Calle
Turned out she could coach via an earpiece, but it was so much better being on home ice when the Gold hoisted their second Cup win in franchise history.
It had been a hard-fought playoff run and an even harder final round.
But they’d won.
For the second time in three years.
And in many ways, it seemed like the end of an era.
Stefan had announced his plans to retire, and Mike seemed like he might follow him. Blane and Max only had one more year on each of their contracts. But Coop would be around.
He’d signed a five-year-multimillion-dollar deal, bolstered by the fact that he’d been on a tear when he’d returned the week after Calle had been discharged from the hospital.
There hadn’t been any hesitation on his part. He’d simply terminated his lease while she was stuck in the hospital bed, moved his stuff into her place, and then had cleared and painted the second bedroom a bubblegum pink by the time she made it home.
He’d even bought a crib.
And changing table.
And if Calle hadn’t already accepted that he was hers, furnishing the nursery so she didn’t have to worry about it, would have cemented the fact. He’d left her with only the fun stuff, and she’d online-shopped her way to a unicorn-themed room.
Hell, it seemed the only thing to go with those bubblegum pink walls.
She smiled, watching from her seat on the bench, her toes barely grazing the ground, but following Dr. Holding’s strict orders to a tee.
She’d been sprung from lockdown for Game Seven and had been ordered to keep her ass in a chair or on the bench whenever she wasn’t actively coaching.
Which had been most of the night.
Because the Gold had destroyed the Rangers.
Absolutely obliterated them.
For her. She knew that it was for her and Coop and the little girl that Max wanted her to name Stanley—so not happening, by the way. But also, for themselves. Because they’d worked their asses off and were gelling at just the perfect time . . . and kismet happened for a second time.
Next season would probably be different.
The roster changes would make another journey here nearly impossible, even if repeating a championship run wasn’t an almost insurmountable task.
But for the here and now, she and her giant, beached-whale-feeling body were going to enjoy the moment.
Brit and Stefan, side-by-side, their arms around each other as Kevin circled with the trophy, passing it off and then going right over to PR-Rebecca to steal her camera and kiss her soundly on the lips.
Blane holding his daughter in his arms, Mandy smiling from the hall.
Gabe and Nutritionist-Rebecca standing next to her and looking, rightfully, so damned proud.
Mike standing by the glass, staring at Sara, their bare hands pressed to the glass.
Angie and Brayden, Max’s son, cheering like lunatics in the stands.
And Coop.
Coop skating toward her. She pushed up from the bench, her lips parting to offer her congratulations.
But he wasn’t looking at her.
He was staring over her shoulder at . . . Bernard?
Um, what?
He walked right by her, stopping behind the bench and reaching for something that Bernard pulled out of his pocket.
Then he gently lifted her.
“What—?”
He butt landed her in a chair just inside the ice.
“What—?” She began again.
Coop didn’t answer her, just pushed the chair a few feet away from the bench.
“Couldn’t swing a recliner on the ice, baby.”
“What—?”
Her third what-beginning question was cut off when Coop went down on one knee.
In full view of the cameras, in full view of the team, in full view of the twenty-thousand fans.
She knew the moment the crowd realized what was happening.
The cheers became deafening.
She couldn’t focus on them, or that fact that her ears were ringing.
Because Coop was on his knee with a ring box open on his palm, and his mouth was forming words she couldn’t hear but could discern on his lips even without the on-one-knee-open-box-with-a-glittering-ring situation happening.
“Will you marry me?”
“Yes!” she shouted, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hear her, but also knowing that he’d get it anyway.
And he did.
Because his smile went wide, and the chair almost tipped over when he lurched up to kiss her.
And the photograph PR Rebecca caught of the two of them in each other’s arms, laughing and kissing with Coop’s hands on the outside of its frame as he stopped the chair from falling over was her favorite picture ever.
She had it blown up and framed.
It hung on the wall in the living room of their new house.
Right next to the first picture of Coop holding Emma “Stanley” Armstrong in his arms—taken seconds after she’d been born and milliseconds after she’d stolen both of their hearts.
It wasn’t going anywhere either.
Liam
He was fucking up.
As usual.
He’d had a particularly bad practice, after a particularly bad game, after a particularly bad series of games, and he knew that his hopes of staying with the San Francisco Gold were quickly becoming slim-to-none.
The name Williamson used to strike fear in the league.
His grandfather, his father, his two older brothers had been forces to be reckoned with.
He . . . was scraping by.
Four teams in four seasons.
Shitty stats.
And somehow, he’d gotten picked up off waivers by the Gold, reigning league champions, who were in the midst of a rebuilding season after losing some of their big stars.
He was expected to fill a hole.
But how in the fuck was he, the smallest and least scary of the Williamsons supposed to fill a hole when he’d barely earned a roster spot?
Fuck.
He put his head down, tugged the collar of his jacket up.
He should just call it already, put the league behind him and find a new career. Math had been his strong suit—maybe he should go back and be an accountant. He could run his brothers’ multimillion-dollar fortunes, help them eek out a few more dollars and—
“Watch out!”
The warning came a second too late.
He’d already stepped off the curb, already put himself into the range of the car that was blowing through the red light, tearing through the intersection, not giving a shit that there were pedestrians walking—
Well, of all the ways to go, at least this would be quick.
But just as the car came within an inch of him, Liam found himself jerked back onto the curb, his one-hundred-and-eighty-pound frame becoming unwieldy and clumsy.
Kind of like on the ice over the last few years.
That was the last thought before he found himself sprawled, ass first onto the San Franciscan sidewalk.
Gross.
“What the fuck?” a female voice snapped.
The same female voice that had warned him.
“Do you have a fucking death wish?” she yelled, foot tapping, arms crossed, and seeming way too small to have been able to have hauled his ass back onto the curb.
Liam thought that he just might, if it meant that he got to be rescued by a woman who looked like this one. He opened his mouth to reply.
But apparently didn’t work fast enough.
Because the woman, the beautiful, curvy female made a disgusted noise and strode away from him.
He watched her go, watched that gorgeous ass stride down the sidewalk and stop outside a storefront. By the time he pushed to his feet, she’d pulled out her keys and unlocked the door, disappearing inside.
Liam glanced at the sign overhead.
Golden Gate Martial Arts.
He thought of the swaying hips as she’d stomped away. He thought of the fiery words she’d snapped at him. He thought of the pretty brown eyes and lush lips incongruously paired with enough strength to pull him back.
And suddenly, he thought that, hockey or not, he might just want to stay in San Francisco after all.
Thank you for reading! I hope you loved meeting Calle and Coop as much as I loved writing them! The next book in the Gold Hockey series is CENTERED.
He was about to be traded…and the woman he loved would be left behind.
And if you enjoyed COASTING, you’ll love the sexy, sweet, and close-knit Breakers Hockey crew. The first book in the series, BROKEN, is now live!
“It is sexy, hot, adorable and such a fun read. You will not be able to put this down!” —Amazon Reviewer
I’d brought him home thinking that for once in my life I would live a little. Now weeks later…I was puking my guts up and had a pink stick with a plus sign on it declaring my future.
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