephant-sized loophole. As head coach, he might not be allowed to talk, but not all communication was verbal. Who knew what his team would get up to during the ongoing negotiations? Some might head overseas for pickup work. Others might turn to liquor and ladies. All of them better double down at the gym, remain in peak fitness, ready to hit the ice at first word.
He shot his goalie one final glance. Here was to hoping that Patch didn’t retreat to a monastery on an island in the middle of the North Atlantic. He seemed the type to pull a Luke Skywalker and vanish into thin air.
Tor raked a hand through his hair and turned away with a terse nod. He’d made his point without crossing a line. Sure, the suits would be pissed, but as the door slammed, he allowed a grimly satisfied smile.
They better believe that he’d go into this lockout on his own terms.
The press poured out, hot on his heels. And—no surprise—there she was, front and center, jaw jutting as their gazes locked, tenacious as a goddamn bulldog even though she was as tiny as a Chihuahua.
Neve Angel.
No other reporter in this city got under his skin the same way. As much as he wanted to ignore the electric jolt that shocked him every time she was close, he had to admit he was a sucker for the pain.
He’d be tempted to find her snarky columns amusing if she wasn’t so hell-bent on making him the butt of every goddamn joke. How he was too serious in his mannerisms. No nitpick was too small or too petty. She even took him to task over his fucking tie collection, and started a now-popular meme about the fact that he never changed his stoic facial expressions, no matter if the Hellions lost a game or won the championships.
Their fractious relationship made for popular YouTube fodder. She’d slip in a sly question at postgame press conferences, seemingly innocent but designed to slip under his collar and rankle. He never got the sense she was intimidated by his frosty temperament.
He could make a six-foot defenseman weep without raising his voice, but this hellcat? She’d just cock one of those defiant brows and smirk.
While not delicately pretty, she possessed an elusive allure, like starlight on water, a sort of face that a man could lose hours studying and still never grasp all its secrets.
“Care to comment on the lockout, Coach?” Todd from the AP called.
Jesus, pull it together. Tor refocused and took off walking. “This is between the players and people way above my pay grade.”
“What does this mean for your losing streak?”
“How are you going to handle the Donnelly situation?”
“What are your plans to ride this out?”
“Do you think the contracts are unfair?”
But he meant it. He wasn’t saying shit.
They began dropping off. Only one person kept pace.
“Coach Gunnar.” Neve’s voice was as brisk as her trot. “Coach Gunnar!”
“Not today, Angel. I’m not in the mood.” He wasn’t going to let her track him like a damn deer all the way out to his car. And she wasn’t going to back off. Time to execute plan B.
“Coach!”
“Let me be clear.” He paused in front of the men’s room. “It’s been a long night. I gotta drain the tank, so unless you’re volunteering to hold it for me, we’ll have to leave things here.”
He veered into the john without a backward look. Because if he did, he’d be forced to reckon with those unnerving eyes, the ones that always saw too much.
At least Neve Angel hadn’t sniffed out the day’s other breaking story . . .
Join Maddy Kline and Daniel Cox as they embark on a shared life . . .
The invite had arrived in the mail this morning. Maddy had mailed the damn invitation to his office, probably a silent reminder to the day she’d walked out, saying “It’s your job or me. Choose.”
And he did.
Maddy had moved on and it was all water under the bridge by this point. But her upcoming marriage shone a spotlight on the fact that he was still stuck. Work was his whole identity. He didn’t know who he was if he wasn’t “Coach.”
But with this lockout in effect, he might be forced to find out.
Chapter Three
“I’ll hold it for him all right,” Neve snarled at her fellow reporters. “And then I’ll tie that man’s dick into a bow.”
And if his insinuation about her hand being anywhere in the vicinity of his Big Lebowski left her mouth dry, it was just a reminder that she needed to drink more water.
Hydration was important.
“What do we do? Draw straws for who goes in after him?” Bill from ESPN reached into his pocket as if to pull out a handful.
Everyone wore identical, terrified “not I” expressions. Tor Gunnar was a force of nature and no one had enough bravery—or stupidity—to bug him during a piss. They could find a urinal cake shoved down their throat for their trouble.
Neve noted the group mired in indecision and turned for the exit with a one-shouldered shrug. While they all clucked like nervous hens, she’d swoop in like a hawk and snatch the scoop.
“Didn’t expect you to give up so fast, Angel,” someone shouted.
She didn’t reply, hoping they’d laugh off her finger bomb. Because maybe . . . just maybe . . . her hunch on the coach was right on the money. There was the old adage “Keep your friends close and enemies closer.” It totally applied when it came to her hate-tionship with Tor Gunnar.
She didn’t break into a run until she had pushed out the exit into the crisp night air. The door snicked shut and she dug in, arms pumping, messenger bag knocking against her hip.
Thank God she’d been setting the treadmill to eight-minute miles at the gym.
She skidded around the corner and straight into a good news/bad news moment.
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The good news was that her instincts were right. Tor Gunnar wasn’t the type to be treed like a cougar by a pack of bloodhounds. He was far too wily. The men’s bathroom window screen lay on the pavement, right where he’d kicked it out with one of those big lace-up leather boots he wore, the ones that went well with that tailored suit that matched his dark blue eyes. In the streetlight, they shone a rich twilight blue, a color that made smart girls stupid.
The bad news was that she gaped at him from an uncomfortably close vantage point. They stood chest to chest, or boobs to ribs to be exact. She’d smacked right into him, but it wasn’t like running into a wall. No. There was nothing wall-like going on here. This was all man, flesh and blood, even if he was as immovable as mortared brick.
“Well, well, well.” She forced her body to lock up, stiffening her muscles so as not to betray the slightest tremble, even as a hot wind blew through her ladyparts, clearing away the dust and cobwebs. “Fancy meeting you here. That was some game tonight. You getting your goalie enrolled in an anger-management class or what?”
Muscles bunched in Tor Gunnar’s jaw, ones that never seemed to appear unless she was around. The rest of the press pool called it his “Angel anger muscles.” She wasn’t one to toot her own horn, but when it came to pissing off this man, she possessed a remarkable gift.
“You never quit, do you?” His tone was flat, but he didn’t protest or ask what she was doing there. He gave her that credit. As much as he rubbed her the wrong way, she respected him as a worthy adversary.
“I aim to live my life so that my tombstone can say Nevertheless, she persisted.”
That earned a snort. She’d take that as her in.
“Anyway, look on the bright side. The lockout news was even worse than the final score, am I right?”
He didn’t take the bait. Nor did she expect him to. He was far too disciplined to drop a useful quote so easily, at least not right away. She’d have to play him like a conductor, work him up until he sang like a pissed-off canary.
“My source in the commissioner’s office says that there’s a chance this could drag on for the rest of the season. But then maybe it’s a blessing.”
Those twilight eyes darkened to midnight black. Most people would shrink at the warning.
Good thing that she wasn’t most people.
“A blessing?” He leaned in, his voice a lethal whisper.
Something shifted in the air between them, a magnetic force that sucked air from her lungs.
Her shrug was a study in nonchalance even as a shiver shuddered down her spine. “It would be such a shame for the Hellions to have an epic flop after enjoying back to back years on top. But there’s no way your team is even going to qualify for the playoffs. Lends credence to the idea that the real credit for the Hellions success was Jed West.”
“Bullshit.” His carved features were schooled in careful impassivity. “My team’s still finding their feet with the new lineup. If the knuckleheads on the Board of Governors pulled their heads out of their deskbound asses for two seconds, they’d see . . .” He froze, realizing what he had done. Two lines etched his high forehead. Two more between his arrogant brows. Cracks in the stony veneer.
“Mmm-hmm. Knuckleheads . . . and deskbound asses—now, there’s a turn of phrase.” Neve licked her lips in slow triumph. “I’m afraid their rebuttal won’t be nearly as flowery.”
Shadows haunted his high cheekbones, the angles sharp and unforgiving, inherited from whatever Viking ancestor also bestowed that thick blond hair. It didn’t take much imagination to picture Tor Gunnar’s doppelgänger plundering hapless Scandinavian villages during the Dark Ages. He looked warlike even when standing still and breathing.
And yet . . .
And yet.
She didn’t step back in retreat. He couldn’t take a full step forward either, not when she was still squished against him. The only feature not absolutely brutal in his face was his wide mouth, the bold, sensual lips that hovered close to hers as he bent and whispered in a rasp, “What the fuck do you want?” His breath held a trace of wintergreen.
She was ready to dish back a serving of sass, except no plucky banter came out. Only a moan, one that hitched raggedly on the end note and carried a heavy dose of breathlessness.
Her brain stuttered, unable to get back in gear. What was she doing, standing here dazed and confused, thinking less about getting a scoop and more on what it would be like if he scooped her up? Hauled her against the brick wall behind them. Tore open her shirt and sucked her nipples through the thin cotton of her bra with those big mean lips?
His gaze lasered on hers in stunned surprise, as if he’d been granted security clearance to review her most confidential fantasies. A hum buzzed through her stomach. No gentle fluttering of butterflies, but a hive of bees, and it wasn’t clear if they were about to sting or make sweet, sweet honey.
Somewhere a door slammed and voices filled the night. The press pool rounded the corner. The best and brightest had finally pieced together what she had deduced two minutes earlier.
Tor was making a getaway.
Her face heated; thank God it was night. She moved back, but her gestures were awkward, clumsy even. Restless energy coursed through her. In the distance a siren wailed.
“Shit,” Tor muttered.
Her colleagues gaped, their eyes still adjusting to the darkness.
“What’s going on?” Todd’s nose had gone red from the biting November wind. He’d invited Neve out for drinks once. When she’d turned him down, he’d inquired if she was a lesbian, as if that was the only plausible explanation.
“Nothing.” Tor strode towards his car.
“Didn't look like nothing a second ago,” Todd kept pushing. “What gives? You two have a thing?”
“Yeah. Right.” His laugh was dismissive. “Sorry, not into cold fish. If I got off on a dick freeze, I’d fuck a penguin.” With that he shot off without so much as a backward glance.
Neve didn't flinch. Later she was going to be proud of that fact. Instead she pursed her mouth into what might appear to be mild amusement. She could nail this look better than those double salchows from her figure skating days. No, she didn't give a single sign that Coach’s words sliced through her softest, most sensitive pieces.
Cold fish. Cold fish? Cold fish! Hell no, she was a red-hot barracuda of revenge.
His Porsche roared to life, mirroring the blood accelerating through her veins. She watched him tear from the parking lot with steely-eyed resolve. Freedom of speech was all well and good, but Mr. Fuck-a-Penguin had issued serious fighting words.
This meant war.
Language could be wielded like a weapon; she knew that better than anyone, and with the lockout in place, she was going to have to get more creative with her story ideas. Readers, and her pain-in-the butt editor—Scott Moore—loved top-five lists. She mentally rubbed her hands together as she selected the perfect clickbait title to pitch:
Top Five Worst Coaches in the NHL
Guess who’d just earned himself a primo spot?
Chapter Four
Tor stalked into his foyer and kicked the front door closed behind him. He bypassed the couch and flat-screen in favor of the kitchen, where he opened the liquor cabinet and removed a dusty bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. He didn’t drink much, but when the urge struck then he didn’t mess around.
The new leopard gecko that his daughter Olive had suckered him into buying sat on a log under its aquarium heat lamp. He checked its water. His ten-year-old daughter hadn’t been able to decide on a suitable name before her mother had picked her up and so it was stuck nameless until her return.
“What was I supposed to say?” he asked the lizard.
The gecko stared back, eyes wide, body unmoving.
“I’m telling you, buddy, Neve Angel drives me to drink.”
He picked up the bottle, ready to pour half the contents down his throat if it meant softening the hard-on busting through his p
ants. This bad news day was made all the worse by the fact that his traitor cock had been standing at attention ever since his parking lot encounter with Neve.
“I envy you, you know,” he muttered to the gecko. “Happily alone. Minding your own business. Good life.”
He poured a hefty double shot into the tumbler, no ice, and took it to his master-bedroom bathroom, shooting back the amber-colored bourbon in a single gut-searing gulp before shedding his work clothes.
No need for a tie for a while.
He ripped it off his neck and tossed it onto the stone floor. Once naked, he stepped into the shower and turned on the spray without waiting for the temperature to adjust. The chill before the hot water would douse the throb in his balls.
A quick glance at his shaft showed the thought for what it was—a whole lot of wishful thinking. He gripped himself hard at the root, hissing more from the sensation shooting to the pit of his gut than the now-hot water needling his bare chest. He eschewed lubing with the body wash perched on the ledge, stroking himself the old-fashioned way. He kept his rhythm methodical, up and down, down and up, up and down, down and twist over the head. His other hand braced on the granite tile.
But try as he might to make this a run-of-the-mill jack off, his mind unlocked a back door and forbidden thoughts slipped through, ones where Neve watched him, her dark eyes riveted on his cock as she devoured every inch.
His fingers on the wall curled into his palm at the idea, making a fist, and before he pounded it against the stone in a half-hearted, frustrated punch, he paused to imagine what it would be like to slide his hand down and cup the back of her head, to press her to his groin, urge her to take everything he had to give. Her wavy dark hair always looked so lush, so shiny. Yeah. He’d grab a great greedy fistful as her tight little mouth took him straight to heaven.
