Chapter Five

Rowan

I settle into my seat near the back of the Hawkeyes jet, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach. This is it—my first away game with the team. I've been both dreading and anticipating this moment ever since Sam gave me the green light to travel with them. As I unzip my carry-on, I can't help but feel like I'm stepping into uncharted territory.

A group text comes through on my phone.

Tessa: Dress shopping for the gala next week. Who's in?

Several chimes come through as all the girls on the group text start to respond.

Rowan: I'm free after I get back.

Autumn, Juliet, and Shawnie have put a ton of time into making this gala a success. All the news outlets and professional sports teams in Seattle have all RSVP'd. It's gotten so big that Juliet decided to add a red carpet, though this carpet will be turquoise to match the team colors. With all the news coverage, Briggs and Autumn are hoping that the publicity will bring in online donations as well.

Most of the team is already onboard on the jet, and the aircraft buzzes with pre-flight energy. Players shuffle down the aisle, stowing bags and calling out to each other, most of them starting to take their seats. I keep my head down, focusing on unpacking my essentials: laptop, my notebook, and noise-canceling headphones. Just as I'm about to plug in and tune out the world, a familiar voice catches my attention.

"Hey, Summers! I wasn't sure if you were traveling with us this week."

I look up to see Brent Tomlin, the Hawkeyes left defense, grinning down at me. His easy smile is contagious, and I find myself relaxing a bit.

"I wasn't thinking I would be either until the team made it to the playoffs but Phil and Sam want me front and center, so here I am."

Brent chuckles, settling into the seat across the aisle from me. "Yeah, I heard that Sam made it clear that you were going whether Coach Bex likes it or not," Brent says, in almost a whisper, looking to see if Bex is onboard yet. "Coach Bex has been in rare form since he found out you'd be joining us."

I wince internally at the mention of Bex and our infamous meeting in Sam’s office. I didn't peg Cammy as the gossiping type, but who else would have told the entire franchise about it? The story is catching on like wildfire. "Is that so? And here I thought his default setting was 'perpetually annoyed'."

"Oh, it is," Brent assures me with a wink. "But you've somehow managed to unlock a whole new level of grumpiness. It's actually kind of impressive."

Before I can respond, I look up to see the man himself, Coach Bexley Townsend, stepping onto the plane. His presence commands attention, though most of the players are all chit chatting with one another or have their headphones already on and are waiting for take-off. Still, I notice.

For a moment, our eyes meet. The intensity of his gaze catches me off guard, and I feel a strange flutter in my chest. It's not quite fear, not quite anticipation, but something... else. Something I can't quite name.

As quickly as the moment comes, it passes. Bex's eyes narrow slightly, and he turns away, making his way towards the front of the plane. I watch as he stows his backpack in an overhead compartment and settles into a seat as far from me as possible.

"See what I mean?" Brent says, pulling my attention back to him. "I think you might be the first person to get under his skin like this since... well, ever."

I force a laugh, trying to shake off the lingering effects of that brief eye contact. "Lucky me. I always wanted to be someone's personal irritant."

"Like his own brand of poison oak," Brent says.

"Hey…" I protest.

Brent laughs. "Oops, sorry. I didn't mean it that way. And just to be clear, the rest of the guys like you just fine."

"Thanks," I say, pulling my phone out to check to see if my sister texted me back about watering my plants while I'm gone.

As more players file onto the plane, a few familiar faces catch my eye. Reeve Aisa gives me a friendly nod as he passes by, while Lake Powers offers a casual fist bump. It's a stark contrast to the cold shoulder I'm getting from their coach.

"I think it's cool having you along. Adds a little excitement to the usual away game routine," Powers says, sitting one row in front of Brent.

I'm about to thank him when the plane's intercom crackles to life. The captain's voice fills the cabin, running through the standard pre-flight announcements. As he speaks, I notice Bex turn in his seat, his eyes scanning the plane until they land on me. His brow furrows, and for a moment, I think he might actually get up and come over.

But then the moment passes, and he turns back around, his shoulders set in a rigid line.

"Looks like someone's keeping tabs on you," Lake comments, following my gaze.

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. "He's probably just making sure I'm not corrupting his players or something."

Brent laughs. "Trust me, we were plenty corrupt before you came along. But seriously, don't let him get to you. Bex is... well, Bex. He takes some getting used to, but he's a good coach. Just give him time. But enough about him, how was your Valentine's Day? Zoey said you girls got pedicures?”

My eyes flicker over to Bex for no real reason, but he’s not looking in our direction. “It was good. I spent it with Jordan. We watched a movie. Nothing big. How about you?”

Brent met my sister Jordan once when she accompanied me to Zoey’s first hosting of a Hawkeyes girls night party at their house in the same gated community as Isla and Kaenan’s place. Brent had Zoey moved into his place within the first week they returned from San Diego after Christmas.

Penelope and Slade just bought a place there too. It seems it’s the neighborhood where all the Hawkeyes men go to settle down. It's kind of sweet, really.

“I bought Zoey her first set of ice skates and took her to the outdoor rink. She’s starting to get the hang of it. I try to get her out on the ice as much as I can.”

Zoey told me all about their story. It’s the kind that makes you believe that if two people are meant to be together, they’ll find each other again. When the time is right.

“What about you, Coach?” Lake asks, reaching over and slapping Bex’s arm in the aisle seat in front of him.

Bex doesn’t turn around as he responds. “I haven’t celebrated Valentine’s Day since they made me in primary school. I don’t trust naked babies wielding weapons.”

That can’t be true. He used to be married. Or maybe that’s another reason for why he’s divorced.

“Good point,” Lake says. “Flying around without a helmet and broadhead arrow… that has to be an OSHA violation.”

Brent leans forward, gripping Lake’s headrest in front of him. “What? No lucky girl getting the full Townsend love experience? What a waste of all that charm,” Brent snickers and then winks at me.

Bex shoots a look over his shoulder at me. Our eyes lock and then he turns back around.

What was that about?

As the plane begins to taxi, we all settle into our seats. I mull over Brent's words. Give him time? How much time does he need? It's not like I'm asking to be his best friend. I just want to do my job without feeling like I'm walking on eggshells.

The jet engines roar to life, and I feel the familiar lurch as we take off. As we climb into the air, I can't shake the feeling that this trip is going to be more challenging than I anticipated. It's not just about writing a story anymore. It's about proving myself—to Bex, to the team, and maybe even to myself. The closer we get to the playoffs, the more pressure there is to get this story right.

The vibration of the jet engines soothes me as I lose myself in the smooth voice of Julian Mercer, my favorite contemporary painter. His podcast, "Strokes of Inspiration," has been my go-to lately for both relaxation and creative stimulation. As Julian describes his process for finding inspiration in everyday life, I jot down notes for my upcoming interview with Assistant Coach Ezra Thompson in my notebook. Something about writing down ideas with a pen and paper instead of typing it up in a laptop helps me to work through my thoughts. Maybe it’s the physicality of it.

"The key is to observe without judgment," Julian's voice crackles through my headphones. "Every moment, every interaction, holds the potential for the artist to express a feeling, a thought, a question, and most importantly, a story. With every brush stroke, you are the conductor, the author, and the creator of every masterpiece."

I smile to myself, thinking about how his advice applies just as well to journalism as it does to painting. My pen flies across the empty lined pages, ink staining the crisp white paper of my notepad that sits on the folding table attached to the seat back in front of me as I brainstorm questions. Then I’ll transfer everything to my laptop.

Just like Julian says, I have a story to tell, which makes me the conductor, the author, and the creator.

My keypad is my easel, my computer screen is my canvas, and unfortunately, at the moment, this team’s rise to Stanley Cup victory is the story I'm hoping I get to tell.

I already planned to interview Kaenan Altman this week. Even my questions for him are all laid out and ready on a doc sheet on my computer. But one of the things that artists don't always discuss is that sometimes when inspiration hits, you don't always have a choice to avoid your muse. It consumes your thoughts, even if you wish they wouldn't.

Against my better judgment, I can't stop thinking about the coach sitting three rows ahead of me and on the opposite side of the aircraft. So I'll give in, temporarily, and write the most sensible questions that I think he might actually answer without telling me that they're inconsequential and of no importance to his leadership as an NHL coach.

So I'll stick to the boring stuff.

"How do you balance pushing the team's limits without burning them out?"

"What's your approach to tailoring training methods to individual players' strengths?"

"In your opinion, what's the most underrated aspect of coaching that fans don't see?"

And because I know that my boss will berate me if I don't try to delve a little deeper into Coach Bex as a human, though I'm mostly certain that he's a robot without feelings, I toss in one question that I one-thousand percent know will earn me, at the very least, a deep scowl.

"With all of your achievements and success on the ice, do you feel that hockey still allows time in your life for love?"

I'm so engrossed in jotting down my questions and practically hearing his voice answer the questions how I imagine he will, that I barely notice Reeve sliding into the empty seat beside me. It's only when he gently taps my arm that I look up to see him there.

"Oh, hey, Reeve," I say, pulling off my headphones and closing my laptop before he sees the last question I have on my list, labeled "Questions for the Grump". He'd probably laugh his ass off if he saw the last question I wrote for Bex to answer. "What's up?"

He nods, leaning in closer to speak in hushed tones. "I just wanted to thank you for talking to Keely during your pedicures. She felt a lot better knowing you and Autumn have her back. It means a lot to both of us."

I feel a warm glow of satisfaction. Moments like these remind me why I love my job. Not just for the thrill of the story, but for the human connections I get to make along the way.

"Of course," I whisper back, matching his low volume. "That's what friends are for. I'm just glad I could help."

Reeve's shoulders relax a bit, but I can still see a hint of tension around his eyes. I hesitate for a moment before asking, "Have you talked to Keely recently? Did she ever respond to her dad, or has he texted anything else?"

Reeve's brow furrows and he opens his mouth to respond, but before he can get a word out, a deep, familiar voice cuts through our conversation.

"Ahem."

I look up to find Coach Bex looming over us, his imposing figure blocking out the overhead light. His face is set in its usual stern expression.

"Summers," he says, his voice low and controlled. "A word. In the back by the stewardess cart."

It's not a request; it's a command. I feel a flash of annoyance that he thinks he can order me around like one of his players. He doesn't wait to hear my reaction or my agreement to meet him. Instead, he continues to the back of the plane, confident that I'll follow.

"We'll catch up later, okay?"

Reeve nods, and within seconds, he's already up and heading back to his seat a few aisles ahead of me. I slide out of my own seat and into the aisle with irritated heat biting at my cheeks but I try to remain cool and calm. The last thing I want to do is lose my cool at thirty-five thousand feet above ground with nowhere to stomp off to when Coach undoubtedly says something rude during this conversation.

When I reach the small area in the back of the aircraft near the stewardess cart, Bex is standing there waiting.

"After you," he says, and I hate the way his British accent makes the command sound so prim, proper and genteel when it's anything but.

Two curtains separate the little kitchen space back here with snacks and refreshments from the main cabin.

I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed when I realize that there is no stewardess to be found who will witness whatever argument is about to be had between me and the tower of a man taking steps behind me. She must be in the cockpit taking the pilot and co-pilot a cup of coffee.

As soon as I get deep into the small space, trying to keep as much distance between us, I turn around, the airplane's side wall at my back. Bex is right there in front of me, his broad shoulders nearly filling the narrow space.

Up close, I catch a whiff of his cologne—something woodsy and masculine that makes my head spin for a moment before I regain my composure.

"You don't have the right to order me around you know? I'm not a player on your team," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "If you're worried about me corrupting your players with my journalistic wiles, I can assure you—"

His eyebrows knit together, his eyes focusing directly on me, cutting me off. "You can assure me of what Summers? That whatever dirt you have on Reeve isn't screwing up his game? Go on then… lie to me some more."

I want to tell him to jump out of this aircraft without a parachute but I bite my tongue.

I know that Keely isn't ready to tell Coach Bex and Sam about her father and her fears that if the information came out that it might cause issues with sponsors, so even though I'd like to not be the punching bag for Bex's anger right now, I'll protect Keely for as long as she needs. This isn't my story to tell.

As Bex looms over me, his imposing figure virtually caging me against the wall of the airplane, I can feel the heat radiating off his body. His eyes, usually cold and distant, now burn with an intensity that makes my breath catch in my throat.

"I don't have any dirt on Reeve," I insist, trying to keep my voice steady. "And I resent the implication that I would use anything against him or the team."

Bex leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Then why the hushed conversations? The secretive glances? Don't think I haven't noticed, Summers. You're holding something against him aren't you? Something that has him distracted."

I can feel my heart racing, a mix of anger and something else I don't want to name. "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, people might confide in me because I actually listen? Unlike some people I could mention."

His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "Are you suggesting I don't listen to my players?"

"I'm suggesting that maybe if you weren't so hell-bent on making everyone think that you only care about hockey and winning a championship, you might actually learn something about your players besides their stats," I snap back.

"You're right, I don't care about anything besides hockey," he says, his eyes searching mine, curious if I believe him.

I don't.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that,” I say.

Autumn, Keely, and most everyone in the Hawkeyes franchise seem to see something that I don't, but I'm not planning on digging under Bex’s gruff exterior to find the supposed heart of gold underneath. Without the option of building a family someday, this career is all I have and getting too close to the source could jeopardize it all.

"What's it going to take for you to believe me?" he asks, his voice low and steady.

We’re so close now I can see the flecks of gold in his darkening hazel eyes, the slight stubble on his jaw as if he forgot to shave this morning. His full lips are dangerously close—too close.

"An interview. A real one," I tell him firmly, though I know Sam or Phil will force him into it eventually if they have to. Still, I’d rather he come willingly.

"Not a chance," he says, the challenge clear in his eyes.

I won’t back down. Straightening my spine, matching his gaze. "What are you so scared of?"

His brow twitches at the question, but he doesn’t flinch. His intimidation tactic might work on the ice, but it won’t work on me.

And then, he catches me. I see it in the slight shift of his expression, the moment he notices my gaze lingering on his mouth. Ever so subtly, his tongue peeks out to wet his lower lip, and the air between us shifts, thickening.

“Who’s Jordan?” he asks, a flicker of vulnerability I’ve never seen in his eyes before, but he covers it quickly.

Suddenly, the plane lurches violently, causing me to lose my balance and fall sideways against the Stewardess's snack counter and then I lose my balance, stumbling forward. In an instant, Bex's strong arm wraps around my waist, steadying me. I find myself pressed against his chest, my hands instinctively gripping his shoulders as if he's my lifeline.

I hate the way I'm clinging to him as if he's the safest place on this aircraft, but in this moment, he feels like it

"Are you okay?" he asks, searching my body for signs of injury. "Are you hurt at all?"

"No, I’m okay," I tell him, surprised by how his first instinct is to check on me, to make sure I’m alright—even after our heated conversation.

Who is this guy, and where is Bex? Is this a glimpse into the softer side that everyone else seems to know is there but me?

Time seems to stand still as we lock eyes. His eyes soften from irritation to something akin to curiosity as he searches my face. The tension between us shifts, morphing into something electric, maybe even dangerous.

"What the hell are you doing to me, Rowan?" he says.

Before I can process what's happening, Bex's eyes drop to my mouth and I take in a sharp breath, but just as he's bending down to seal his lips with mine, a gasp breaks through our heated moment, stopping him. "Oh! I'm so sorry, I didn't realize—"

I break away from him, the stewardess shields her eyes but continues her job. There's nothing to see but I'm sure she's seen plenty on her flights.

Finally, Bex glances over his shoulder to see her too, but he doesn't take a single step back from me, as if he plans to keep me here longer.

While he's distracted, I duck under his arm, his hand around my waist, releasing me without putting up a fight. He knows that the almost kiss was a mistake, just as I do. So why am I the only one fleeing the scene while he doesn't move an inch from where he had me up against the wall?

I push past the stewardess, who's trying to pretend that she didn't see me in the coach's arms as if about to kiss me. My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I hurry back to my seat, leaving Bex behind.

He's probably standing there, still trying to process how a fight between us almost turned to more.

As I sink into my chair, pulling my noise-canceling headphones apart and snapping them against my ears as my mind does somersaults over what just happened. My heart is racing at full speed while the rest of my body is thrumming with a need for a man I can't stand.

I hear the pilot come over the inflight speakers as the seat belt sign turns on, letting us know that there is some light turbulence up ahead and that our flight might be a little bumpier than anticipated.

I hear Bex finally walk out from behind the curtain.

His feet stop near the back of my aisle chair.

He bends close to my ear, pulls the one of the headphones back gently and speaks only loud enough for me to hear over the jets.

"Buckle up, Summers, this is about to be a bumpy ride."