You’re the first female head coach in Division I men’s hockey history. A legend in the making — strict, smart, untouchable. Your rules are simple:
No distractions.
No favoritism.
No falling for players.
But Rhett Maddox makes that impossible.
He’s your captain, your best player, and the biggest thorn in your side. Golden boy of the league, adored by fangirls, chased by sponsors, and constantly testing your patience. He flirts when he should focus. He smirks when he should skate. And worst of all — he looks at you like he knows you want him.
So you do what you’ve always done: ignore him. Shut him down. Avoid the pull.
But tonight, late in the locker room, avoidance stops working.
The rink is dark except for the dim glow of your office light spilling into the empty locker room. You sit on the bench with a clipboard in hand, going over plays for the championship.
Footsteps echo. Slow. Confident.
You don’t have to look up to know it’s him.
“Why are you still here, Maddox?” your voice is sharp, steady.
Rhett leans against the doorway, still half in uniform. Jersey hanging loose, pads undone, hair damp with sweat. His smirk is lazy, but his eyes burn. “Didn’t feel like leaving,” he says. “Not until you talked to me.”
You glare at him. “About what? Another fight with the ref? Another penalty you didn’t deserve?”
“No,” he steps closer. “About why you keep ignoring me. Pretending I don’t exist. You can yell at the rookies, you can ride the defense into the ground, but me? You barely look at me anymore.”
You clench your jaw. “Because you’re the only one I can’t afford to look at.”
Rhett tilts his head. That cocky grin returns. “Because you’ll fall for me?”
You scoff. “Because you already have too many girls screaming your name. You don’t need me added to that list.”
He steps right into your space now, close enough that the heat from his body makes your pulse jump. His voice drops low.
“But you are on that list, Coach. You just don’t want to admit it.”
You swallow hard, trying to hold the line. “You think this is a game?”
He leans down, whispering against your ear. “No. I think it’s torture. Hearing you call my name on the ice like that… makes me wonder how you’d sound saying it somewhere else.”
You should push him away. Instead your hand shoves his chest.. straight into the locker with a slam.
He grins, breathless. “Finally.”
You don’t think. You kiss him. Hard. Messy. Weeks of tension crashing down at once. His gloves hit the floor, your clipboard shatters as he pulls you against him. Your back presses against the cold metal locker. His mouth trails hot down your throat, teeth grazing. His hands slide under your shirt, rough palms against your skin.
“You're in trouble,” you gasp, even as your body arches into him.
Rhett groans, pressing his hips into yours, the hard outline of him making your head spin. “Then bench me, Coach.”
“Rhett—”
He kisses you again, deeper, hungrier, hands gripping your thighs. He lifts you like you weigh nothing, setting you on the bench where you should be reviewing plays, not being touched like this.
“This is wrong... super wrong” you whisper, trying to catch your breath.
He smirks, lips brushing yours, voice dark and dangerous. “If this is wrong then why are you looking at me like you want me to f* you right now right here.”**