4. Blakely

CHAPTER 4

BLAKELY

“I cannot believe that hot-kiss guy from The Queen’s Rum ended up being Lawson freaking Wolfe,” Monroe says from where she sits across from me and Reese at our favorite breakfast table.

The Blue Ox is by far the best café in town with incredible coffee and amazing breakfast food. The place became our safe haven when cramming for finals or needing a hangover cure.

Neither of which is the reason we’re here today, which is a little surreal when I think about it.

We’ve graduated college and achieved our long-term goals of working for the Bangor Badgers together. I knew there was some luck involved—having a new owner buy the team and revamping the entire thing certainly helped—but we've done our fair share of work too.

We'd put in the time at school, put in the time with our talents, and showed Mr. McClaren exactly why we deserved to be a part of his team. And now, here we are, living the good life.

I take a giant sip of my iced coffee, shaking my head. “Bad luck for me,” I admit, leaning back in my seat. It's just after seven, the sun's golden rays peeking through the half-painted windows that overlook Main St. The cafe is still bustling with a mixture of locals and college students who are grabbing their fix before making the drive to campus.

“Definitely bad luck,” Reese says, stirring some half and half into her americano. She takes a sip before setting the cup back down on the table, her phone out and face up so she can watch her notifications.

Normally we elect a no-phone rule during girl time, but that's just not feasible anymore with her being the team’s social media manager. Although, this isn't really a girls’ date, more of a quick dish sesh before heading off to work. Practice starts in an hour, and all of us need to be there.

Although while Monroe and I have the daunting tasks of earning the respect of the Badgers, Reese’s role is different. She has the much harder task of making the team look like we know what we’re doing. And as of right now, we don’t.

Hell, we barely look like a team. Half of the rookies fight with the four lone veterans that remain on the team or with each other every time I turn around.

“After you texted us about it in the group chat, I was stoked,” Reese continues.

“Same,” Monroe says. “But just because he's a Badger doesn't mean all the fun has to stop.” She waggles her eyebrows at me, her smile wide and infectious.

She’s wearing a Badgers jersey today, no doubt with Pax’s name on the back. Black and yellow look loud on me but I wear it anyway, but on Monroe? She’s a stunner. It doesn’t matter what she wears, her brown skin, rich brown eyes, full lips, curly black hair, and a no-nonsense attitude make her absolutely irresistible. Even when she’s making outlandish suggestions or talking me into the most ridiculous ideas—like the time she convinced Reese and myself to attend a masquerade party in the hopes of hooking up with a complete stranger and never finding out their identity. The party hadn't gone exactly to plan our freshman year, seeing as the stranger I hooked up with had been Brian, and he'd found me the next day and gotten my number. We'd fallen into a quick relationship that had lasted the duration of my college career.

My stomach twists at the thought of him, at the thought of the years I wasted trying to be his idea of perfect because I’d put him on a pedestal the night he'd taken my virginity. I put such an emphasis on sex and his interest in me that I never realized or spotted the red flags when he’d shown them to me.

“Monroe,” Reese chides her, but her smile is bright as she shakes her head. Her long brown hair is pulled into a cute updo, her bangs sweeping effortlessly over her forehead—a look I could never pull off but love on her. She wears a pair of hoop earrings and a cream off-the-shoulder top paired with a set of leggings that are tucked into boots. For as much as she says she loves to be behind the camera and out of the limelight, she could hold her own with the celebrity athletes on our team.

“What?” Monroe says, reaching for her salted caramel latte. “You heard how she described that kiss. If someone kissed me like that? Nothing would stop me from getting more.”

I purse my lips at her. “Even if he was a Badger? I'm literally their skating coach now. Do you know how wrong that is?”

“I think it's more wrong that you're the coach's daughter,” Reese interjects.

“Do you two live in the same century as me?” Monroe asks. “Seriously, a woman gets to choose who she wants to be with.”

“Unless it's wildly inappropriate,” I fire back, but we're all chuckling. “And I'm sorry, but messing around with Lawson Wolfe would be totally inappropriate.”

“Has he asked for private lessons yet?” Monroe asks.

“Not yet, thank goodness.” He'd playfully threatened as much last week when he caught me outside in the parking lot, but he hasn’t brought it up in the days since. The entire team now has my cell phone number, and I had his thanks to him putting it in my phone.

But I hadn’t used it. Even when I’d seriously thought about it.

“How are the guys handling it?” Reese asks.

“They're warming up to me,” I say. “Slowly. Some of them are certain that there's no way I'm going to be able to help them, but a few are coming around. I had to make the switch to hockey skates on day two since none of them could take me seriously in my figure skates. Thank goodness Dad has trained me in both since I was six. But it helps that the veterans are all on board and supportive, and most of the rest of the team are coming around.”

“Pax being one of them, I'm guessing?” Monroe asks.

“Of course,” I say. “Pax is probably the sweetest guy I've ever met. You know that better than me. He's had my back since day one.” Monroe’s best friend definitely gives boy-next-door vibes, but he’s ripped like the best hockey players, with short brown hair and light brown eyes, and he’s earned his vet status on the team, so his support is everything.

“He better,” Monroe says, smirking slightly. “If he didn’t, I'd kick his butt just like I did in fifth grade.”

I smile at my friend and sip my iced coffee, knowing it’s more likely that she’d kick my butt if I so much as uttered an aggressive word toward her golden-retriever best friend.

That man had a space in her heart that neither me nor Reese could touch, but I'm glad that she made room for us when we met freshman year.

Of course, Reese and I always thought that there was something more between the two, mainly because being around them felt like watching a romcom with how much they laughed and talked and got along, but Monroe always assured us it’d never been that way between them.

“But seriously,” Monroe continues. “Are the other vets being good to you? What about Baylor and Nash? Kiplin?”

“Baylor is all for anything that improves his physique, you know that,” I answer, referring to our left wing who looks like he could fit in just as well on a football field tackling other giants. I'm pretty sure his bedroom is located directly inside the gym. “And Kiplin, as much of an asshole as he can appear to be, was the first one to be supportive.”

Both my friends raise their eyebrows at the mention of the Badgers’ captain, his bristly exterior and constant trouble off the ice—at least in the media—no doubt leading to their surprise.

I wave them off. “I know,” I say. “I was surprised too, but he's a good captain. He's down with whatever will help them win this season.”

“And Nash?” Reese asks, glancing at her phone as a notification pops up. She quickly checks something on the screen then sets her phone back down. “How's he been? Toward you?” she adds quickly.

Monroe and I share a conspiratorial look. “You could talk to him, you know,” I say.

Reese's eyes flash wide, and she shakes her head. “Why would I ever talk to Nash Stokehill?”

Monroe laughs, drawing the attention of a few people from the table over, which only makes us laugh harder. “Maybe because you have a massive crush on him?” Monroe says in a lower tone, but Reese still hushes her anyway.

“That was so three years ago,” Reese argues. “I don’t have a crush on him now. Is he super fun to look at? Absolutely. Neither one of you can deny that, but he’s a player.”

Monroe and I silently consider, no doubt she's visualizing what I'm visualizing—Nash Stokehill, the Badgers’ resident player, gracing all the social media sites with videos or pictures of him without his shirt on, working out in the gym, flexing muscles upon muscles, flashing the ink that decorates his chest, his dirty-blond hair pulled back in a tie, a neatly trimmed beard lining a strong-as-hell jaw.

Monroe and I purse our lips and nod, unable to argue with her, but I've never had any desire to climb Nash like a tree…which were Reese’s exact words after two White Claws second semester of freshman year.

Now Lawson Wolfe on the other hand? I didn't need alcohol to admit I thought about it more than once since that kiss a week ago. Fantasizing about it and actually acting on it were two different things, the latter I had no intention of ever doing.

“Either way,” I say getting back to the original question. “Nash has been cool about it too.”

“Have any of them signed up for private lessons?”

“Yes,” I say. “One rookie, Baylor, and Pax.”

“Aww,” Monroe drags out the word, a prideful grin shaping her full lips. They're painted red today, which you would think would clash with the Badger colors but only makes her look more fire. “That's so sweet of him.”

“It really is,” I say. “Pax doesn't need my help as much as the other guys do, but him being a vet and signing up just like Baylor definitely gives me more credibility.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I quickly retrieve it, wondering if it'll be another player seeking out my services. I can only juggle so many, but I’ll cram as many as I can into my schedule if it means they’re going to take me seriously.

I swipe open my screen, and swallow hard when I see the text.

Brian: You promised me. We planned this for years Blakely. You can't go back on your word. You need to get over this little tiff between us and come back to your senses. I only push you so hard because I know you can be better.

“Fuck,” I sigh, shaking my head and sliding my phone across the table. “He won’t quit.”

Monroe and Reese immediately lean over to read the text, their faces curling in disgust as they gently nudge the phone back toward me. I close out the screen and pocket my phone with no intention to respond.

“It's been over a month,” Reese says. “You've told him a dozen times you're not getting back together. How can he not get that through his head?”

“Because he's a narcissistic asshole,” Monroe answers for me, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms over her chest. “Narcissists only believe what they want to believe. And in his mind, Blakely belongs to him.”

I blow out of breath, my heart ticking up a few notches as adrenaline threatens to flood my veins. Every text he sends me feels like a threat, like he might pop up at any minute and start begging again. Like he did the night Lawson intervened. It was the first time I'd ever seen Brian back off without me having to physically leave the area I was in to get him to leave me alone.

“You'd think that after seeing her with Lawson that night he'd back off,” Reese says as if she's reading my thoughts.

“I don't know if he believed it,” I admit. “It's not like he’d ever seen me with him before, and he's been around enough to know if I had a new boyfriend.”

“Maybe you should keep up the act,” Monroe suggests with a shrug. “Maybe if he saw you out with someone more, he'd take the hint.”

I groan. “Why should I have to concoct something like that? Why can’t he just act like an adult and move on?”

I’d broken up with him in the most mature, respectful way I could. Things had been going south between us for a year before I finally realized I didn't deserve to be in a relationship where I was constantly belittled and put on the back burner. Looking back, I honestly don't know how I endured four years with him, except for the fact that we had the same ambitions when it came to figure skating. His dreams of winning competitions and then landing a spot on the reality show, had been inspirational when we first met. Just like he'd been charming when we first met too.

It wasn't until I'd been with him for a little over a year that I started noticing some of the red flags that my friends saw straight away.

I blame my lack of perceptiveness on the fact that we were in all the same classes and we worked after school on routines and training. My world was consumed by him and his aspirations. It didn't matter how many times I told him that I had no interest in having a career as a figure skater, that my dreams laid with hockey and always had, he didn’t care. He always brushed off my ambitions as fantasies that I’d get over and skate dutifully at his side for as long as he wanted me there.

But I'd fallen in love with hockey long before I fell for him. And, thanks to my dad and his coaching position, I'd fallen in love with the Bangor Badgers.

Once Brian realized I wasn't in the relationship to help further his career is when the mask came off. He'd always been a bit on the self-centered side, but once he knew that my career aspirations lied with the Badgers, he really took the gloves off. He forced ultimatums on me and degraded my talents, telling me I'd never get a job on the team unless my father's name was dropped, and went so far as to say that I’d be better off if I married him and traveled the world on the competition circuit.

I feel like an idiot for staying with him as long as I did.

But out of respect for the amount of time we’d been in a relationship, I’d sat him down face to face and told him I didn't love him anymore, didn't love the way he treated me, and that there would be no us anymore.

He'd punched a hole through the wall of his apartment, and I'd been so shocked by the outburst that I hadn't been able to move. I'd been across the room, but it was no less impactful, no less scary. I said goodbye and rushed out of there as fast as I could, hoping that would be that.

It wasn't.

Reese flashes Monroe another chiding look, but I wave her off. “She’s not wrong,” I say. “Brian doesn't want me back. Not for who I am, anyway. He wants what I can offer him. An accredited figure skater to enter competitions with, and to be on his arm at events to give him clout. I wish I would’ve seen that sooner and not wasted so many years on him.”

My friends give me a sympathetic look, and Monroe reaches across the table to squeeze my hand.

“Fuck him,” she says. “He can't keep this up forever,” she continues. “I mean, you're part of the Bangor Badgers now, doesn't he realize that means you can summon an army of very attractive and muscly men at any moment?”

Reese and I laugh, the levity a much welcome distraction from the anxiety twisting in my chest.

“Maybe you're right,” I say. “Maybe I should enlist Lawson's help. I do have those few speaking events I have to attend coming up, and you know Brian will be there. Maybe if he saw me with somebody...” My voice trails off, my mind considering the possibility.

Would that be enough?

Would seeing me with the same man more than a few times be enough to signal to him that we were really and truly over? That he had zero shot of winning me back?

“Do it,” Reese says. “Lawson definitely seemed game that night, so who's to say he won't be now?”

“Well, I am his skating coach now.”

“Does he know about your dad?” Monroe asks.

“No,” I say. “Outside of the vets and Mr. McClaren, no one does. I asked them all not to say anything because I have to earn this team’s respect, and them thinking my dad handed me a job won't get me very far.”

“Totally get that,” Monroe says, and Reese nods.

“You should do it,” Reese continues. “Seriously, you need and deserve some fun. And Lawson Wolfe definitely looks like a good time. Bonus if it makes your dickhead of an ex take a hint.”

I finish off the last of my iced coffee as I glance at my watch.

“We'll see,” I say and scooch away from the table.

My friends follow me as we make our way outside of the cafe.

We're all heading toward the same place, but we take separate cars because our work hours are all different. Still, as we make our way to the practice arena, it feels like I have the unflinching support of my friends, and that’s almost enough to chase away the worries I have about how far Brian is willing to go to get his way.

“Go,” I give the command after I've wrapped a resistance band around Lawson's hips, positioning myself behind him to add a weight as he shoots off across the ice with me in tow.

The first time I did this exercise with Dunning—one of the rookies—it’d been so difficult for him that he’d stopped suddenly and tangled us up to where we both fell on the ice. It took him four more tries to get it where we were a unit, where he was able to skate with the added weight with no problems.

Of course, Lawson gets it on his first try.

I doubt the man is used to being second rate at anything, whether that be starring in my hottest dreams or driving me crazy during practice. He always has to get the last word and he always has just the right quip for any instruction I give. But to his credit, he meets every exercise I assign with gusto.

Case in point, my hair flies behind me in a steady stream of wind created by the speed at which he skates despite my weight. Despite me digging in my skates just a little, to test his balance. I tug on the resistance bands to test his instincts, and he immediately corrects his position on the ice, gaining speed where others lost it.

“Is that all you got?” he calls over his shoulder, glancing at me without missing a step, that insufferable cocky grin shaping his irresistible mouth.

“It's certainly all you can handle!” I fire back.

“Try me,” he says, adjusting to take the corner of the ice.

He moves and I move, almost like we've been doing this for longer than a few minutes. This is the first time I've introduced this exercise, it being one of the more difficult tasks, and yet you’d think we'd practiced this a hundred times. Hell, it took months and endless hours of practice with Brian on the ice for us to get this kind of rhythm for our routines, and yet we never synched as well as Lawson and I are now.

Just as we're about to make the next corner, I adjust my skates, throwing my hips into the move and yanking on the resistance bands just enough to where he won't be able to predict which way he should go.

He falters, zigging when he should’ve zagged, and he doesn't engage his thighs or his core like he should. He sprawls out on his back with me falling atop him.

It's only after a couple of breaths that I realize his arms are around me—he’d caught me so I wouldn't trip over him and fly into the boards.

My eyes lock with his, my palm splayed over the gear covering his chest, both of us breathing hard.

“Told you,” I say breathless. “You couldn't handle more.”

“You think I didn't do this on purpose, Coach?” His grip tightens on me just slightly, that cocky grin shaping his chiseled face, and it sends a bolt of heat straight through my center.

I narrow my gaze at him, but I can't deny the chemistry that pulses through the charged moment between us.

Goddamn this guy, why can he get under my skin so well?

Is it because he’s so completely different than who I'd ever been with before? The exact opposite, to be exact?

I force myself off of him, the movements awkward on the ice but I manage to get to my feet. Lawson follows my lead, eyebrows raised as he looks down at me.

“Now what, Coach?”

“You need to pay more attention to your core, and use those thigh muscles of yours to actually propel your speed instead of locking it down.”

Lawson grins. “Been thinking about my thigh muscles a lot there, Coach?”

I take a deep breath for patience and rub the bridge of my nose. “You know what, if you're going to respond to every single thing I have to say with a cocky line, you can just move on to your next section. Clearly you don't need my help.”

I start to skate off in the other direction, prepared to take on my next player, but my shoulders drop as I realize Lawson is my last player and that I’d arranged it that way on purpose. I always put him off until last because I knew the second I started working with him it’d be an endless barrage of ridiculous flirtation that for some reason I can’t resist.

The conversation with my friends this morning flutters back to my mind.

I should resist the pull he has on me, but...

What if he can help me? What if we came to an arrangement to help me send Brian a crystal-clear message that I’ve moved on?

What the fuck am I thinking? I’m either ready to throttle Lawson or climb him at any given moment, neither of which indicates that we'd be able to pull off some ridiculous romcom-worthy ruse in order to scare away my narcissistic ex.

“Blakely!” Lawson calls after me, skating ahead of me and turning around so he can skate backward to look at me. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve got a mouth on me. I'm sure you've noticed that.”

“Of course, I've noticed,” I say, continuing at a slow glide, me moving forward, him moving backward. “I've spent more than two minutes with you.”

That earns me a genuine smile that I hate to say makes my knees a little weak. Thank goodness the rest of the players have already moved on to their next station or I’d be terrified of somebody catching me going all melty for our number one draft pick.

“You don't need to apologize,” I continue. “You need to work. You need to practice the things I've told you. You honestly have the makings of an unstoppable skater, which would be invaluable to this team, but you're letting your ego get in the way of that.”

Lawson blows out a breath, then nods. “Let me take private lessons,” he says.

A laugh rips from my lips. “You're joking,” I say through my laughter. “You give me enough hell during team lessons. You've said so time and again that you don't need my help.”

“I'm being serious,” he says, and it takes me a minute to realize that he’s actually looking at me with sincerity in his eyes.

The look is so new I'm totally taken aback.

“You honestly want me to coach you privately?”

His smile turns just the side of lustful, and warm shivers dance down my spine. “I do. And not for the reason you're thinking,” he quickly adds, raising his hands as we continue to skate. “But because you're right. I want this team to win.”

My lips part in shock. “Say that last part again,” I demand.

“I want this team to win,” he says, and I shake my head.

“No, the part right before that.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh, one hundred percent,” I say, smiling despite myself. “If you want me to even entertain giving you private lessons, I need to hear it again.”

“ You're right ,” he says, and while it might have been fun and games before, hearing those words come out of his mouth does something to my body.

I hope it doesn't show.

I hope he can't tell the effect he has on me.

He must take my hesitation for a denial, because he hurries to continue. “Please,” he says, the word coming out of his mouth shocking me once again. “I promise I won't try anything funny. I know I've been joking with you at practice, but it actually does mean something to me to improve my skills. I always want to get better and even though I think I'm the best, I'm willing to try.”

“Wow, so the overconfident player is capable of practicing humility.” I hate how much I like that.

“Come on,” he says, turning up the charm factor. “There has to be something you want, something I can help you with that will convince you to forget all the reasons why you shouldn't coach me alone.”

My earlier conversation with my friends comes back front and center as does the anxiety clinging to my insides regarding the text that sprung the conversation.

“Ohh,” he says, his eyes brightening as he points at me. “There is . I can tell. Name it, Coach. You need money? I can pay you.”

“The Badgers pay me,” I fire back.

“Then what is it?”

“It's...” I shake my head, having a hard-as-hell time trying to find the words. Am I actually about to ask for this? “I can't,” I say.

“Sure you can,” he says. “I need something, you need something. That's how deals work.”

“It's ridiculous,” I say.

His grin widens. “What is it? You need me to organize your closet and do your laundry?”

I laugh, shaking my head.

“Tell me.”

I bite my lower lip, wondering how pathetic this is going to sound when I open my mouth?—

“Tell me, damsel,” he says, stopping suddenly. He catches me against his body, barely budging as our skating comes to a quick stop. His hands are on my arms, the heat searing as little sparks shoot along my nerves. He's looking down at me, those hazel eyes filled with want and sincerity and I just can't take my eyes off of him. “Tell me,” he says again.

We may be standing on the ice, but our bodies are flush from the momentum. All those feelings from a week ago resurface, unfurling with a hunger that almost hurts.

“I have some events that I have to go to,” I admit. “I'm speaking at a few of them at the college.”

Lawson cocks an eyebrow as he looks down at me, still not letting me go. “And you need someone that looks as good as me to be on your arm?”

“Something like that,” I say, nerves tangling in my stomach.

“Ohh,” he says, recognition clicking. “You need me to play that little part we played at The Queens Rum , don't you?”

“I told you it was ridiculous.”

“Douchebag’s still bothering you, huh?”

I look down, studying the way our skates are almost intertwined, but Lawson tips my chin up to meet his eyes. “Is he?” he presses.

“Yes,” I admit. “He sent another text this morning. My friends are encouraging this idea, thinking if he sees me with the same guy more than a few times he'll finally take the hint. Because telling him like an adult that I have no interest in him anymore and don’t want him in my life isn’t enough. Apparently, I need a man to help me get rid of another man.” I roll my eyes at the audacity of it, and the inner feminist in me dies just a little.

Lawson’s hand is still gently gripping my chin, the touch between us somehow familiar even though it shouldn't be. “There's nothing wrong with asking for help,” he says. “And I'm sorry that some men are wired to only respect the opinions of other men. Trust me, we're not all like that, but if the douchebag is, then I'm more than willing to help you.”

Hope flares in my chest. “Really?”

“I am a hero after all,” he says.

“Even though it'd be for show? Even though I have no interest in being in an actual relationship?”

Lawson smirks down at me. “Do I look like boyfriend material, damsel? The only long-term relationship I'm looking for is with Miss NHL. Or perhaps mistress Stanley Cup.”

I laugh, smiling up at him. With his attitude, this could actually work. And this time next month, I could be free of worrying about Brian popping up everywhere I go, and I'd quite possibly have made a new friend in the process.

Win-win.

“Okay,” I finally say. “You help me with my thing, and I'll give you private lessons.”

“It's a deal,” he says, finally dropping his hand from my chin and reaching between us to take mine in his. He shakes it, but it lasts and lasts, neither one of us breaking the contact or the stare we have happening.

Again, the moment charges with electricity, my heart and body begging me to reach out and take what it so desperately needs. And I mean desperate . I didn't realize how starved I was for the kind of physical intimacy Lawson showed me that night until I felt it. Now it’s practically all I can think about. If I can just get another kiss, maybe I'll be able to get him out of my head.

I can't read his features, so I'm not sure what's going through his mind, but he dips his head down, just slightly?—

“Wolfe!” Kiplin yells from the other side of the rink behind the boards. The sound of the captain's voice has us breaking apart, noticeably too quickly from the scowl on Kiplin’s face. “Recovery! Now!”

Lawson winks at me, and skates toward Kiplin without another word or look back.

I only know he doesn't look back because I watch him until he disappears from the rink. And I stand there, unmoving on the ice, wondering if I've just made a giant mistake.