I DON’T CARE how gorgeous, or broad, or chiseled, or… wait, where was I going with this?
Oh, right. I don’t care who this big oaf is! He won’t be yelling at Noah if I have anything to say about it. Or any of these cute little boys, for that matter. They’d be so mad if they knew I thought of them as cute little boys when they clearly think they’re so much older than they are.
The man stares at me and has the audacity to smirk, which just makes me madder. A flash goes off and I look over to see a professional cameraman taking photos of the obnoxiously hot man. Is he a model or something? Believable. But why’s he filling in for the assistant coach?
The big man opens his mouth to speak before something crosses over his face, an expression of fear, or something similar. Before I can fully analyze the look, he glides toward me in a rush and picks me up effortlessly around the waist.
I’m about to tell him a thing or two about touching someone without their consent, when two boys crash into each other right where we were just standing. The giant sets me down, his hands moving up to my shoulders to steady me before releasing me and skating backward a few feet.
The way he moves on the ice is a thing of beauty, almost as impressive as his face. Okay, so he’s not just a model. Actually, when I really look at him, his face isn’t model handsome. His face is mostly covered by his thick, dark beard, but the sharp angles are still noticeable. His features are handsome, but not perfect. His mouth is a little too wide, his nose a bit crooked like he broke it and it wasn’t set right, and there’s a scar across one eyebrow. No, he’s not handsome in the typical sense of the word, but in a way all his own.
“Ma’am, you really need to get off the ice. You need skates and a helmet, at least, to be out here,” His voice is getting louder and more annoyed with every word, but that deep, rumbly baritone makes me feel like I’m standing in the hot sun instead of the middle of an ice rink.
Internally, I shake his voice from my thoughts, and place my hands on my hips again for good measure. Looking as serious as I can to compensate for our size difference. “I can’t speak to you through the plexiglass.”
He uses his gloved hand to gesture toward the bleachers on the other side of the glass. “You have to go back to the parent viewing area.” He’s completely serious. Like a bunch of kids could hurt me.
I scoff and narrow my eyes at him. His arm flies up toward my head, causing me to flinch. I notice a heavy, black puck hits his gloved hand and ricochets off before tumbling to the ice, leaving me stunned.
“You’re not even wearing a helmet, you’re going to get a concussion at this rate,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut in annoyance and shaking his head. He looks, and sounds, very put out.
I’m still in awe of his reflexes, glancing between him and the puck that almost just rearranged my face. He groans heavily, and his eyes shift from greenish-brown to a cooler color. I can tell in that moment that he’s lost all patience with me.
He removes his gloves, throwing them to the ground, skates toward me, then bends at the waist and hauls me up and over his shoulder.
I gasp and wriggle, trying to free myself from his firm grip. “Hey! You brute! Put me down!”
He ignores me, skating toward the door that leads to the parent area. “I tried asking you nicely,” he says cooly.
“Have you ever interacted with people before? Your behavior isn’t any better than the kids’!” I kick my legs in frustration, but his large, strong hands don’t even flinch at my movements.
“I can’t just let you get a brain injury. If you want to yell at me, do it after practice.”
He finally puts me down, and I feel my shoes land on carpet instead of ice.
“Oh, I will,” I say in a menacing tone, but he doesn’t even spare me a glance over his large shoulder as he slams the door and skates away.
As I stomp back to my seat, I can still feel the warmth of his arm where it was just wrapped around my thighs. Of course someone would finally give me warm, tingly feelings, only to end up being a complete jerk. Right before I sit down, I realize all the parents are blatantly staring at me. My cheeks heat when it hits me that the big guy and myself just entertained the entire crowd of onlookers… as well as the photographer and his friend… who are also staring at me. I settle back on my spot on the bleachers and distract myself by looking for my brother on the ice.
Finding Noah in the slew of kids, I notice the entire group of boys the annoyingly handsome coach has been working with are engaged in a full out brawl. Gloves are off, sticks are flying, it’s madness.
Maybe I was a little too quick to judge about the yelling? No, I won’t give him the benefit of the doubt here. The man is a complete ogre! Not just with the kids, but also with me.
Releasing a heavy sigh, I try to get comfortable on the cold, hard bench. I came straight from work, and I forgot to pack a change of clothes, having left the house in such a rush this morning. The thin fabric of my scrubs isn’t nearly enough of a barricade between my bum and the freezing cold metal bleacher.
I mentally make a note—for the millionth time—to keep a blanket and some fuzzy boots in the car for hockey practices. I shiver and rub my hands up and down my arms in an attempt to keep warm. Noticing a flicker of movement next to me, I slowly swivel my head to investigate. To my surprise, I find not one, but two hockey moms looking at me with wide eyes and devilish grins.
I squeak in surprise to see them so close. Neither of them was here when I sat down. And they’ve never even noticed me before… but then again, I’m always here late, or Ronda picks Noah up for me.
One with red hair, I’m assuming she must be the red haired boy’s mom, speaks in a hushed voice. “Oh, my gosh. What was it like being carried by Mitch ‘The Machine’ Anderson?”
The woman with dark hair and bronze skin next to her squeals and claps her hands together excitedly. “Yeah, what was he like?”
My eyebrows pull together, I never have been good at hiding what I’m thinking. “Umm, infuriating? Aggravating? Rude?” I huff a humorless laugh when their smiles drop. “Why did you call him the machine?” I make dramatic air quotes when I say the machine.
“You mean, you don’t know who he is?” the woman with amber skin asks, bringing a hand to her chest. I notice she’s wearing fleece gloves and make a mental note to add some of those to my car-bag for hockey days.
“Who? The new assistant coach?”
They look at each other and giggle.
“Mitch Anderson is the top defenseman for the D.C. Eagles. AKA pro hockey player and total stud muffin,” the red haired woman explains. “I’m Steph, by the way.” She smiles before jutting her chin in the brunette’s direction. “This is Tori.”
Tori gives me an awkward little wave. “Hi.”
“I’m Andie. It’s nice to meet you both.” I smile back. “So, if he’s some famous person, why’s he even here?”
“He got suspended for getting in a fight. The other guy ended up with a concussion,” Tori answers casually, like it’s no big deal.
A look of horror must be etched on my face, because Tori jumps in, shrugging. “It’s hockey.” As if that’s a reasonable explanation.
Steph gives me a smile-grimace. “He has a temper, sure. But when will the kids ever have another opportunity to work directly with an NHL player?”
The two women sigh dreamily. “Plus, he’s so nice to look at,” Tori says at the tail end of her sigh, looking in Mitch’s direction.
“He’s pretty… but there’s not much going on upstairs,” I say, crossing my arms defensively. “Aren’t you guys married?” I ask, remembering I’ve seen at least one of them here with a man before.
“I’m newly single,” Steph jumps in. “And ready to mingle… especially if it’s with Mitch.” She sighs.
Tori scoffs. “I’m married, not dead. Just admiring God’s creation.” She waggles her eyebrows.
I snort a laugh, wondering if her husband would agree.
Tori and Steph turn their attention back to their boys, but my eyes are drawn to movement at the other end of the bleachers. The fancy photographer who’s been taking photos of Coach Anderson this entire time is tearing down his equipment and putting it away. The man beside him—dressed in business casual attire—is not only way overdressed for a kids hockey practice, but doesn’t even offer to help. The photographer continues to zip up his bags and strap them to himself like a pack mule, and then they walk past to get to the exit. The man with the short, brown hair stares at me as he passes. My skin prickles uncomfortably, like he’s literally shooting daggers at me with those angry eyes. What did I ever do to him? Sheesh.
After practice, the kids file out of the rink with all of their gear. By the time I make my way through the throng of kids and parents, I attempt to find the notorious Mitch Anderson and finish our conversation, but he’s long gone.
Coward.
I feel a hand on my arm and turn to find Steph behind me, she hands me a sticky note with numbers scribbled onto it. “Here’s my number if you need anything, girl. My Declan is really talented… so if you’d ever like to get the boys together to skate, I’m sure he’d be happy to show Noah a few things.”
I smile and thank her, trying to keep my face even. I may not know much about hockey, but it doesn’t seem to me like Declan is any better than the other boys. Actually, Mom and Dad always made it sound like Noah’s skills were advanced for his age, which was why they spent the money to let him take a special power skating class last year.
But I’m new to this whole thing, what do I know?
