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When we finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, our breath mingling in the quiet space between us. “You have no idea how much you mean to me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

I smiled, my fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”

He kissed me again, softer this time

“Alright, Coach, time to put that jacket on and show everyone who you’re rooting for.”

“Shit.”

Another player, this time from San Jose, slammed into the backboards, rattling the plexiglass, the sound mixing with the shit-talking from players on the bench and chatter of the crowd.

Monroe snorted, suited arms crossed over his chest, clipboard in hand. “Contreras, you’ve been around hockey how long and you’re still reacting to hits?” he taunted.

“Gets me every time,” I said, craning my neck to catch Dalton’s breakaway.

My comment earned me a snort, his eyes never leaving the gameplay. The guy looked at the rink in the way I analyzed a player’s body movements.

Reading. Anticipating.

I could see why the players liked him so well as a coach. Monroe read plays almost as well as Dalton.

My stomach swooped just thinking about him. He was impressive on the ice, skating with an assertiveness that made it hard to pull my eyes away. Every move he made, the numbers on my back warmed. As if the whole arena’s eyes were on those two numbers.

We were up by two going into the final period, and the boys were on fire. A loud clang echoed off the ice, the puck nailing the crossbar of our goal. The play caused a scramble for the puck.

San Jose was aggressive in their play. They weren’t shy about putting us into the walls.

And I wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

As a coach, I winced every time, my mind playing through every injury a hit like that could cause.

Then there was the other reaction I had to it. A reaction I was blaming on biology, because I found it incredibly hot every time Dalton slammed a grown man into the plexi.

I thought back to what he’d whispered to me during intermission when he was supposed to be paying attention to Monroe’s gameplay prep for the third period.

“Sunshine, there a reason you bit your lip when I plastered Holtz against the glass? Because if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it turned you on.”

“Good thing you know better then, Thatcher.”

Dalton had to have a superpower. It’s like he knew when I was thinking about him, because mid-flashback, he shoulder-checked Holtz into the boards next to the penalty back, and he had the audacity to wink at me before skating away.

“Great. How many of my players are using the game to get laid?” Monroe grumbled, throwing a hand in the air.

“Coach, we’ve always used the game to get laid. You should know that.” Jimenez laughed, catching his breath on the bench. “Hell, don’t tell boss man, but you wouldn’t even have to pay me to play this game professionally. Drowning in pussy is payment enough.”

“You think anyone is going to want you if you’re broke, Jimenez?”

“What do you mean? Of course, Coach. Ari over here is always telling Cap not to pay for shit.” He threw an arm out my way, standing and gnawing at his mouthpiece as he waited to go out on the ice for the final minutes of the period.

“That’s because Dalton’s got a good personality. All you’ve got going for you is your money, Jimenez,” Monroe ribbed, his tone making it obvious he was messing with the defensemen.

“That’s cold, Coach. Cold. My good looks are my other selling feature.” He flashed a gleaming smile, and I laughed.

Then everything came to a screeching halt.

The energy in the arena shifted instantly, from electric anticipation to something heavy, tense, and wrong.

It started with the collision. Two players slammed into each other at full speed, sticks tangling, skates scraping hard against the ice. Dalton was one of them. The crowd roared, but I barely heard it, my entire focus narrowing on the rink as his body hit the ice at an awkward angle.