Coasting (Gold Hockey Book 8) Read online

  Because he’d hurt Calle.

  But for this moment, Coop knew that he had to play it smart and easy and . . . persistent. She needed to keep seeing him, and he needed to find ways to make it so she couldn’t ignore him.

  He waited until practice was over, until after the individual groups had come together for a quick chat at center ice. That talk was now breaking up as the guys headed to the locker room to shower and change and thus, it was the perfect opportunity to ask, “Calle, I have a question about that positioning in the corner. Can you show me again?”

  Blue, heading toward the door leading off the ice, glanced back at him, expression incredulous, knowing damn well Coop didn’t have any questions about the play.

  So, perhaps he wasn’t the smoothest when it came to getting Calle alone.

  Probably, it would start talk in the locker room, and he’d soon be facing the nth degree from Brit and company.

  But he had to start somewhere, and the safest place seemed to be on the ice.

  Calle had been avoiding him for three weeks now, but he’d used the time to figure out his head, to cement what he’d really known all along—that Calle was the woman for him. He didn’t care that she was pregnant by someone else, didn’t care that she was his coach, didn’t care that he was risking his job.

  Calle was more important.

  And he’d be lying if he said the baby in her womb didn’t already feel a bit like his. He’d heard the heartbeat, seen the image. The tie was already there, and there was no going back.

  Now, he just needed to convince Calle of that fact.

  At his question, she glanced toward the bench, as though the open door could pull her through it, but then she visibly straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and nodded, as the rest of the team left. “Okay.”

  “I was wondering about . . .” he said, trailing off as he closed the distance between them, his eyes flicking toward the side, and the rest of the team leaving. Bernard was there, and the head coach gave him an assessing look, though it wasn’t disapproving.

  He made a mental note to have a conversation with him, and also with PR-Rebecca, if he managed to get Calle not to run away from him every time he was within ten feet.

  “Wondering what?” she asked, words sharp.

  Coop’s gaze drifted the other way, noticing that while the stands were mostly emptied out—today’s practice had been open to the public to come watch—there were still a few fans in the stands.

  Time would tell if the audience made her feel more or less comfortable.

  “I was wondering what you’d recommend for body positioning if the puck comes out that way—” He pointed with his stick.

  Deep chocolate eyes on his. “You’re full of shit.”

  He nodded. “I am.”

  She slipped off her glove and brushed a strand of hair off her face. But then she sighed and asked, “What do you want, Coop?”

  “To make sure you’re okay.”

  Amongst other things.

  But—no pun intended—baby steps.

  Another sigh, her eyes drifting over his shoulder and her jaw visibly tightening. “I’m fine.”

  He pointed with his stick again because don’t let it be said he didn’t take a ruse to its full potential. “Not sick still?” he asked. “The nausea is better?” He hadn’t seen or come across her getting sick in the last few weeks, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t gotten better at hiding it.

  “I want to sigh again,” she said, “but I’m worried I’m going to turn into a moody teenager if I do.”

  He grinned. “I like you, moody or not.”

  “Forget it.” She sighed for a third time. “I’m fine, Coop. I’ve got this under control”—he opened his mouth—“and yes, before you ask again, the nausea is better. The trip to Anaheim was the worst of it.”

  She was telling him the truth. He knew her well enough by now to recognize that.

  “What’s next?” he asked.

  “If I tell you, will you chill out with the protectiveness?” she asked. “Because I swear, every time I turn a corner, you’re there waiting for me to collapse.”

  More like having scoped out all available trash cans and ready to thrust it under her mouth at the slightest sign of pale skin or imminent vomiting. Not that he was going to mention that in this moment.

  He might not be smooth.

  But he wasn’t fucking stupid.

  However, he also wasn’t going to promise to not protect her. Calle was his. And maybe she didn’t know it yet, but that was going to change, and—

  She was looking at him for an answer.

  “I’m not waiting for you to collapse.”

  The look she shot him was dark enough that he should have felt its physical impact right in the balls. “I’m not sick. I’m not tired. I’ve signed a five-year deal, and the board, as well as Bernard, know about the pregnancy.”

  Good. That was all good.

  “And Jason?”

  A roll of her eyes, but the action didn’t hide the layer of hurt there. What Coop didn’t know was whether the hurt was because she was missing the asshole or just from general sadness that her kid’s bio dad was a douche who would never play the role of father properly.

  “He signed the papers,” she said. “My lawyer received them yesterday.” Her eyes dropped to the ice. “I will admit I’m feeling a little guilty to be relieved. I want my baby to have a dad, just not one that will flit in and out of his life when it’s convenient. I had that, and it—” She made a face. “Let’s just say, it wasn’t the greatest.” One more long sigh then eyes up, chin up, placid expression on her face. “Okay, now I’ve allowed you the one heart-to-heart conversation you’re going to get. Let’s go back to you forgetting I’m pregnant until the rest of the team knows.”

  Yeah, no. That wasn’t going to happen.

  “His?” he asked as she started skating to the bench. He followed her obviously and so got to see the façade slip slightly, the softness gentling her features. “I thought your appointment wasn’t for another week. You went back to the doctor and found out already?”

  Calle shook her head. “No,” she said. “I might be able to find out at my next appointment, something about the angle of the dangle—” She made a face. “Which sounds like a porn film, but it’s not a hundred percent, and so I won’t know for sure until I have my twenty-week ultrasound.”

  Coop made a mental note to download some baby books after he talked to Bernard and PR-Rebecca. He needed to know about things like ultrasounds and angles of the dangles—which coincidentally did sound like the name for a bad porn movie.

  “So why him?”

  She stepped off the ice. “Just feels like a him, I guess.”

  He followed Calle down the hall. “I can picture it. A rambunctious little brown-haired boy with mischievous chocolate eyes and boundless energy.”

  Her feet slid to a stop. “What are you doing, Coop?”

  Why did she sound pissed?

  “I’m just talking,” he said carefully.

  “No,” she snapped, rounding on him. Even if he hadn’t been able to hear her, he definitely would have known she was pissed, those pretty chocolate eyes sparked with annoyance, and a muscle ticked in her jaw. “What you’re doing is trying to insert yourself into my life without me wanting it. Asking about the baby and my appointment schedule. Worrying about whether I’m feeling sick. Going behind my back and changing my contract offer so I can date you without consequence.” She rapped her stick on the floor. “It’s too fucking much, and you need to stop it now. I’m your coach. That’s it. That’s all it will ever be.”

  Okay, there was a lot to unpack with that statement.

  But he couldn’t focus on her words in that moment, not when she’d stepped closer, not when her body was a mere hairsbreadth from his, and not when he could smell her.

  Fuck, he loved the way she smelled.

  His fingers ached to reach out and grab hold of her.

&nb
sp; She turned away and tossed her gloves into the bin that lined the hallway. Their equipment manager would take care of laundering and drying them, but he was hardly thinking of Richie in that moment. Because a moment after he followed Calle’s lead, dumping his gloves into the bin as well, she whipped around and jabbed her finger into his chest.

  He barely felt it, of course, not with all of his equipment on.

  But he also seriously felt it, as though that simple press of her fingertip had seared through the layers of padding and fabric, of tissue and muscle and bone, and seared her touch on his soul.

  “Stay out of my life,” she gritted, her chest coming in rapid rises and falls. “I’m not in the market for another here-again-gone-tomorrow asshole who thinks he can control me.”

  “First,” he said, stepping closer, capturing that finger in his hand, tugging her flush against him. “I’m not a here-again-gone-tomorrow type of man. I see something I like, and I go after it.” He dropped his head, inhaling the scent of her hair and feeling his cock grow uncomfortably hard inside the cup he wore. “And I follow it through to the end.” She shuddered when he placed his palm on the side of her neck.

  “Second, I’m not trying to control you, Calle. I like you. I want you in my life so we can explore this draw between us. I’ve never met a woman I want to be with more, and that’s not just because you’re beautiful, but also because you’re smart and funny and talented.”

  Her mouth dropped open and, mutely, she shook her head.

  “It’s true,” he whispered. “I saw you during the gold medal game, saw you cheering on your team and then how they included you afterward. I knew then you were a good person and a good teammate.”

  “Coop—”

  “Then I followed your career, happy when I saw your name popping up in different coaching circles, thrilled they were getting to be bigger and bigger opportunities.” He cupped her cheek. “I didn’t really know you, but I, like the rest of America, felt like I did, and I wanted you to succeed.”

  She sucked in a breath.

  “And when you came to this team, when I knew you’d be coaching, I was fucking over the moon. I knew you’d be great. I just didn’t know I’d end up falling for you and trying to pretend I hadn’t for two solid years.”

  Silence.

  “I don’t know what the deal with the contract is,” he said. “All I know is I promised myself I’d leave you alone, and even though I’m failing at that, you have to believe me when I say, I definitely didn’t go over your head.” He willed her to see the truth. “I would never do anything to affect your career, especially not in that way.”

  More silence.

  Then, “I know.”

  He relaxed. “Good. I like you, sweetheart. Not for any other reason than you’re absolutely incredible.”

  She inhaled sharply and neither of them said anything further. Calle’s eyes were still on his, delving deeply, as though they could judge the truth of his words, if only she stared long or hard enough. She rose on tiptoe, bringing their mouths so close together that the barest movement on his part would align their lips.

  But Coop didn’t move, instinctively knowing that he’d made a move, he’d laid out his cards, that he’d pressed and pushed and now she needed the space to take the next step. Her lids closed, her body melted against his, and he still didn’t unfreeze, even going so far as to hold his breath.

  Her tongue darted out, moistening the lush pink bottom lip.

  Fuck, he wanted to suckle on that lip, to have his against it, to run his tongue over it.

  Patience.

  Persistence.

  Patien—

  Her lips brushed his.

  Heat exploded down his spine, and his mouth took on a life of its own, lips parting, tongue delving deeply into her mouth.

  He didn’t give her a nice kiss, or a gentle one. He wasn’t sweet or easy. He brought every single technique of his teeth and tongue and lips to ramp her desire up so high that she’d want to keep on kissing him even as the world fell apart around them.

  Eventually—needing oxygen was a fucking pain—he lifted his head, allowing them to both suck in some much-needed air.

  “I think that kiss alone says that we need to find a way to explore what’s between us, love,” he murmured, lightly tracing his thumb across her bottom lip. “I’ve never felt anything like how I feel when I’m with you.”

  A shake of her head, lips still parted as she breathed rapidly. “It’s just hormones. I—”

  He kissed her again, long and deep and with plenty of tongue. When he pulled back, cupping her jaw in his palm, he held her eyes. “Not just hormones.”

  “I gained eight pounds,” she blurted instead of agreeing with him. “I already gained eight pounds, and I’m going to be a disgusting, fat cow by the time I push this baby out, and you’re you, and I’m—”

  Coop decided the best way to progress this conversation along was to just keep kissing her.

  So, he did.

  At least until his lungs were screaming and she was nearly limp against him. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured then hurried to ask when that made her frown, “Go on one date with me?” He wanted her willing and pliable, not arguing with him over her appearance. So, he added, “Just one date. We’ll stop if it’s horrible, and no one will be the wiser.”

  She nibbled on her bottom lip and nodded.

  “Tomorrow night?” he asked. “I’ll pick you up at seven?”

  More nibbling, but also, more nodding. “Okay.”

  His heart could have fucking burst from his chest, her answer gave him so much joy, but before he could kiss her again, before he could take just one more taste, Bernard appeared around the corner.

  The coach didn’t blink, not even when Calle quickly stepped away.

  “Can I borrow you for a minute?” Bernard asked Calle.

  She shot a look over her shoulder at Coop, bit her lip again, which made him really want to tug her close again and kiss the shit out of her. But he’d gotten her to agree to a date, so he wasn’t going to blow it now.

  “Thanks for the help,” he said.

  She nodded and hurried off down the hall.

  Bernard followed her, sending an assessing look Coop’s way and . . . had he just nodded approvingly? That was . . . really weird.

  But Coop didn’t have time to focus on the oddness surrounding the head coach.

  He had a date to plan.

  One during which he’d bust out every fucking play in the romance and wooing playbook that he knew or could think of.

  One he’d make the best first date ever.

  One he’d make so great that Calle would agree to go on another. And then another. And then another, until she was so wooed and romanced and tied to him that she’d never let him go.

  Twelve

  Calle

  This was a huge mistake.

  A giant mistake.

  She never should have agreed to go on a date with Coop. Never.

  But the man had kissed her—well, technically she’d started it. But the point was, he’d been standing there slightly sweaty and totally yummy, the spicy masculine scent of him surrounding her, his eyes so gentle and warm.

  And she’d wanted just a taste of that warm.

  A taste of him.

  He’d given her that taste all right, and enough of it to turn her brain to mush and make her agree to stupid shit.

  Like dates.

  Which brought her to that evening.

  The night before the team left for their road trip and she was standing in front of her closet, surveying the contents.

  And finding them sorely lacking, it had to be noted.

  She was going on a first date with a man who was totally inappropriate for her, and who also was the first man in her life where a first date meant a whole lot more than splitting the check over a mediocre dinner and a couple of cocktails.

  For one, it wasn’t a cheat day on Nutritionist Rebecca’s plan.

&
nbsp; For two, this was a date with Coop.

  And she’d gained eight pounds. And already going into it, she had exactly one outfit that was worthy-enough-for-a-first-date-with-Coop—which meant it was sexy and not a T-shirt and sweats or a pair of fancy slacks and button-down she wore to the games. And in that one outfit, the shirt was too tight and the pants wouldn’t button because . . . she’d gained eight fucking pounds.

  She was going to be a behemoth.

  A whale.

  Floors were going to collapse under her feet.

  Her skates were going to sink right through the ice to the sand beneath the paint.

  Never mind that most of the guys still outweighed her by a good forty pounds, even with the eight-pound weight gain. Calle wasn’t in the mood to be logical. She was in an absolute tizzy—scared and excited about the date, with a dash of how-can-you-possibly-think-this-is-a-good-idea? thrown in.

  And she was in sweats.

  And a T-shirt.

  Because nothing else fit.

  “Get it together, Stevens,” she muttered, shoving one hanger after the other over the rack. “He’s seen you in sweats too many times to count. Thus, he must like you in sweats. Thus thus”—yes, she was well-aware she was slowly going insane—“you should not be freaking out about something as stupid as an outfit when you’re pregnant with another man’s baby and trying to figure out your life, your career, and who will be the best nanny to trust with said baby because it’s already terrifying to think about leaving him or her and—” She dropped her chin to her chest, blinking back tears. Again. For the hundredth time in the last few days, it seemed.

  She’d switched nausea for crying fits, apparently, and could honestly say she didn’t know which was worse.

  “And it’s going to be okay.”

  That statement didn’t come from her.

  In fact, it came from someone male and someone very much not her and . . . it came from Coop, okay?