05

𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐭

"Sorry I'm late."

Nobody even looks up. They're all skating around, yelling at each other like a bunch of kids who never grew up.

I wasn't supposed to be late. I meant to be early, professional, first day and all that, but I went home first because my head was a mess and I needed a minute. That minute turned into me sitting on my couch going through the players list, name after name, position after position, until none of it stuck because my brain kept sliding somewhere else.

To his hands…His annoyingly perfect abs that I can't seem to get off my mind and to last night, God I feel like a sex freak—with all those images running wildly through my head.

I have zero business thinking about that right now.

The captain's picture is missing from the file. I noticed it before I left, and didn't think much of it. Every other guy has a photo stapled to his page, some blurry team shot, but the captain's page is just stats, no face, nothing.

Maybe he forgot to pose for the picture.

My coffee was still untouched and it sat pretty on my counter with my half eaten sandwich. I stood in the shower way too long like the water could actually wash last night off me.

It couldn't.

Then traffic, every single light red, my hands tight on the wheel the whole drive over telling myself this is fine, this is normal, nothing weird is happening. I should be excited that I wasn't part timing anymore, and have landed a real job at the most prestigious university in the country.

"Everyone line up!"

I snapped back as the team scrambles into something that's supposed to be a line. My skates hit the ice, my legs remembering what to do even after all these years, and I stand there with the speech I've rehearsed a hundred times ready to go.

I open my mouth to speak.

But someone breaks off from the group. Skates straight toward me with a smirk already on his face like he owns the whole rink, and my stomach drops out from under me before I even register why.

No.

It can't be.

"Coach." One word. That's all it takes for me to wish the floor would open up and swallow me immediately. I skate closer, right up to the boards, close enough that whatever he says next stays between us.

My whole body goes hot then cold then hot again. He leans in. "We meet again."

I was screwed.

Not the normal kind either, the actual, literal, I-slept-with-a-student kind, except worse, because he's not just some student. He's the captain—the captain of the exact team I was just hired to take to a championship. The same captain whose face was missing from my file like the universe already knew this was coming.

Was it Micah? Or Michael?

Of course it had to be the one dude that I couldn't remember his name, out of every bar in this city, every stranger I could've gone home with.

My mouth stays shut.

What am I supposed to say, thanks for last night, please forget you saw me naked eleven hours ago, in front of a team I've known for four minutes? I turn away from him like he's just another player, my heart slamming against my ribs, and face the rest of the team instead.

"My name's Beckett. I'll be your coach this season." Hopefully he will get the message that I'm ignoring him and leave me alone.

"I've seen your record. I don't care about it." A few of them shift on their skates. "What I care about is whether you're willing to work, because talent without work gets you nowhere, and I'm not here to make friends. I'm here to win."

Nobody says anything.

I keep going anyway. "Some of you are gonna hate me by the end of this season. That's fine. Hate me all the way to the championship, I don't care how we get there."

A couple of them almost smile at that.

"It's already getting late, so that's it for today. Be here tomorrow, on time, no excuses." I hear myself say it and almost laugh, since I'm the one who just broke that rule five minutes into the job.

A few of them actually laugh. I'll take it.

"You're dismissed."

They break apart, skating off toward the locker room in twos and threes, sticks clacking, voices overlapping, until it's just me and the lights humming overhead.

And him.

Michael or Micah haven't moved.

Everyone else has cleared out and he's still standing exactly where he was, like leaving never crossed his mind, like the rest of the team walking off around him is just noise he doesn't need to bother with.

I turn to actually look at him for the first time since he skated in front of everyone.

Under the rink lights he looks different than he did last night, not less good-looking unfortunately, that would have made this a lot easier but he was more devilish handsome than he was last night. Like there's a whole other version of him standing there now, one that knows exactly what he's doing to me and isn't sorry about it.

Not even a little.

I cross my arms, tell myself it's a professional stance. It isn't. We both know it isn't, neither of us says so.

"Can I help you with something?" I already know the answer's gonna be a problem before I even finish asking.

Michael or Micah lips slowly pulled in a smile, like he's been waiting the whole time for me to ask, like he knew I would before I even opened my mouth. He tilts his head, just slightly, that same smirk stuck to his face and not going anywhere.

I should tell him to go home.

I have every reason to.

Instead I just stand there and wait, because as much as I hate admitting it, I want to hear what he says next.

He leaned in close enough to whisper into my ear. "I need help with a lot of things.”