Chapter Six

Bex

I stride through the hotel lobby after checking in, my plastic rectangular room key in one hand and my small rolling suitcase trailing behind me in my other hand, with a duffel bag slung over my shoulder. The posh interior of the five-star hotel barely registers as my mind churns with thoughts of the flight—and more specifically, of Rowan Summers.

What the hell was I thinking almost kissing her like that?

The moment replays in my head for the thousandth time since we landed. The way she felt in my arms was soft yet unyielding. The little gasp as I pulled her against me, keeping her from falling. The way she pressed into me, matching my intensity with her own.

I shouldn't have wanted her—but damn it, I did. I can't remember the last time I've wanted any woman that bad. Not in a long time.

I can't even remember if I wanted to kiss Lily on our first date as much as I wanted to kiss Rowan.

Seeing her lose her footing and almost hit the ground, sent a surge of concern through me. Instinct took over, and I pulled her close to steady and protect her. Years spent on the ice have given me solid footing and balance, allowing me to keep us both upright.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory of the look in her eyes when I asked if she was okay. She looked at me like I had grown two heads. And then, like an idiot, I was going to kiss her.

It would have been a mistake. A moment of weakness brought on by turbulence, close quarters, and her sharp tongue. Nothing more.

And it won’t happen again.

Rowan is a reporter, and if there's one thing I've learned in my years in this business, it's that reporters can't be trusted. I should know; it was a news outlet not unlike The Seattle Sunrise that sold gossip that I had been unfaithful to Lily, and that she ended our marriage because of it. My agent threatened to sue for slander but they retracted the story later—much good that did. The damage was done.

Reporters will sell their own granny for a juicy story, and I'll be damned if I give Rowan Summers ammunition to use against me or my team.

I reach the lifts in the hotel, jabbing the 'up' button with perhaps more force than necessary. As I wait, I replay our interactions since she joined the Hawkeyes' inner circle, trying to gauge her motives. So far, besides the less-than-flattering article she wrote about me before the Hawkeyes agreed to give The Seattle Sunrise full access to the team, her articles have all been lighthearted, yet informative pieces meant to give fans an inside look at each player and who they are on and off the field.

The lift doors slide open with a soft 'ding', and I step forward, only to stop short. There, looking equally surprised, stands the very woman occupying my thoughts.

Rowan Summers, her golden hair slightly mussed from travel, a small suitcase at her side. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, neither of us moves.

"I was just coming up from the basement floor. They have a gym and spa down there," she says.

I give a curt nod and step into the lift.

She's been avoiding me since the incident on the plane. Taking her time to exit the aircraft, hanging back as far from me as possible and hopping on a different bus to the hotel. I should be avoiding her and dodging her invasive questions, not the other way around. But now, here we are, face to face with nowhere to hide.

I could have saved us both from having to ride up together by telling her that I'll take the next one, but Rowan Summers won't have me running, even if the idea of being enclosed in a small elevator with her closely resembles the situation we were in mere hours ago.

The silence stretches for a few seconds and then Rowan clears her throat.

"All checked in?" she asks, her voice slightly higher than usual.

"Yup," I say simply.

I bend forward to hit level seven while level five is already illuminated.

Good, we're not on the same floor.

The team usually stays on the same level of the hotel together, Penelope always books, but since Rowan was a last-minute add-on, I suppose there weren't any rooms left for her. That's one less thing to worry about. Knowing that she won't be sleeping next door to any players.

"So," Rowan starts, clearly trying to break the awkward silence. "Big game tomorrow. Feeling confident?"

I arch an eyebrow at her. "Fishing for quotes already, Summers?"

She rolls her eyes, a flash of the fire I've come to expect from her. I kind of fire she uses to draw me in. "Believe it or not, Coach, sometimes small talk is just small talk. Until the head coach just about kisses you in the back of an aircraft."

I feel a twinge of guilt, even though nothing happened since we were interrupted by the stewardess. "About the incident in the aircraft, I think we'd both do well to forget it—nothing happened. But I'll give you a quote… if you drop it." I say, glancing over at her. When she lifts a brow at me without a verbal response, I continue by answering her question. "The lads have been training hard. I believe we're in good form for tomorrow's match."

Rowan nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "That's good to hear. The team seems really focused."

"They are," I agree, then can't help adding, "When they're not being distracted, that is."

Rowan shakes her head.

"Look, I know you don't trust me," she says softly. "But I'm not your enemy, Bex. I'm just trying to do my job, same as you."

"Just stay off of level seven, and we'll be fine."

Her eyes narrow slightly. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

The elevator dings as we get to her level.

"Look at that, fresh out of time. Just as well. You and I don't fight well in closed spaces. Best we don't tempt fate again," I say, reaching out a hand to keep the door open as she exits. The last thing either of us needs is to be stuck in this lift together any longer than necessary.

She stomps out of the elevator with that air of confidence that amplifies all the ways that I'm attracted to her.

I pull my hand away to let the lift door close, but just before the doors begin to move, Rowan glances over her shoulder at me. "Don't forget Bexley, you kissed me."

The use of my first name catches me off guard; it's the second time she's used it—both today, and the sound of my name off her pink glossy lips sending an unexpected thrill through me, just like it did on that aircraft.

"Goodnight, Coach," she calls over her shoulder, not glancing back.

She starts walking down the hall and I can't stop from watching her hips and ass sway right before the doors close completely.

For a moment, I'm tempted to hit the 'open' button on the elevator doors to stop them from closing. The need to close the distance between us and feel her sweet lips on mine and her soft body pressed against me has me tightening my fist, bending my room key almost in half.

"Fuck," I curse out loud.

I'll have to go back downstairs and get a new one.

I hit the button to send me back down to the lobby to get a new key, giving me time to consider one undeniable truth:

I can't stop thinking about Rowan Summers.

And that, more than anything, scares the hell out of me.

It's the next day at the game when I realize that we've just ended our second period and I haven't seen Rowan in the crowd around us.

She'd been on the bus with us, chatting with some of the players at the back of the bus. I'd caught snippets of her conversation with Briggs, something about his pre-game rituals. She seemed so at ease, laughing and joking, while I'd sat at the front, pretending to be engrossed in last-minute strategy notes.

But now, as the team files out of the locker room and back onto the ice for our last period, there's no sign of her. It's not like she needs my permission to go anywhere, but a nagging worry tugs at the back of my mind. This isn't our home turf. The away crowd can get rowdy, especially when there's alcohol involved. And Rowan, with her golden hair and quick wit, stands out in a crowd.

I scan the seats again, my eyes drawn to the seat five rows back where she usually sits during home games. It's strange how accustomed I've grown to her presence there, like a persistent shadow always in my peripheral vision. Now, the seat is occupied by a man twice Rowan's size wearing the opposing side's jersey and giving me the stink eye.

"Coach!" Ezra's voice cuts through my thoughts. "We're ready to get back on the ice."

I turn to my assistant coach, forcing myself to focus. "Right then. Let's go, shall we?"

As my team heads down the players tunnel and out onto the ice for our final period, I push all thoughts of Rowan to the back of my mind. We only have a one-point lead and the third period is turning into a nail-biter. I can't afford any distractions, not with so much on the line. We're in a crucial part of the season, each game a steppingstone towards the playoffs. My team needs me at my best.

The referee's whistle blows, and the game begins. Almost immediately, I'm swept up in the familiar rhythm of play. My eyes track the puck as it zips across the ice, my mind already three moves ahead, analyzing patterns and planning strategies.

"Briggs, watch your left!" I shout as our center narrowly avoids a brutal check. He recovers quickly, snagging the puck and racing towards the opposite goal.

The thought of whether that kiss on the plane is why I'm concerned about her well-being catches me off guard, and I nearly miss a dirty play by the opposition. I bark out a protest to the referee, who waves me off. Frustration bubbles up inside me, but I take a deep breath, regaining my composure. Losing my cool won't help the team and the last thing I need is Rowan writing something about me flying off the handle at a ref.

Before I know it, the buzzer signals the end of the game and we win 3-1, making another goal in the final seconds of the period.

In the locker room, the team all clammers with excitement, their energy high after another win. This is why I love hockey – the thrill of the game, the camaraderie of the team. This is the world I understand, not the art magazine that my dad built from the ground up before me or my brothers were born.

My mind drifts back to Rowan as Ezra takes the lead on congratulating the team and giving kudos to a few impressive plays that he and the rest of the coaching staff saw out there tonight.

Rowan's probably in the press box, furiously scribbling notes or chatting up other journalists. She's more than capable of taking care of herself, so why can't I shake this nagging feeling of concern?

I pull out my phone and look through the text messages that Cammy sent me about hotel and travel information, as well as Rowan's number.

I type in Rowan's number and send off a text.

She might be capable of taking care of herself, but as long as she's traveling with my team, it's my responsibility to make sure that everyone gets back home safe, and that includes getting back to the hotel.

Unknown number: We're going to head down to the media room soon. – Bex

Rowan: I'm already down here. See you in a bit.

My shoulders relax when her text comes through.

She must be okay if she's texting me. That's a good sign.

Whatever this is with Rowan, it needs to end. It's becoming too complicated, and even if I could get past her career choice, collecting dirt on my players, and writing reviews about me as a coach, it would never work.

In the end, I'll do what I always do.

I'll choose hockey, and she'll end up broken-hearted.