Page 56 of Man Advantage

Cole kept staring at it.

“She does that to me too,” Ford said.

Cole swallowed. “Yeah.”

Ford took the phone and set it aside. He picked up the green tie and laid it on top of the shirts.

“You need your charger.”

Cole caught his wrist before he could reach for anything else.

“Come here.”

Ford shifted down the bed. Cole leaned in and kissed him, careful of Ford’s leg. Ford caught the front of his shirt and pulled until Cole came over him.

The kiss tasted like coffee and the mint Cole kept in the truck. Ford held the back of his neck and tried not to count the minutes. Cole’s thumb moved once under his ear.

“I’m proud of you,” Ford said against his mouth.

Cole shut his eyes.

“Say it again.”

“I’m proud of you.”

Cole kissed him once more, hard, and sat back.

Cole checked the time and looked at the open bag between them.

Ford zipped it and lifted it off the bed before Cole could.

“I’ve got it,” Cole said.

“I know.”

Ford carried it downstairs. Outside, Cole unlocked the truck and opened the back door. Ford set the duffel behind the driver’s seat. Cole closed the door. Ford stepped back.

NINETEEN

Patrick Fontaine’s first pass struck Cole’s blade hard enough to send the vibration up his forearms. Cole settled the puck and sent it back before the forechecker reached him, but Patrick was already cutting toward the opposite side. The return came faster, forcing Cole to turn, receive it, and make a decision before his nerves could betray him in front of an entire organization waiting to see whether he belonged there.

Cole got that one out clean too.

“Again,” the coach called.

Morning skate wasn’t supposed to empty anyone’s legs. Chicago still moved through the drill at a speed that left no room for an extra touch or a second look. Cole had spent nine years preparing for faster. He adjusted his feet and went again.

The next pass reached Patrick before the forechecker closed.

Patrick tapped his stick once against the ice, and some of the pressure behind Cole’s ribs released. Not much. Enough to let him breathe before they ran the drill from the other side.

Cole moved the puck, took the return, and hit the forward leaving the zone. When the whistle finally stopped them, his lungs were working harder than he wanted anyone to notice.

Patrick glided over, his broad shoulders blocking Cole’s view of the drill behind him. Up close, he was even more intimidating than he’d looked on film, and nothing in his expression told Cole what he’d thought of the last ten minutes.

“You’re Englund.” Patrick said it like he’d already confirmed everything he needed to know on the ice.

Cole stopped beside him and fought to steady his breathing. “Cole.”