Chapter 11

A fter we meet all the players, shake hands, and sign contracts, the coaches and general managers usher us to the private box for a cocktail after-party. I'd rather get checked into my hotel, but Whit insists I attend. Neither of us brought plus ones; we're the old bachelors who were always married to the game.

I grab a whiskey and find a seat next to Whit. We look down at the arena, surveying the players and guests still carrying on, it's their party. Hockey families catching up with other hockey families and congratulating each other on their recent signings. Hockey can be a small world, especially at the top. Probably more so for female players. Scanning for Barrett and Raleigh, I pause when Kendra comes into view. Her back is to me, but that body is unforgettable. She's chatting with people wearing media badges, and I'm pretty sure I recognize one of them as Lance, the camera operator I met the other night. She points toward some of the new Rogues players, likely directing to get a specific shot or candid interview.

When she turns around, I blow out a breath. She's a showstopper in that off-the-shoulder dress. It's damn near cruel. Dressed to the nines with everyone else, but she's here to work. I smirk, enjoying watching her in her element… Until some asshole comes up and gives her a too-long-for-my-liking hug. I quirk a brow and scrutinize their body language. His touch lingers while she tries to put space between them. He doesn't take the hint and sways with a drink in his hand before settling his palm on her lower back.

Who is that guy? Do I know him?

He looks familiar, but it takes a minute to realize he's one of the guys who plays for Toronto. Or at least he did last time I checked. She reaches behind her and removes his hand from her body, then turns her back to me again and points across the room as if telling him she's got to get going. I grind my teeth when he returns, steps in front of her, and puts an arm around her lower back for the second time, but this time it drops to her ass. Motherfucker.

A tap on my shoulder pulls me away from my glaring.

"What?" I snap. When I realize it's a catering staff member, I take a deep breath and blink a few times. "Sorry." I shake my head. "What's up?"

"Just wanted to know if I can bring you a drink or grab you something to eat…" Their voice is barely above a squeak.

I shake my head. "No, I'm fine, thank you." When I glance back down, Kendra is storming away from the guy. Shit.

"Wait!" When I spin, the catering staffer is practically at my feet, eager to earn a tip. I wave her closer to me and point down toward the arena at Kendra. "Do you see that woman in the long orange dress, one shoulder, curly black hair, all done up?"

"Yeah?"

"She's my producer," I explain. "I'm supposed to be meeting with her, but…" I glance over and snatch up one of the VIP lanyards someone ditched in the seat next to me. "She forgot her credentials." I lie. "Could you bring this to her and make sure she finds her way up to the box?"

"I'm really not supposed to leave…"

I dig out my wallet, grab a couple of bills, and stuff them into her hand.

She looks around, then scurries off, and I turn back to the view below. Kendra's helping some of the camera crew pack up their gear. I pray she stays there long enough for my little catering friend to find her. I shoot off a text to Kendra, telling her to come find me, but with as loud as it probably is down there, I'm sure she can't hear her phone.

So I plop down in my seat and wait.

Whit side-eyes me. "Wanna tell me what that's all about?"

"I really was supposed to meet with her." I shrug.

"You gave that kid my VIP lanyard," he says, calling me out.

"Saw some guy bothering her."

He huffs. "These events are always full of assholes."

I nod. "Speaking of assholes, what the hell happened with Jonathan earlier? I know we haven't worked together long, but we've shared the ice before, and I've never seen you jump on somebody that quick." I don't mention it seemed personal.

He raises his shoulders. "He was a dick. Jonathan needed to be made an example of."

"Well, I think your point got across."

"Good." His answer is short and sweet before he stands. "I'm gonna get another drink."

Seconds later, Kendra takes the open seat, and her normally bright, bubbly, and outgoing personality is detached.

While taking her in, all I can muster is "Hey."

She looks stunning tonight. I feel like a prick when she catches me checking her out. I summoned her, but now that she's next to me, I'm too dumbfounded by her beauty to string a sentence together. Instead, I turn around and offer an appreciative wave to the helpful catering staff member who tracked her down.

"Hey yourself," she mutters. "Thanks for… this." She waves the VIP lanyard and sets it down on the table. "Were you spying on me?"

I narrow my eyes. "Does it really constitute spying if I'm not secretive about it?"

"I suppose not… Well, congratulations on a fantastic player roster. How are you feeling about everything?"

Her hands are still slightly trembling. "When was the last time you ate?"

"I had a protein—"

Always with the protein bars. She probably forgot to eat with everything going on. I stand. "I'll be right back."

I stray over to the catering tables with way too much food and fill a couple plates with a smattering of everything. I'm not sure what she likes or doesn't like. When I return, I set it in front of her.

"I'm not hungry."

I sigh. "Don't argue with me." I know she probably hasn't eaten anything that doesn't come in a wrapper or fast-food bag.

She rolls her eyes at me with a half-cocked smile. " Yes, Daddy ," she mocks.

The smirk on her face calling me daddy? Holy fuck. I never thought I'd be into the whole "daddy" thing, but with Kendra, I can't get enough.

Raising an eyebrow, I respond with "Easy, baby girl" and watch as her neck reddens slightly. Two can play this game. I need to stop flirting with her, but it's so easy to fall into without thinking.

She picks at her food but doesn't eat much. Says her stomach is in knots, which she attributes to nerves from covering the draft. It's unlike her. I can't imagine her flustered in any work environment. Every time I've watched her work, she looks like she's done it a thousand times before.

We hang out in the box talking among ourselves until people begin filtering out. I check my watch and realize it's time to go. "I'm having a great time, but I should probably look at heading out. Did you drive?"

"I'll grab an Uber."

"I've got a rental car. I can take you back to your hotel. Where are you staying?"

"The Grand."

She opens her mouth like she's about to brush me off, but I don't give her the chance.

"Me too."

Funny how things just work out.

When we arrive, I pop the trunk to grab my bag. I can't believe my delayed flight was only this morning, it feels like a week ago. What a day.

She pauses. "You haven't checked in yet?"

"No, my flight got delayed. I barely made it to the arena in time for the opening ceremony."

I close the trunk and roll the luggage at my side as we walk toward the hotel entrance.

"Yikes. Well, the hotel bar is fabulous in case you get thirsty. They make a mean Negroni."

I smirk. Of course she ordered that. "Do you ever drink anything that was invented in the last century?"

She laughs, digging through her purse for her room key. "Classics never die."

We walk through the revolving doors into the, well, grand , lobby. It looks like it came out of the 1920s. No wonder she loves the hotel bar.

"Oh good. I've been jonesing for a good Sidecar ," I say with a bite of sarcasm.

She scrunches her nose and gives me a small shove. "Suit yourself. I think I'm going to grab a nightcap before bed. You know, for spite. Feel free to join me when you realize I have great taste."

I walk toward the desk as she saunters past me toward the bar. "Stay out of trouble," I call to her. "And eat something with that Old Fashioned!" She didn't have enough to eat earlier.

She spins around and winks. I smile, shaking my head. When I face the desk attendant, he greets me with a wide smile, but I notice his eyes dart to the suitcase handle extended at my side.

"Good evening, sir. How can I help you?"

"Evening. Just checking in. Lee Sullivan."

His eyes move the computer screen in front of him, and he taps away.

"Are you staying with someone?"

"Nope. Just me."

"Do you have a confirmation number?"

I furrow my brow. "No, the reservation was set up by someone else."

"Who booked the reservation?"

"Umm…" I grab my phone and open my emails, searching for the admin in charge of booking my room. "Jessica Boelter? Or it might be under Whitney… Olson." I haven't actually met these people, but those are the only contacts I have. "Is there a problem?"

"I see that we had a reservation for you…" He continues clacking away at the keyboard.

Had. Don't like the sound of that.

He nods at the computer. "I see what happened. We had you checking in yesterday with the rest of your party." Everybody else got here a day early, just in case—they were smart. I was hoping to avoid all the partying the night before. "Unfortunately, when you didn't check in within twenty-four hours, we were forced to give your room to someone else. We tried calling you earlier."

Probably while I was on a plane.

"Yeah, I think there must have been some miscommunication on my arrival dates when the rooms were booked. That's fine. Can you hook me up with a new room? I'm fine with whatever you have available." I don't give a shit what happened with my original reservation, just give me a bed so I can crash.

The man grits his teeth, cringing. Shit. "I'm so sorry, we are fully booked for the night. With the hockey draft going on, we're at max capacity. I truly apologize for the mix-up."

I nod and sigh. "Not your fault. Mind if I hang out in the lobby while I find a new hotel?"

"Not at all. And we'd be happy to shuttle you to any nearby lodging. Can I get you something to drink while you wait?"

"I'm good. Thanks."

Damn it.

I roll my suitcase over to a gold-colored upholstered chair off to the side, then unbutton my suit jacket and open the search bar for any available accommodations. Dropping into the chair, I scrub a hand down my face. This is bad. I've been to enough drafts to know that there's probably not anything available. I rest my elbows on my knees while scrolling for hotel vacancies on my phone. It's not going well. After five minutes, it's clear to see there's not a room in the whole fucking city. Everybody is here for the draft.

I can get a room at a hotel outside of the city in the suburbs, but I don't feel like commuting that far out. Especially if I'm supposed to be meeting with my team for breakfast tomorrow. I contemplate driving back to the airport and seeing if I can catch a red-eye home. Brunch be damned.

"Do you need help finding your room?" she says on a giggle, and my frustration eases at the sight of her smile.

I chuckle. "I don't have a room. Whoever booked my travel accommodations had me checking in yesterday. So when I didn't show up, they thought I was a no-show and gave the room away."

"What! Well, have them give you a different room."

"They're fully booked." I glance back down to my phone and scroll. "Every hotel is full. Happens at every draft… Anyway, did you enjoy your bourbon neat or whatever?"

She extracts her phone and taps the screen. "I did. You look like you could use one too… Let's see if I can find something for you." She yawns.

"Don't worry about it. Go up to your room, Kendra. I'll be fine."

She shakes her head, still tapping around. "Damn, you weren't kidding, there's nothing available…" She locks her phone and slips it into her purse. "I can't leave you. You're important to me—I mean, to the show—I need to make sure you get settled. It's part of my job."

"Kendra."

"Come with me to my room. I gotta get out of these shoes and then we'll figure everything out."

"You don't have to—"

"I'm serious, it's part of my job. Fighting me on this only makes you a bigger pain in my ass. Please don't."

I show my palms in surrender. "Whatever you say, Boss." I'm honestly too tired to argue.

We get in the elevator, and she presses the button for the eighth floor. She pulls out her phone again, as if somehow in the last couple minutes the hotels nearby had vacancies magically appear. "Okay. Here's what we're going to do," she says, yawning again. "I'm going to give you my room—"

"I'm not taking your hotel room."

"Yes you are. I'm going to see if someone from my team has an extra bed I can have."

"Just give me your sofa, and I'll be fine."

Stepping off the elevator, she walks with purpose to her door.

"This is a boutique hotel, there is no sofa in my room. Even if there was, you're, what, six-four?"

She unlocks it and enters, holding the door open for me to pass by.

"Six-five."

"Exactly. There's not even a sofa in the lobby big enough for you. Take my room, I'll find a bed, and we'll reconvene tomorrow." The room lights up, and it's smaller than I thought it would be, but the bed is big enough.

"Kendra. It's fine. It's a king-size bed, we can share. Let's stop making it more awkward than it has to be."

"Are you sure?"

"We're both adults, I think we can handle it. Are you comfortable with me sleeping next to you?" I shouldn't assume just because we've slept together that she'll be okay with sharing a bed tonight.

She furrows her brow and looks at me like I'm being ridiculous. "Of course! I just, you know… we can't—"

"I'm not going to try anything. I know where you stand."

She nods, then grabs clothes from her suitcase and enters the bathroom, locking the door behind her. "What time is it? Are they still doing room service?" Her voice is muffled through the wall.

"Uhh…" I turn around and scan every surface until my eyes catch on a menu. I check my phone. "Yeah, you've got thirty-five more minutes. Want me to order you something?" Finally . I'm pleased she's getting something else to eat.

"Yeah."

I wait for her to give me more information, but she seems to be done with that sentence.

"What do you want?" I spin around.

"I like everything. Surprise me."

"Allergies?"

"No."

I pick up the hotel phone, press the button with a server icon, then sit on the edge of the bed waiting for someone to answer. When Kendra exits the bathroom, she somehow looks as beautiful in her baggy T-shirt and boxers as she did in the gown and stilettos from earlier.

I vaguely register someone talking on the other end of the phone.

We're supposed to be just friends… but friends don't look at each other the way I'm looking at her.

"Hello…" the hotel staff repeats, for the second time. Focus.

"Uh, shit. Yeah, um. Can I put in an order for room service?" I order a calamari pizza, remembering the way she was eyeing it at Micky's launch party. Next a grilled pineapple cucumber salad with a peanut dressing, a couple bags of kettle chips, a side of tzatziki sauce, a slice of chocolate cake, and a slice of cheesecake. Hell, I could eat.

Kendra listens with bright eyes, dancing more enthusiastically with each item I rattle off to the person on the phone. By the end, she's waving an invisible lasso around her head. I chuckle through the last of the order. It's so ridiculous I'm tempted to read off the rest of the menu.

"Room number?" the person asks. I was too busy staring at her ass in that dress to remember what number was outside the door when we arrived.

I tilt the phone away and confirm with Kendra, still grinning at her antics. "Room number?"

"844," she says, doing the cabbage patch. I chuckle. She wasn't even alive when that dance was invented, which is exactly what I'd expect from her. At this point, I wouldn't even blink if she jumps up and does the foxtrot when the food arrives.

"844… Yes…" I refocus my attention back to the caller. "… No, I'll pay over the phone."

She waves her hands in front of my face to get my attention. "Bill it to the room!" she stage-whispers. "Sully!"

I shake my head and pull out my wallet. She tries to snatch it away from me, but I hold the credit card above her head as I finish reading off the numbers. They give me a time estimate, and I hang up the phone.

"Why didn't you bill it to the room?"

"The least I can do is feed you." It comes out more sexual than intended, so I quickly tack on, "Thanks for letting me crash here."

"It's not coming out of my pocket, the company is paying for it."

I stand and walk over to the mini bar. "Well, in that case…" I pour myself a couple fingers of whiskey and kick my shoes off. "Thank you, Vault Productions… Besides, if I didn't buy you dinner, I'd have to pay you back another way, and you've already established that there will be no funny business tonight." I waggle my eyebrows at her over my tumbler as I take a sip.

She laughs. "Is it too late to cancel the order?"

"It's never too late."

That earns me one of her eyerolls. "I'm only teasing." Yeah, no shit.

"Uh-huh." I smirk, then shrug off my shirt jacket and remove a pair of sweatpants and an undershirt from my suitcase. I take one more sip and set my drink down. "Don't try to drug me," I say.

She scoffs. "You're six-five… Besides, I left my elephant tranquilizers in my other pants." Her other pants. My eyes fall to her ass without thinking as I walk past her. A sliver of cheek can be seen. Damn it.

I lock the bathroom door and drop my clothes on the counter, then splash my face with cold water and stare at myself in the mirror. You cannot fuck her tonight . What we did can't happen again. The show is happening, and as much as I would love a repeat, she'd be disappointed if she acted on impulse. Especially since she's been drinking, and I have no idea how much she's had to drink. If I ever get a chance with her again, it'll be because it's our time.

I strip off my button-down shirt and pants, swapping them with gray sweats and a white shirt that's probably too tight across my chest. Whatever. I give myself one more glance in the mirror. Keep it in your pants.

I open the door and hang up my shirt, jacket, and pants in the small closet. She's sitting cross-legged on the bed, clutching the television remote and scrolling through the TV guide. "I'm trying to find something to watch while we wait," she says, keeping her eyes on the screen. I close the closet doors and hop on the bed, making her bounce. She smiles and chooses a channel. I'm not sure what she chose. So far, it's just commercials. It's not long before the food arrives.

"Food!" she announces, hopping up and grabbing the door. Two people in black attire enter the room with two trays and a pizza box. Each tray has two silver domes covering the dishes. They place the food on the short dresser, and we bid them farewell.

I carry the trays over to the bed, and she grabs the pizza box. "I love it when the food has the silver lids," she says, peeking under them. "Makes me feel like I'm in Pretty Woman ."

The corner of my mouth tilts up as I lift the lid of the pizza box and grab a slice. I scoot back, resting my back against the headboard. She plates her food along with some of the salad. I hold the half-eaten slice of pizza between my teeth and open the bag of kettle chips, then hand it to her. We work together in silence.

Once she's settled, I finish eating my slice and go in for another. That's when I notice what we're watching. I glance down at the calamari pizza and back at the television, where the narrator is speaking in a relaxed cadence. "And there it is, the mighty Humboldt squid. Its whiplike tentacles and rhombic fins make this beautiful creature a sight to behold. With a length up to twelve feet, these large squids have come up from a great depth to hunt and feed on mackerel."

"Squids? Really?"

She winks at me, plucking off a piece of calamari and popping it in her mouth. Weirdo. I expect her to change the channel, but no, we sit and watch as the narrator describes the creature's hooklike grips and how water propels through its mantle, whatever the hell that is. Then they explain how these huge fuckers can actually pull divers down to the deep.

"Well, that's terrifying."

"Right? The rest of the world fears being eaten by squids, meanwhile, Japan makes porn out of it."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah." She chuckles, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You didn't know about tentacle porn?"

"Is that what you kids are into these days? Tentacle porn and eating ass?"

She shrugs. "The rumors are true."

We continue watching, and she's absolutely fascinated by the show while she eats. "Swimming in the ocean is like soaring over a dangerous forest filled with flying lions, tigers, and bears—and you're just a fucking pigeon."

"And half of them are hungry," I add, nodding.

"And the other half would kill you just to learn what pigeon tastes like."

I chuckle and open the other bag of chips to snack on.

"God, this footage is incredible," she says.

"Would you ever want to produce a documentary?"

"Yeah."

Her response surprises me. "Wait, really? Like this one? Animals and stuff?"

She shakes her head. "Music."

That, I can picture, she's clearly passionate about music.

I listen to her go off about her plans for future documentaries and the different musical genres she finds interesting. She relays how subjects such as language and sociology affect certain subgenres and talks to me about the artists she wants to cover. The more I learn about her, the more I like her.

She asks me about hockey, not just what it was like or my favorite memories, but about the arena and traveling details, how people become Zamboni drivers, if the uniforms are itchy, and the thickness of ice we skate on. Some of her questions I don't even have answers to. I never thought to ask. Her brain operates so differently than mine. It's as if she wants to learn all she can about how the sport functions, not just my experience. It's refreshing after years of: " What do you plan to do differently next time to win the game? How do you feel after scoring that last goal? Do you regret retiring a year before the Lakes won the Stanley Cup ?"

When she asks questions about me, it's things about me as a person. She asks about my family, what makes me anxious, what my favorite sandwich is, what songs are currently stuck in my head. We flirt, both of us walking the line of professionalism and joking. It's hard to avoid it when I enjoy her company so much.

"Can we talk about the show for a minute?" I ask.

"Sure, what would you like to know?"

"What's the point of it?"

She furrows her brow. "Entertainment, baby."

"No, really though, like what is the show about?"

She nods, understanding what I'm asking. "The main story arc is you becoming a coach and your dating life, but as we film, little things will happen, and we'll develop mini stories that branch out from that. This could be a few good or bad dates, your struggles between people you work with, team wins and losses, all the little drama bits."

I hum, not loving the sound of that. "Do you make drama out of nothing?"

She finishes swallowing a bite of food. "Some producers are really into that, you'll see it on a lot of competition shows, but I've always believed that it's psychological abuse."

"Wait, so the fighting you see on reality shows, it's real?"

"A lot of times, yes. But it's often created by producers."

"How?"

She shrugs. "It's easier than you'd think. It would be like if I handed you a piece of candy and said, ‘Don't let anyone take this candy from you or I'll kick you off the show.' And then I walked up to your adversary and said, ‘We need you to steal that piece of candy from Sully, or we'll kick you off the show.'"

"But instead of candy, it's infidelity, greed, jealousy."

She nods. "It's sad. I believe you can still have reality TV without fabricating drama and traumatizing people, but maybe that's just because I haven't had my spirit broken yet. There are organizations out there, like the UCAN Foundation, that ensure production companies are following regulations and not abusing or exploiting cast members. But your show is mainly about you and the team. Your new career, the team you're coaching, and how you're balancing all of that with love. You're dating one person at a time, so there won't be competition between any of your love interests."

"Are you going to edit what I say and take things out of context?"

"I mean, there's always a chance that's what they're going to do, so just don't say anything stupid. We won't ever force you to say something you don't want to. Occasionally, we'll give you direction on what we want you to talk about, but everything you say is going to be unscripted. Your conversations are your own."

I take a calming breath. This is all so bizarre.

"I know it sounds awkward now, and it might feel a little uncomfortable in the beginning, but after a while, you won't notice the cameras as much, and it will become natural."

"Do you think things will be weird between us?"

"Things are already weird between us." She chuckles. "We'll get over it. Producers work closely with talent—you're the talent—because it helps foster mutual respect, which makes the whole production more successful and more fun. We're a team. So, if you need to talk on the side or you're feeling uncomfortable, let me know right away. We can figure things out."

I smirk. "I'd say you've worked very closely with my talent."

She gives me a shove and laughs. "Gross."

"Those goddamn noises you were making weren't gross." I smile. Six months from now, I'll be hearing them again.

She cuts her eyes at me, and I drop the subject. Our conversation picks up again, and time melts away. I could talk to her for hours on end and never run out of things to say. The plan was to ask her about that Toronto player grabbing her, but seeing her face so brightly lit while we discuss a wide plethora of topics, share our favorite things, and compare our values, I don't want to dampen the mood. I'm enjoying our little bubble.

"Holy shit, it's three a.m.!" She shrieks.

"I wasn't going to say anything," I confess, standing up and stretching. "Guess I'm having too much fun with you, Kendra."

"This was nice." She hops off the bed, and we brush our teeth side by side. My hand falls to her lower back as I move around her to spit in the sink. Every time I touch her, it's not enough. The tension is palpable, but admitting it is pointless. There's nothing we can do about it right now. Not without hurting the other professionally or making it worse. Somehow, pretending it doesn't exist is easier.

She wraps up her curls, and I grin.

"Don't make fun of my bonnet."

I smile and pinch her side. "I'm not. I think you look cute."

She flips the bathroom light off and clears off the bed, then pulls back the top bedding. "Oh, do you care what side you're on?"

If I thought the no-fraternization policy was hard to abide by earlier, my will is really about to be put to the test.

"I'm usually on the left," I reply.

"Perfect. I'm a right sider."

I remember from the night she slept in my bed. "Easy enough," I say, peeling off my shirt next to the bed. She looks away from me like I'm about to strip naked. "Do you want me to…" I raise the shirt, and she waves me off. "No, it's no problem. I'm on this side, you're on that side. We're adults, right? Doesn't bother me! Are you okay with it? I mean, it's not like—" We've literally seen each other naked before, but now there's this barrier between us we don't know how to put up. I'd be fine taking it down, but I'll respect her wishes.

"You good?" I bite back my laughter.

"What?"

"What?" I echo, climbing under the sheet.

She does the same and taps the lamp to turn it off. The silence between us is deafening. Every little sound of the hotel settling is amplified. Each of us stare at the ceiling. I hear her swallow and open her mouth, inhaling, like she's about to say something. Then more silence.

"What were you going to say?" I ask. I turn my head in her direction, and the streetlamps outside barely illuminate her face.

Eventually, she turns her head to face me. "If things were different…" she whispers.

My hand covers her small one, and I weave our fingers together. "If things were different, things would be different." A melancholy longing falls between us.

Kendra's someone I'll never forget, regardless of how my future plays out. Decades from now, whether I'm married to another woman or not, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, my thoughts will drift to her from time to time. The luckiest night of my life, when the hotel gave away my room and I stayed up until 3:00 a.m. with Kendra Ames discussing anything and everything. I'll likely wonder what could have been if I had chosen her over my career, because it's natural to regret the things you don't do, but if I had chosen Kendra, I'd probably regret not accepting a head coach position.

My fingers twitch to pull her into my side, cover her body with mine, and hold her close, but until I can give her all of me, I won't hurt her by dragging out the fling we had. I release her hand. She will be watching me date other women, women I'm not even excited to meet, and she deserves better than that. The longer my mind ruminates on this show and being intimate with women right in front of her, the more frustrated I become, until my thoughts formulate into a plan… this is only temporary .

I'll go on the dates. I'll do what they ask. I'll finish this stupid contract with the production company… but I'm coming back for her.