Six

ATHENA

The Ashford training facility gym smelled intensely of iron, chalk, and exertion. A heavy metal track blasted from corner speakers, vibrating against the concrete walls. It was raw, unpolished, and exactly what I needed to clear the sterile scent of Hayes’s office from my memory.

Navigating past a row of battered treadmills, I spotted Jeremiah.

He was sitting at the edge of a weight bench, taking a break between sets. As I approached, he grabbed a white towel, wiping a heavy sheen of sweat off his face and neck. He reached down beside the bench, picking up a thick manila folder, and held it out toward me.

"What is this, a contract or a CVS receipt?" I asked, eyeing the thickness of the file.

Jeremiah chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that competed with the bass of the gym music. He tossed the damp towel casually over his left shoulder.

I took the folder, forcing my eyes to stay strictly on the paper. But my peripheral vision was stubbornly betraying me.

Jeremiah was wearing a tight, moisture-wicking black athletic shirt that clung ruthlessly to every line of his chest and abs. He was paired in low-slung grey sweatpants. As he leaned forward, resting his thick, vein-mapped forearms on his knees, his physique took up entirely too much space.

My stomach gave an uncomfortable twist. The specific aesthetic—broad shoulders, dark hair, powerful athletic build—triggered a sudden, entirely unwanted flashback. It was the exact type of physique that had made me stupidly weak for Luca Ryder.

Disgust flared hot in my chest.

*No guys. Focus.* I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper, grounding myself in the sharp pain.

Leaning my hip against a nearby squat rack, I opened the folder and began reading the legal text. I didn't skim. I read every single line.

"Talia kept the legalese simple," Jeremiah noted, watching me scrutinize the pages. "It guarantees the pipeline recommendation upon completion of the season. Everything you asked for."

I finished reading it once. Without looking up, I flipped right back to page one, tracing the black ink with my index finger as I started reading it a second time.

Jeremiah let out a quiet sigh. "You think I hid a trapdoor in there?"

I finally lifted my eyes, meeting his dark gaze. "I trusted a verbal promise two days ago. Look how that turned out. I don’t do blind faith anymore."

A flash of something akin to understanding crossed his features, softening the hard lines of his face. He didn't push. He just sat there, letting me take my time.

Finding everything in order, and completely legally binding, I dug into my bag, pulled out a black pen, and signed my name on the bottom line. I snapped the folder shut and handed it back to him.

Jeremiah took the file. Instead of staying seated, he stood up to his full height.

The casual dynamic shifted instantly. He towered over me, a massive wall of muscle and quiet authority.

"Good," he said, his tone dropping an octave, slipping into captain mode. "Training starts Monday. I expect you on the ice by 6:00 AM sharp."

I didn't flinch. I didn't step back.

Instead, I took a half-pace forward, deliberately invading his personal space. I had to tilt my head up to hold his gaze, but I made sure my eyes were completely deadpan.

"Let's get one thing straight, Ashford," I said, keeping my voice dangerously soft. "I'm the coach now. I don't take orders from my players. We start training when I say we start."

A tense second ticked by. He looked down at me, his chest rising and falling slowly. Gradually, a slow, genuinely impressed smirk spread across his face, lighting up his dark eyes.

"Alright, Coach," he conceded, his voice thick with amusement. "When do we start?"

"Monday. 5:30 AM." I stepped back, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. "Don't be late."

Pivoting on my heel, I walked out of the gym, the heavy metal music swallowing the sound of my footsteps. I didn't look back, but I could feel the weight of his stare following me all the way to the door.