Coasting (Gold Hockey Book 8)
Coasting
Gold Hockey #8
Elise Faber
COASTING
BY ELISE FABER
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
COASTING
Copyright © 2020 Elise Faber
Print ISBN-13: 978-1-946140-68-5
Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-946140-67-8
Cover Art by Jena Brignola
Gold Hockey Series
Blocked
Backhand
Boarding
Benched
Breakaway
Breakout
Checked
Coasting
Centered
Contents
Gold Hockey Series
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Epilogue
Centered
Gold Hockey Series
Gold Hockey
Also by Elise Faber
About the Author
One
Coop
“So, in conclusion, you need to get your fucking head out of your fucking ass,” Calle snapped into her cell phone. “Otherwise, I swear to fucking God I will never, ever talk to you again.”
Coop had just exited through the arena door, the entire team having gathered to watch their nutritionist and newfound best-selling author, Rebecca, on a national morning show promoting her book. The shy, quiet redhead was unassuming but also a major reason the Gold were currently the number one team in the league. She’d come up with the diet plan the entire team was following, which was a major source of their increased energy and shortened injury recovery time.
He knew he, for one, had never felt better, thanks to Rebecca and the rest of the training staff.
But another one of the reasons the team was doing so incredibly well was standing right in front of him, forehead pressed to her clenched fists, one of which still clutched her cell phone.
Calle Stevens, newest assistant coach for the Gold and former national team member. She was tall for a woman and slender, but also deceptively powerful, with thighs, shoulders, and arms that bespoke of the graceful and fierce player she’d been on the ice. She might have blown out her knee, but that inner athlete never completely faded. Add in a head for the game that out thought most coaches twice her age, and she had been a huge boon to the team when they’d picked her up.
She was also even.
That was the best description Coop could think for her. Never raised her voice, always ready with a smile or joke. Stern sometimes, yes. Tough, for sure. But she wasn’t a yeller.
And after playing hockey from the time he was five, he’d been on plenty of teams with yellers.
Calle sighed and pocketed her phone, staring off into the distance for several long moments before sweeping her long brown hair back into a ponytail and turning to reenter the building.
Which was the moment that he realized he should have moved.
Coop should have gone when he’d stumbled onto the conversation that was obviously private since she’d stepped outside to take it.
But he hadn’t because . . . well, Calle wasn’t the type of person who screamed into cell phones, who took long, centering breaths before dashing her thumb under each eye, as though she were wiping away tears.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t yell. She—
Was staring right at him.
“Hey,” she said after a long moment, blinking the distance from her gaze, though he noticed she still focused on a point over his left shoulder and not on him. Her cheeks were flushed pink, but under that, her skin was even paler than normal. More porcelain than peaches and cream. “You have a chance to review those tapes from Dani?” she asked.
Dani was their video coach, and the woman was able to cut, prep, and send clips of games to the team’s tablets faster than most people could unlock their phones. Calle had asked her to send over a package the previous day, and he’d watched them this morning. He nodded. “Yeah, thanks for that. I think it’ll be helpful for me on the breakout. Especially against Tampa Bay.”
Calle brushed a hand through her hair. “Good, good,” she said distractedly.
He frowned. “Are you okay?”
“Hmm?” She finally met his eyes. “Yeah. I’m great.”
Except her tone was completely off.
“Calle,” he said.
Anger edged into her expression, mouth opening, and Coop braced for some of the same pissed-off woman that he’d overheard on her call. But almost as quickly, that fury faded, and her pretty brown eyes filled with tears.
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “I’ll be fine.”
“Who was on the phone?” he asked.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Calle.”
“It doesn’t.” She shook her head brusquely, sucked in a breath.
Maybe he would have let it go, let her go as she walked by, kept things between them strictly professional.
But then he saw the tear.
Glistening in the morning light as it escaped the corner of her eye.
Without thinking, he caught her arm.
“You’re not okay.”
She shuddered to a stop when he touched her, not fighting the grip, chin dropping to her chest. “No,” she said, “you’re right. I’m not okay.”
“Who was on the phone?” he asked gently.
Her jaw went tight. “My ex.”
Fury blazed through him. “Did he hurt you?” he growled.
A shake of her head. “Not like you’re thinking.” She sucked in a breath. “He broke my heart.”
Coop’s own heart gave a twinge. “I’m sorry, Calle. That’s—”
“Fucking stupid.” Another tear joined the first, dripping down the pale skin of her cheek.
“It’s not stupid to have loved someone,” he said gently.
Her eyes went fierce. “It’s incredibly stupid when the person who supposedly loves you right back doesn’t give a damn that you’re pregnant.”
His jaw fell open. He knew it did.
But Calle? Even, gentle Calle had gotten knocked up and—
“Yup,” she said, brushing by him. “See? Really fucking stupid.”
And without another word, she disappeared into the rink.
Two
Calle
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she whispered, the realization of what she’d just said to Coop sinking in now that she was alone in her office.
Pregnant.
She thunked her head down onto her desk. “How could you have been so stupid, Calle Stevens?”
To think that when she’d taken the test that morning, she’d actually had a sliver of hope that she and Jason might get back together, that they might be able to work out their differences, that it might be what jumpstarted their relationship again.
Yeah, that never went wrong.
Becaus
e having a baby always fixed relationships.
“Fuck,” she muttered and forced herself to straighten. She couldn’t think about this now. There was work to do, and it wasn’t like anything was going to change in the next nine months.
Nine. Months.
Oh God.
This was actually happening.
She’d spent her entire life keeping her head down and not making stupid mistakes and . . .
She’d made up for that two months ago.
That was what happened when people got lonely.
They did idiotic things.
Like sleeping with their ex when he’d popped into town while on a road trip. Like dating a hockey player in the first place. Like dating a hockey player who was in the AHL and pissed that he wasn’t in the NHL. One who wasn’t happy that she’d gotten selected to coach an NHL team.
She’d understood.
It was hard to see someone else get breaks and move up in the world and be left behind.
God, how she got that.
She’d watched from the sidelines as her teammates had scored a gold medal, crutches under her arms, standing and cheering, and so fucking thrilled.
But also aching.
Because even though she’d gotten to take home that heavy metal ring of gold, she hadn’t been out there, eking out that win, scrumming on the ice, blocking shots, deking, shooting, scoring. She’d missed sharing the joy of earning that final win.
So, FOMO. Yeah, it was a real bitch.
The difference was that Calle had never held it against her teammates.
Unlike Jason.
He’d been happier when she was recovering from being injured than when she was playing, so attentive and caring and helpful that she hadn’t recognized that particular mindfuck until just before they’d broken up, almost two years before.
Stupid? Probably. But she’d also been so busy with rehab and school that she’d been able to ignore a lot of their problems.
Then Jason had been in town, and he’d called being all sweet, and Calle had been lonely and . . . she’d had a moment of temporary insanity.
Fuck.
Why had she thought for a moment that he might have changed? That this—she placed her hand over her stomach—would change anything.
People didn’t change.
So, now she had a useless prescription for birth control pills that had failed, a job where she worked with tough, strong men all day and where she needed to look tough and strong as well, and pretty soon she was going to be whale-sized, waddling down the hallway.
“Oh God.”
She wanted to plunk her head back down onto her desk, to bang it a few more times for good measure, but she had to get ready for the game that night, which meant she had tape to watch, players to check up on, and line combinations to float by Bernard, the team’s head coach. She also needed to check with the physical therapy staff and make sure there weren’t any new restrictions for the athletes she wanted in the game that she didn’t know about and—
Calle could not fall apart.
That was the most important thing.
Well, that and avoid Coop.
Coop.
Why of all of the Gold players and staff had she blurted out the truth to him?
They were the same age. They’d both grown up in Georgia, though their circles hadn’t overlapped until now, mostly because Calle had been lucky enough to move to be part of a talented, albeit burgeoning, girl’s program in Maine early and hadn’t needed to play with the boys. This was unlike Brit—the team’s starting goalie who was the first female player in the league. A few years older than Calle, she had played mostly on boy’s teams.
What a difference those years had made, though. While Brit had needed to fight her way up through the ranks on all-boys teams, Calle had played with girls her age and older, had opportunities to play on the junior national and participate in training camps before proceeding to make the national team and competing internationally.
Brit had gone to juniors, to the AHL, and finally to the Gold.
And was one of the team’s most talented and solid players.
She was who Calle should have blurted her troubles out to. She got what it was like to be a female in this industry, knew what it was like to deal with male players and their hang-ups and egos.
Brit had also handed many, many assholes their asses.
Calle should have taken notes before calling Jason.
But she’d thought—
“Ugh!” She pushed her chair back and shot to her feet. What was the definition of insanity? Doing the same damned thing over and over again? Well, then the last ten minutes of moping around in her office were fucking insane.
She was thinking herself in circles, wishing that the outcome of her conversation with Jason had been different, that she hadn’t blurted out what was happening to Coop.
But it wasn’t different, and she had blurted.
There wasn’t any way to go back, and she needed to get her shit together and do her fucking job.
“Do your fucking job, Calle Stevens,” she muttered.
Yes, she was talking to herself.
“You have fucking got this.”
Yes, it was morphing into a pep talk.
“Suck it the fuck up and get your shit done.”
Yes, it involved copious f-bombs, but that was hockey and really, the word fuck was the absolute best curse word around. Though asshole had a nice ring to it. Especially today. And douche canoe. That was always a good one.
See? Now she was distracted with thinking about the proper ranking order of curse words and not the problem in her uterus.
Problem—
Fuck.
Her heart spasmed, because no matter that the baby growing inside her was the size of a strawberry—yes, she’d looked it up, right after taking the second test in the pack—she was already in love.
Already feeling protective.
Already imagining holding the precious little bundle in her arms and—
She’d always wanted kids. That wasn’t the issue.
She had a good job with excellent health coverage. She owned a condo, had a car, even a savings account. Calle was capable of caring for a baby.
She’d always just pictured that the caring for a baby part would be shared.
“It’s for the best,” she murmured. Jason wasn’t the partner she wanted to share parental duties with. Maybe she’d been hoping that initially, but the conversation they’d just had told her otherwise.
Such vitriol.
Accusing her of trapping him. Telling her to abort. Saying she wouldn’t get a dime.
And all she’d been able to think was . . . strawberry.
That little strawberry growing inside her body was hers to protect and keep safe, hers to grow and love and—
No, she couldn’t just get rid of it.
She needed a lawyer, to get him to sign his rights away, to make sure he never came back and—
No.
She needed a doctor’s appointment. Calle needed to make sure everything was how it seemed, make sure her little strawberry was safe and well. She needed to cross her T’s, dot her I’s, have a plan of attack.
Her superpower was preparation.
This would be the perfect use of that skill.
She grabbed her tablet, shoved her cell into her pocket, and headed for the door.
Step one, find a doctor. Step two, talk to a lawyer, get Jason the fuck out of her life. Permanently. Step three, find Coop, swear him to secrecy. He wasn’t prone to gossip much, not like the rest of the players, but she needed to make sure he didn’t blab this around until her plan was in motion.
See?
She had this.
Although, maybe she should move step three up to step one. If Coop did say something . . .
She reached for the door handle, pressing it down and tugging the wooden panel open, mentally running through Coop’s schedule and deciding where would be the best place to trac
k him down. The weight room, probably. He always—
“Calle.”
Heat down her spine, goose bumps prickling to life on her arms.
That warm, raspy voice had always been appealing.
Now it had gentled, softened, melted, coating her skin with honey. Her breath caught, her pulse accelerated, and her quads went a little shaky, as though she’d stayed out on the ice for too long of a shift.
She turned, stared up into the face of one of the most attractive men she’d ever laid eyes on. He was as gorgeous as Idris Elba, but even more so, because along with beautiful deep russet skin, intense eyes, and a strong jawline came all of the built yumminess of a hockey player’s body—powerful thighs, narrow waist, totally grabbable ass.
But that attraction had always been tempered with professionalism.
On both their sides.
Well, Coop had always been professional. She’d pretended to be professional while surreptitiously giving into weakness and occasionally checking out his ass.
The point was, she’d been careful to keep a distance between them.
She was a coach. He was a player.
They weren’t friends, couldn’t ever be.
But now he knew something about her. Something big. Something that had changed their dynamic.
Because it wasn’t careful distance in his gaze now.
His deep brown eyes were intense and for a heartbeat, it stole the air from her lungs.
“I—”
She didn’t know what she’d been planning to say, because Coop stepped forward, cutting off her words and crowding her back into her office.