6. Cooper

six

Cooper

Present Day

" I think you guys are going to like it here coaching the Minnesota Norse." Jensen James, one of the three team owners, slaps my back. "You'd better for how much it cost to buy out your contracts in the middle of a season."

"It seems like a nice facility." I automatically reply.

It's actually a top-of-the-line facility that any team would be lucky to have. And even though it doesn't seem like it, I'm excited about carrying on our father's legacy with the Norse Hockey Team and bringing home a Stanley Cup or two.

My brothers and I have been home a handful of times during the last six months, and we spend less and less time here each time. Not because we don't like it here—just the opposite. This town holds the best memories for us.

The memories of our beautiful, brave Jolie and the night she propositioned us. That night lives rent-free in my brain, playing on a loop every moment I'm awake.

"As you know, we have top-of-the-line athletes on our team. Your Dad did a great job sculpting them in the off-season and during the first half of the season. We're lucky the three of you agreed to take over his legacy." Colt Hayes, another one of the owners, adds.

"Besides the money, I've been meaning to ask what made you decide to switch teams this far into the season?" The third owner of the team, Beck Thorson, asks.

I glance at my brother before giving him the answer we had rehearsed: "It was time to come home."

After our father's health scare and our night with Jolie, our lives felt empty. We were restless and needed a change, or so we thought. Until the offer to coach the Minnesota Norse fell into our laps when we realized we needed to be closer to our parents. And maybe, just maybe, we might find Jolie again.

Beck stares at me a little longer than necessary as if trying to solve a puzzle before replying, "Okay. Let's show you around the facility some more."

We follow the three around the arena, working our way through the locker room and meeting the players until we reach the trainers' room. "This is Hank, our head athletic trainer." A guy in his late forties lifts his head from the wrist of the player he's wrapping in athletic tape and grunts a hello.

"What about me? Am I chopped liver or something?" The hockey player getting his wrist wrapped by Hank accuses.

"That's my mouthy nephew, one of the Hayes triplets. And over there, " Colt nods in the opposite direction, "is our intern Jolie, wrapping another of my triplet nephews' ankles."

"We have names, you know." The two identical players begin arguing with Colt, but I'm no longer listening to their bickering, and neither are my brothers as we walk over to the blonde crouched down on her knees, taping up whichever triplet is at her station.

Jolie isn't a common name, but I don't want to get my hopes up until I see her face and know it's her, even though I'd know her soft honey-blonde hair anywhere from all the times I ran my fingers through it that night.

Jolie turns around to greet us, and her eyes flare with recognition and desire. "Um, hi." She says, and I finally feel like I'm home.