Hawke (Cold Fury Hockey, #5)(8)

Ever since seeing Hawke at the team meeting.

It wasn’t a surprise to me that he would be there; not the way I know it shocked him. I could see it in his expression when I turned to face the crowd of hockey players staring down at me. Long before I saw him saunter into the meeting room, I had been preparing myself for when he’d first lay eyes on me again. While there’s no doubt in my mind that Hawke never kept track of my whereabouts, I couldn’t say the same. Of course I knew he’d been traded to the Cold Fury, so I was somewhat prepared for this. But that’s only because I know everything that goes on in the hockey world. It’s my passion and always has been, compliments of being Dave Campbell’s daughter. I follow the sport religiously. Can tell you anything you want to know about the “Q,” the Western Hockey League, and the Ontario Hockey League, and those are just the Canadian juniors. I know all the American minor leagues and without a doubt, I follow the NHL with an eagle eye. I do this not only because I was raised in hockey, but because I now want to work in hockey. I’ve put in my fair share of job applications from the juniors all the way up to the top. My time working in college football wasn’t a desire but a lack of options, but here I am now. At the top with nothing more than one well-placed call by my father to Brian Brannon, his old college buddy, and I became a Cold Fury employee.

It was a terrible twist of fate that I ended up joining the team at the same time Hawke did. Just as it was a terrible twist of fate, my needing to come to the Cold Fury—and trust me when I say, I desperately needed to relocate.

With a sigh, I swing my legs out of the bed and grab my iPhone, unplugging it from my charger.

There’s a text from Todd that came in at 9:45 p.m. last night and I wince slightly as I read it. Waited for your call. Assume you fell asleep. I miss you.

Crap. I was so exhausted last night after I got home from the gym I just completely forgot to call him. I remember taking a shower, eating a quick sandwich, and then lying on the bed to rest my eyes for a bit.

I shoot him off a quick reply. I’m so sorry. Was exhausted. Heading to gym now but will call later. xoxoxo

Todd would understand. It’s one of the reasons I adore him so much.

He just gets me, and not many people do anymore.

—

“Fuck, dude…that hurts like a motherf*cker,” I hear Kip Sutherland snarl as another piece of kinesiology tape is ripped from his back.

“Not my fault you got a hairy back,” Goose says with a dry look.

I twist my neck to look at the two of them and yeah…Kip does have a hairy back. He’s a third-line defenseman for the Cold Fury and he just came off the ice with some lower back spasms. Goose is the other assistant athletic trainer. No clue what his real name is, but this is technically my first day on the job, so there’s still a ton to learn. I figure his real name is the least of my problems at this point.

My head swings back down to the laptop in front of me. I have it propped up on a therapy table, reviewing the procedural manual for the Cold Fury athletic training program. Our head trainer, Bruce Duvall, handed me the laptop and suggested I just set myself up somewhere and get it read. I don’t have an office, and I suspect that’s because the Cold Fury wasn’t actively seeking another trainer when I got the job offer. Bruce told me I could share desk space with Goose, but one look at the top covered with binders and medical charts and I decided it was just easier to set up in our large training room. Practice had been running for thirty minutes, so all the men—minus Kip and his hairy back—are out there and it’s dead quiet in here.

R-i-i-i-p.

“Fuck,” Kip groans. “How many more pieces are there?”

I grin to myself and reread the first paragraph on the chapter entitled “Medical Charting.”

“Three more, you big sissy,” Goose says with a chuckle. “Then we’ll get you in an ice bath.”

“I need something for my head too,” Kip grumbles.

“Why? Did you hit it?” Goose asks.

“Nah, dude. Just went out with a few of the guys after Coach’s party last night and I’m hungover as shit. That goddamn Therrien, man, he can drink like a fish and I about killed myself just keeping up with him.”

Figures.

Hawke was still partying hard, but that has been his reputation within the league. Play hard, party hard. I bet he even has that tattooed somewhere on his body.

I force myself away from their conversation, trying to absorb the content on the screen before me. I have a notepad next to me on the vinyl-covered cushioned table but I haven’t taken any notes. The stuff is easy, straightforward, and pretty much in line with the way things were done at my last job. Still, I want to make sure I do things right because it’s imperative I keep this job. And let’s face it, they don’t really need me here so I have to rise and then shine brighter than Goose to maintain my position.

A knock on the door doesn’t quite disturb me from my reading, but the voice that says, “Hey, man…I need my knee taped,” does, and my head swings up.

Hawke stands in the open doorway in full gear minus his helmet, his forehead sweat slicked and his long hair sticking to his temples. He stares straight at Goose and I use the moment to try to still my beating heart, which started running away from me the minute I saw him.

But damn…why does the man have to look so freaking good?