5. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Beckett

The rich scent of coffee and fresh pastries greets me as I step into the cozy indie coffee shop. Places like this are becoming a welcome part of my new routine here in Rosewood Bay. Supporting local businesses feels good, and the quality far surpasses the big corporate chains.

I order my usual—large coffee, dark roast, with a shit ton of sugar. The corners of my mouth twitch upward in a fleeting smile.

The barista hands me my drink, and I take a sip, savoring the perfect balance of bitterness and sweetness, then I grab a handful of sugar packets and stuff them in my pocket for later. Never hurts to be prepared.

Stepping outside with my drink, I breathe in the refreshing sea breeze rolling in off the harbor. Rosewood Bay sprawls out before me like a freaking postcard—a little slice of the high life on the North Shore of Long Island. Mansions, country clubs, designer shops. It's like the Hamptons' flashy kid brother. Old money and new money, all rubbing elbows.

Quite the change of pace from my humble roots back in Tennessee. My shoebox apartment above the coffee shop seems comically out of place amid the opulence.

I let out a dry chuckle thinking about it. Even with the coaching job's housing stipend, the prices in this state are a real kick in the teeth. At least it's just me and my cat.

My jaw clenches.

Every apartment I checked out was non-pet friendly, and I wasn't giving my cat away. Not after what she's been through because of me. So I snuck her in and pray every day my landlord doesn't make an unexpected visit.

I cross the street toward the concrete path along the harbor. This move is supposed to be a fresh start. I wasn't sure how this coaching job would go. I'd been avoiding hockey ever since my NHL career ended so abruptly.

But I needed a change. I'd been spinning my wheels in that dead-end advertising job for too damn long.

My ex only made the decision easier. Never thought I'd be the type of person to slap a restraining order on someone.

But the ultimate deciding factor happened during my second interview when Coach Nieminen disclosed the disturbing details of how that reprehensible individual physically assaulted Jackson Reed.

I still feel sick thinking about what he endured.

However, there was something unsettling about the way Nieminen casually dismissed the former coach's abrupt departure. And Crestwood's president, Alfred Ghoram, made a point to emphasize the influential and powerful nature of many of the players' parents.

The message was received loud and clear.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, jolting me out of my thoughts. I fish it out, my brother's name flashing on the screen. I answer, then press the phone to my ear.

"Hey, B. How's it going?" Tommy asks.

"Oh, you know. Living the dream." My tone drips with sarcasm. "How's life across the pond?"

"Not bad. Still single, but what else is new?" He chuckles. "Just wanted to check in. I know being back in the hockey world can't be easy, not after everything that happened with your injury . . ."

I grimace, my free hand reflexively rubbing the spot on my lower back where the torn psoas muscle ended my playing career just as it was beginning. "Hanging in. Team's full of rich, entitled brats who're keeping me on my toes."

"Sounds like fun." He's silent for a moment. "Still don't agree with you not pressing charges against Noah. What if he doesn't stop? A restraining order's just a piece of paper, you know."

I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. "Made sure to cover my tracks when I left. He's got no idea where I am."

"Good. Just be careful, all right? I worry about you, big brother."

"I'll be fine."

The words are no sooner out when Viktor Novotny appears up ahead, lounging against his blue McLaren GT and throwing me a flirty little wave.

Right on cue, my walls slam up, my shoulders squaring. "Tommy, I gotta go. I'll call you later."

Before my brother can respond, I end the call, then slide the phone back into my pocket. I take another swig of my coffee before tossing it into a nearby trash can as I approach the insolent brat who I strongly suspect has been stalking me.

He's made a few out of the blue appearances. On campus, it might be understandable, and while Rosewood Bay is a small, incorporated village, the frequency of our encounters is a bit too convenient to be random—he's definitely following me.

Time to set some boundaries, something I should've done at the gala when Nieminen pointed out who he was.

I took notice when he first approached me at the bar. And his reaction when our eyes met—the way he called me pretty—fuck, I probably would've taken him home.

And he's definitely my type.

Bratty.

Then he just had to open that entitled mouth of his. Yeah, I stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the elite. But fuck, I didn't need to be insulted. And the stunt he pulled in the bathroom—talk about a walking red flag.

None of that matters because at the end of the day he's my player, and no way am I crossing that line.

"The fuck are you doing here, Novotny?"

He flashes me that infuriating, self-assured grin that makes me want to wipe it off his face. "Just admiring the scenery, Becks."

His eyes shamelessly roam over my body in a manner that's far too intimate. The audacious brat has pulled the same stunt during practices, even after I've corrected him.

I snarl, my patience wearing thin. "Cut the crap. I'm your coach, not your buddy or whatever twisted shit you're imagining."

A gentle breeze off the harbor carries the scent of his cologne toward me—a blend of bergamot, rosemary, and a hint of citrus—and despite my best efforts to resist, I find myself inhaling deeply.

Fuck, he smells good.

Viktor's pale blue eyes, the ones that resemble a sheet of ice in the rink, are almost translucent in the sunlight as he takes a step closer, getting all up in my personal space with that bratty attitude cranked up to eleven. "Where's the fun in that, Becks?"

Without thinking, my hand shoots out, grabbing him by the chin. Hard. The smirk slides right off his face, and his eyes go wide as I force him to meet my steely gaze. His body slackens instantly, and a blush creeps up his neck as his pupils dilate.

No. No. No.

Fuck!

He can't respond like that. Not to me. But as my grip tightens on his chin, a deep primal part doesn't want him to respond to anyone else like that either.

I take a slow breath, then release it, fighting off the growing lust.

Boundaries.

I need to establish boundaries.

"Listen up, you cocky little shit. You will address me as Coach or Coach Harper. Nothing else. Got it?" My voice is a deep rumble, laced with authority.

Viktor nods frantically, squirming a bit as his lips part a touch.

"Answer me, Novotny."

"Yes, Sir . . . I mean, Coach."

I release him, taking a step back. My heart's pounding in my chest, my cock's starting to wake up, and my blood thrums with a mix of annoyance and something I don't want to name. "Good. Now, keep it professional. No more showing up out of the blue, no more pushing my buttons. We clear?"

"Yes, Coach Harper" he says, but there's a defiant glint in his eye that tells me this is far from over.

I nod, then turn to walk away. If I stay this close to him any longer, I may do something I regret.

This move's already promising to be a challenge. But I'm here to do a job, to start fresh and leave my baggage behind. And I won't let anyone, least of all some cocky, privileged hockey player, disrupt that.

Especially one who I'm coaching. One who's strictly off-limits.