Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Ivy

“Good,” I say watching as Storm squats with the barbell held securely over his shoulders.

A younger forward, who’s newer to the league, he’s still working on building his strength.

His speed is incredible. His agility and hockey smarts are off the charts.

But his strength isn’t quite here yet.

He has the height, but his body is still that of a boy transitioning into manhood.

No worries, though, I’ll have him whipped into shape in no time.

He grunts quietly as he finishes the last rep, and I pat him on the shoulder after he’s reracked the barbell. “Nice work.”

A nod.

“The meal plan still working for you?”

He nods again, but there’s something in his eyes that has me wrapping my hand around his upper arm and tugging him away from where the rest of the team is working.

“What is it?” I ask, dropping my hand and fixing him in place with my best Mom Stare (and really, it’s also my best Get My Hockey Players to Behave Stare).

“The plan’s fine,” he says quickly, eyes sliding from mine. “I mean, vegetables aren’t my favorite but the recipes you shared are better and the meal prep service makes it easy.”

I pause, waiting to see if he’s going to say anything else—or tell me what’s really bothering him—and when he doesn’t, I lift an eyebrow and wait for a bit longer.

He’s young and my Get Hockey Players to Behave Stare is really good, so it doesn’t take him much longer to cave.

“I’m hungry.”

The words are so far away from what I expected him to say—which was anything from not liking the diet and needing more variety, to craving his favorite type of junk food, to being really, really freaking tired of greens and rice and chicken—that I stand there for a moment, gaping at him.

“You’re hungry?”

His cheeks go just the slightest bit pink and his, no pun intended, storm cloud gray eyes darken. “Yeah,” he mutters.

Thankfully that’s all it takes for me to snap out of my shock. “Then we add more calories,” I say.

Those eyes widen. “What?”

“If you’re hungry,” I tell him, snagging my laptop and bringing it back over to him, “then we add more calories. You’re working hard and trying to build muscle, so you need fuel, bud. And”—I lean in, dropping my voice—“you don’t need to restrict yourself or wait for me to okay it. Just eat and we’ll figure out the best way to adapt what your body needs to your plan. It doesn’t have to be perfect, remember? We’re thinking long term here, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he whispers.

“Add in what you need and let’s track for the next week anything that isn’t listed on the plan.” I type a few notes into my laptop. “And then we’ll check in and see where we are. That work for you?”

Another “Yeah.”

Smiling, I pat him on the shoulder. “Good.” A tilt of my head back to his loaded barbell. “Then do one more set, put your weights away, and you’re done for the day.”

“Got it,” he says, snagging his water bottle and going back to the barbell in question. But he pauses before he lifts it. “Ivy?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

I exhale quietly, feel it in my soul.

Storm’s one of the good ones.

“Anytime,” I tell him.

He nods, gets back to work.

I keep an eye on him as he finishes that last set, and then I make my rounds, checking in on all the guys. We’re all wrapping up here—all except Knox, who came in late, looking haggard with dark circles beneath his eyes.

He still has half his workout left, and he’s moving slower than normal, lifting lighter than normal, doing fewer reps than normal.

He’s been like this for a couple of days now, and while I might have once chalked one night up to him tying one on and staying out too late—the Adlers love to party—three nights in a row is unusual for him.

If it was another player—one who didn’t make my skin crawl with sensation, who didn’t set my nerves on fire, who didn’t shoot my awareness of him into the stratosphere—I would be over there, using my Get Hockey Players to Behave Stare and ferreting out all the secrets, like I had with Storm.

But Knox isn’t Storm.

He’s far more dangerous—at least to me.

So, I do my requisite checks, make sure he’s lifting safely, that he’s being careful.

As always, that’s not an issue.

His body is a work of art, and though I’ve played a small role in fine-tuning things, the effort has all come from him.

Late nights. Early mornings. Extra workouts. Following the meal plan to a tee (though the last is likely because I’ve built in a certain amount of nights out and honey rosemary Moscow mules into his calorie count).

He’s put in the work.

Which is why it’s so concerning to see him like this.

I waffle between letting it go and broaching the topic with him as I make my final rounds, and I’m girding my loins—because I know for as much as I’m delaying it, I need to approach to the grumpy hockey player—when I sense movement in the doorway.

Coach is standing there.

Travis Hiller is smart, talented, and…

A total asshole.

He has been from the moment I began working with the Sierra, and he has one of those personalities that assures me he’ll continue being one long after either of us leaves.

“My office. Now.”

I open my mouth, ready to tell him that we’re not done here, but one look at his face tells me that’s both a fight I won’t win and a fight I don’t want to start.

Who’s about to be on the other end of a reaming that’s only going to get worse if that shit’s delayed?

This girl.

Awesome.

I bite back the words and make a mental note to check in on Knox later. It’ll be better to tear the Band-aid off with Hiller now, to get through the word vomit, and then get back to it.

“Move it,” he bellows, eyes fixing on mine, giving me absolutely no opening to avoid this, and I grind my teeth together.

My stomach churns—it’s like that scene outside the karate studio, only Hiller isn’t going to reveal himself as a good guy.

I already know he’s awful.

But I’m made of steel.

I won’t wither just because some asshole wants to have a go at me.

I lift my chin.

“Move it,” he snaps before I can tell him that I’m fucking busy, you know, doing my fucking job , “ Now .” And then he’s gone, the door slamming behind him.

Ugh.

I snag my computer, tell the stragglers to be careful as they finish up, to not forget to hydrate and stretch before they hit the showers, then I start to slip from the room.

“Ivy?”

I turn to see Lake staring at me, concern obvious on his face. “Yeah?”

“You good?”

I want to go to that office like I want another freaking hole in my head, but I’ve survived far worse than anything that Travis Hiller can dish out. Even so, that Lake is asking at all means a lot. He’s softened so much since he fell in love with Nova.

“I’m good,” I murmur. “But thanks.”

He nods, expression telling me that he doesn’t particularly like my answer. Considering that he’s been on the receiving end of plenty of Hiller’s lectures, that’s not exactly a surprise.

I touch his shoulder. “Promise,” I add.

“If that changes…”

Okay, so not all men are bad.

Yes, logically, I knew this before.

It’s just…the ones I pick who are awful.

Stifling a groan as I shut off that train of thought—I need to be firing on all cylinders to deal with Hiller—I tuck my computer under my arm when my stare collides with Knox’s in the mirror.

My lungs tighten. My pussy flutters. My?—

More things to shove down and ignore.

His eyes blaze into mine for a long moment, a sharp current of awareness running between us, before I manage to tear myself away.

Enough.

I slip out into the hall, walk to the head coach’s office, and then I knock.

“Come in.”

A breath to steel myself before I turn the handle, push inside, and find him sitting behind his desk.

“Have a seat, Ivy,” he says, tone far softer than before, far calmer, the abrupt shift in his mood almost giving me whiplash.

I sit in the chair in front of his desk, wary gaze focused on him, braced for whatever the hell is about to happen.

I know it’s not going to be anything good.

It’s never anything good.

But I’m still not prepared.

His chair rolls back as he stands, hitting the wall with a thunk as he rounds the large, wooden desk and steps between it…

And the chair he ordered me to sit in.

I lean back as he crouches down.

I tense as his hands settle on my knees.

But nothing’s worse than what happens to me when he begins to speak.