Head Coach EPB Read online

  Dedication

  To Chanel, Jen and A.J. . . thank you for being a friend. Your hearts are true. You’re all pals and confidants.

  P.S.: Who wants to bet Jen doesn’t get this reference?

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  An Announcement for Virgin Territory

  An Announcement for Mister Hockey An Excerpt from Mister Hockey

  Also by Lia Riley

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Stuck in a Rut?

  The billboard’s tacky font splashed across the image of a blonde woman dressed in a corset, high-waist underpants and garter belt. Neve Angel scowled through her windshield at the rest of the tagline.

  Shimmy into a Whole New You!

  BEGINNER Burlesque Classes at The Twirling Tassels

  “Humph.” Neve tucked an escaped strand of hair back into her bun. Ms. Blondie could pop an egg in her perfect pout and suck it. Since quitting figure skating at the age of eighteen, she had developed an allergy to glitz and glamor, favoring low-key personal grooming.

  Fake lashes were out.

  Foundation contouring? Negative.

  Waxing? Please. She wasn’t a masochist.

  These days the word pragmatic carried far more value for her than pretty, thanks very much. Flicking on the radio, she relaxed her shoulders as a familiar guitar riff filled her ’78 wood-paneled Jeep Wagoneer. She had an unabashed love for classic cars and classic rock, and Tom Cochrane was a guy who knew his stuff. Life was a highway, except forget the part about driving it “all night long.”

  Or driving anywhere for that matter. Satan would ice-skate through hell before this insane gridlock budged.

  A silver Prius inched forward until it practically dry-humped her bumper.

  Meep! The driver leaned on a wimpy-sounding horn.

  Honking under these conditions was a ballsy move, akin to sitting in the last row of an airplane and standing when the cabin crew disarmed the doors—a good way to tempt ordinary citizens to commit murder.

  The driver beeped again.

  “Use your eyes. There’s nowhere for me to go!” Neve glanced to the rearview mirror and gazed at the distinctive red cursive on the Prius’s license plate.

  A California driver. Surprise, surprise. She’d bet the loose change in the bottom of her purse that this chick was a Bay Area transplant, relocating her traffic problems to Denver along with skyrocketing home prices. The whole West was getting Californicated, from Nevada to Montana, Texas to Colorado.

  The horn beeped a third time. She fisted her insulated travel mug and then took a careful sip. Madam Prius better thank her astrological chart that Neve had hot coffee within arm’s reach because otherwise things could get ugly.

  A minute passed.

  Two.

  Blessed silence reigned.

  After blowing up her bangs, she pulled an everything bagel from the flimsy paper bag on the dashboard, cramming it into her mouth. In a parallel universe, Alter-Neve woke with ample time to prepare a nutritious breakfast, perhaps an acai bowl topped by sliced bananas and kiwi fruit or Greek yogurt and granola, Instagram-worthy concoctions bursting with enough omegas and fiber to make any Prius driver water their home herb garden with organic tears.

  But in this world, Einstein Bros. and a dark roast had to do the job.

  She brushed stray poppy seeds and flecks of dried garlic off her charcoal pants with a muffled sigh. Charcoal, i.e., dark grey . . . not black. Her somber closet palette might be as cheerful as a funeral home, but it never required expending mental energy at seven a.m. trying to coordinate funky colors or mix and match patterns.

  From her roadside perch, the burlesque model appeared amused, as if she knew Neve ate the same humdrum breakfast day in, day out and dressed in the same humdrum wardrobe. Or that while she might have an impressive LinkedIn profile, that didn’t translate to a social life worth posting over.

  Neve poked out her tongue at the model’s image. This low-maintenance duckling had grown up to be . . . if not a preening swan, a confident duck.

  She had a good—scratch that, great—career as a sports columnist for the Denver Age covering the hockey beat, and her life was too consumed by deadlines to bother with extra fuss. Work was the priority, and as for her biological clock . . . well, it could keep right on ticking. She had another baby to grow, her side hustle, a podcast—Sports Heaven—that kept climbing iTunes rankings; she had even been featured in their New and Noteworthy section last month.

  Rut-shmut. By any measure, Neve was doing great in her career and living her best life. Except her smirk faded as she glanced to the console clock. She’d risk missing the puck drop if traffic didn’t improve soon.

  Hopefully, the Hellions would get a much-needed win tonight. After their recent back-to-back championships, it appeared the team’s days in the sun had fallen into one serious shadow. The roster had been shaken ever since the unexpected retirement of captain Jed West last summer. This season had started as a big disappointment for Denver fans, and worse, whispers of NHL labor disputes were gaining traction. For the past few weeks, trusted sources had even uttered the dreaded term lockout—a word that kept her up at night restless and fretting.

  Fingers—and toes—crossed that the powers that be would navigate through the negotiations and get the league back on track. During the 04–05 lockout, the whole season was cancelled—the worst possible outcome. Stadiums sat empty. Fans grumbled. Refs and arena workers forwent paychecks.

  She shuddered, mentally elbowing away the terrible idea. Hopefully this time around, cooler heads would prevail.

  And as for the Hellions, there was another place where cooler heads needed to prevail. Maybe if their goalie would practice a little Zen meditation and quit getting players sent to the penalty box every damn ga—

  Meep! Meeeeeeeeep! Madam Prius hit the horn as if she’d face-planted on the steering wheel and died.

  Tension migrated from Neve’s neck, making the slow climb to her temples. The first throbs of a headache emerged. Between lockout worries and this racket, she might spontaneously combust. To release steam, she rolled down the window and flipped the Prius the bird before grabbing her phone off the passenger seat.

  Ignoring the new—and so far unlistened-to—mindfulness podcast her friend Margot had recommended, she clicked on Byways, the popular navigation app that relied on community-sourced traffic updates to create the fastest routes. It needed to get her moving before she found herself arrested for disorderly conduct.

  She plugged in the Hellions stadium address and an avatar of a pitchfork blinked from a quarter mile ahead. Her tummy performed a flawless triple-axel jump.

  Rovhal30.

  She took a deep breath and issued herself a stern reminder. There had never been any official confirmation that Rovhal30 was even male, but in her mind, he was six feet of strapping sexiness, lounging behind the wheel of a black Subaru Outback—a ginger-haired Ewan McGregor doppelgänger. Not Trainspotting Ewan either. Not even Moulin Rouge! Ewan. No . . . straight-up Obi-Wan Kenobi
Attack of the Clones Ewan, with the shaggy hair and delicious beard.

  One thing was for certain, the pitchfork avatar meant that Rovhal30 was a Hellions hockey fan.

  Or a devil worshiper who lives in his mom’s basement hand-feeding his pet bull pythons.

  The pitchfork didn’t budge. Rovhal30 was stuck in this traffic too. She sucked in her lower lip, debating: To message or not to message? That was the question.

  No point glancing to Burlesque Blondie for advice. The model would just shimmy her tassels in a “you go, guuuurl” affirmation.

  Eenie, meanie, miny . . . ugh. Fine. She was doing this.

  NeverL8: Fancy seeing you here

  She hit Send before she could second-guess her actions. Here was hoping that her tone came across more cheerful than creepy.

  Rovhal30: (typing)

  It always took Rovhal30 time to type back, credible evidence that he was a sixty-plus grandmother learning to operate her first smartphone, but why ruin the fantasy?

  Neve drummed her thumbs on the steering wheel. She didn’t bother with online dating. The idea of some random dude swiping left on her profile while taking his morning dump left a lot to be desired. But this meant that her one meaningful online relationship was with a fellow commuter on a traffic app—someone who felt male and might be attractive.

  The ugly truth was that she hadn’t gotten laid since the first Obama administration, even though her “office” was a locker room populated by sweaty men who rivaled Olympic gods. Every time someone heard about her job as a sports reporter, they’d gush, “Oh my God! Do you ever get to interview the players in their towels? Is it amazing?”

  For the record, she had at one time or another glimpsed most of the Hellions team sans towels. As for the endless question “Is it amazing?” try asking the Louvre gallery attendant who guarded the Mona Lisa if they ever got used to the portrait’s iconic smile.

  Sure, the players were sexy with their cut bods and muscular buns, but a glimpse of wang didn’t exactly send her heart racing. She was there in a professional capacity, not to be a pervert.

  Rovhal30: Hello there

  The Byways app made it impossible to text another driver unless the car was at a complete stop. Sadly, she too often found herself in this situation at the same time of day. A month ago, Rovhal30 had posted a community traffic update about a brush fire in the median. She’d asked a clarifying question and they’d struck up an odd friendship ever since.

  Rovhal30: I’ve been saving a joke for you

  Neve ordered the flutter in her stomach to stand down. “He probably looks like a cross between Homer Simpson and Steve Buscemi,” she muttered.

  But still, he’d saved a joke for her . . . which meant he thought of her. At least a little.

  NeverL8: Lay it on me

  Perfectly casual response—Excellent. For all Rovhal30 knew, she was a Byways floozy, texting with dozens of users on a regular basis.

  Rovhal30: What kind of computer sings?

  NevrL8: I give up

  Rovhal30: A Dell

  She snickered. Good one.

  NeverL8: Actual LOLZ

  Rovhal30: LOLZ?

  NeverL8: Uh . . . like laugh out loud?

  Rovhal30: Why the Z?

  NeverL8: It’s nonstandard spelling of the suffix “s” . . . i.e. just for fun.

  Rovhal30: Remind me what i.e means again?

  NeverL8: Latin for “id est”’ which translates roughly to “in other words.” I like it. Use it all the time.

  She attached the nerdy-face emoticon for good measure and hit Send.

  Pause. No response.

  She chewed the inside of her cheek and waited. Still nothing.

  Gah. Had she driven him away with an obscure-grammar geek out? She rocked her head back against the seat and groaned—she sucked at this. Her gaze connected with Burlesque Blondie. Fine, not only was she stuck in a rut, she won all the awards for awkward internet flirting.

  It could be time to accept her spinster status, drive to the shelter and finally choose a kitten for that cat tower that she’d bought last summer at a garage sale.

  Traffic crawled forward, Rovhal30’s pitchfork avatar ticked away on the upcoming off-ramp, her own exit. She gave a slow exhale and clicked out of the app.

  A journalist’s first obligation was to tell the truth. Hers was that she was undersexed and overworked. She wasn’t living her best life. She didn’t even have a life, too busy to even be a crazy cat lady. Her rut had masqueraded as a comfortable routine for too long. It was high time to climb out and put herself into the world. Find her inner sex kitten and make it purr.

  Faster than the speed of second guesses, she snapped a photo of the phone number for The Twirling Tassels, shifted out of first gear and hit the gas.

  Chapter Two

  They were going to lose.

  Tor Gunnar grabbed the Tic Tac container from his pocket, thumbed open the flip lid and popped a mint into his mouth. The five-two scoreboard told a dismal tale, one that had become increasingly familiar since the start of the season. The San Francisco Renegades, the long-standing archrivals to the Denver Hellions, were wiping the ice with them.

  No heroic comeback was in the cards for tonight. Not with the way his team was disintegrating out there. Already fans were leaving their seats to get a jump start on traffic.

  Third period. Five minutes left. The mint turned to dust between his molars.

  The Renegades might have plunged the proverbial knife into the heart of the Hellions morale, but now they twisted the blade, antagonizing his guys, looking for ways to draw blood—both metaphorical and actual—as they settled old scores. The goalie, Donnelly, hulked in front of his net as the offense bore down. His goalie was territorial, an enraged bear protecting a cub from rogue wolves. Renegade winger Ryker Fury didn’t even have the puck in possession yet had invaded the space, a clear taunt.

  “Come on,” Tor muttered. It was plain enough to see what was going down. Fury was out there looking to provoke a reaction. Donnelly’s hotheaded temper was legendary. As much as Gunnar had tried to find new ways to cool his ass, if someone messed with him, the kid messed back. Every damn time.

  “Don’t do it. Don’t take the bait.” Tor crossed his arms. Donnelly had what it took to be a star. Someday he might be a legend—if he could learn to control his fucking temper. Even with today’s score, the kid had made unbelievable saves.

  Fury shouted something.

  Donnelly dropped his gloves in response.

  Tor hid his inner wince behind a stoic mask.

  Someday Donnelly might be a superstar goalie, but today sure as shit wasn’t that day.

  Ryker was big—strong and mean—but Donnelly had the devil in him. His fists flew fast and hard. It wasn’t long until Ryker was on the ice and Donnelly towered on top.

  “Get him off, get him off,” Tor roared at the team.

  But it was too late. Ref made the call.

  Match penalty.

  Now he was down a player. Andrew Kelly, the Renegade coach, signaled who he wanted out. The Hellions star forward, Petrov, skated toward the penalty box, head down, shoulders slumped. Donnelly trailed after.

  “Nate,” Tor snapped. The second-string goalie was going in.

  “On it, Coach.” Nathan Reed checked his laces and headed out.

  Donnelly didn’t even glance in Reed’s direction as he passed; his cheeks were flushed over his ginger beard and he breathed hard.

  “Happy?” Tor growled.

  “You didn’t hear what that bastard said.” Donnelly ripped off his mask and hurled it at the plexiglass. “Fury talked a bunch of—”

  “I don’t give a rat’s hairless pink ass if he insulted your mama, your little sister, or your mama and your sister. Your job is to keep your head. Did that happen tonight?”

  Donnelly stared at the floor with a sullen expression.

  “I just asked you a question.” Tor dropped his voice to a subzero whisper. “If you
have the slightest sense of self-preservation, you’re going to give me an answer.”

  A muscle twitched beneath Donnelly’s left eye. “Lost my head.”

  “You’re making it a habit.”

  “Look.” He covered his face with his hand. “I’m trying not to, Coach. I’m—”

  “Sucking air in my vicinity,” Tor snapped. “Just get outta here and let me watch us lose in peace.”

  Donnelly hesitated. “I am sorry, Coach.”

  “So am I. I don’t know what it’s going to take to get through to you.” Tor turned his attention back to the play. And as soon as the game was over, he got called to the owner’s box to receive even worse news.

  Now here he was, thirty minutes later, glaring at the Hellions locker room door while straightening his tie. Everyone on the other side would have questions, and he couldn’t provide a single answer. The league negotiations had crapped out. A lockout was now in effect over salary caps, the cherry to the night’s shit sundae.

  Swallowing back a frustrated sigh, Tor banged open the locker room door and strode inside. All conversation muted as he marched to the center of the room and stopped short of the pitchfork emblazoned on the floor. No need to invite further bad luck by standing on top of the team logo. He drew his gaze up to his favorite Gretzky quote stenciled along the curved wall before taking in the expectant men on the benches.

  These players were a unique breed. Many had left home at a young age to chase a seemingly impossible dream. Some had travelled overseas to build resumes. Most, at some point, had lived far from parents, friends and the comforts of home, forging new friendships with those who had made similar sacrifices.

  It was these bonds, a brotherhood strengthened through sacrifice and physical and mental hardship, that sustained a player through tough times both on and off the ice. One of the reasons he’d insisted on the new locker room being shaped as an oval and not a square was so everyone could always see each other, no one relegated to a corner. And his commitment to keeping the focus on team over individuals had worked, at least until this season.