Colliding Love - Tucker Billi...

The next morning when the doorbell to the apartment rings, I hoist myself out of the hot tub and secure a towel around my waist. My wet feet slap against the expensive wooden floor as I walk through the open plan living room and kitchen to the door near the rear of the apartment.

Chayton picked this place from the photos I was sent, and I was a little surprised by the high ceilings, huge windows, and oversized rooms when I arrived yesterday. This place feels rich, which is a new sensation for me. The last three years, I've hoarded my money, only spending what was absolutely necessary. Except for one large purchase, but I'd argue it was a necessity too. I didn't want to be one of those cautionary tales—a sports star who gets a big contract and blows it all on stupid shit. So, I haven't really blown it on anything.

I check the peephole. While I was assured that this building had tight security and I doubt we have many fans yet, it's worth being cautious.

When I see who it is, I rock back on my heel.

Sawyer.

Last night, her dark brown hair fell in loose waves just above her shoulders, and her blue eyes were a surprisingly dark shade that had contrasted with her bright electric blue dress. I'd been thrown off to realize that Sawyer was a woman and the fact she was hot as fuck had only caused more confusion in my brain. 

Hockey was becoming less of a male dominated sport, but the majority of people I'd worked with in my career were men. I wasn't sure how I felt about Bellerive getting me a physiotherapist—not a trainer—and for that role to be fulfilled by a woman.

A woman whose mere presence had hit me in the gut like a sucker punch. That reaction had never happened before, and it definitely added to my irritation while I was talking to her.

The doorbell rings again, and I wonder if she knows I've been standing here contemplating opening the door. Could I just demand a new trainer? Probably. Her qualification isn't the one in my contract, even if King Alexander and Jonathan Tucker are trying to make a square peg fit in a round hole.

I throw open the door, and the force startles Sawyer, causing her to step back. Immediately, I regret my abruptness. She'd been so calm and collected last night that part of me wanted to throw her off. I'm not normally one to purposefully provoke a reaction, but I've been called an asshole often enough to know how I can come across.

We stare at each other for a beat, and I can't help scanning her hot pink leggings and lime green T-shirt. Even in that combination—one that should not stir up any sort of reaction—a little tug of desire is sharp in my gut. I can't help narrowing my gaze because this reaction to her makes zero sense. A caveman instinct of see-want-take is trying to slither into my consciousness. But I'm not that kind of guy, and she'd be the wrong type of woman, even if I was.

"Sorry," she says with a breathless laugh. "You startled me."

I don't say anything, I just keep examining her, trying to figure out why something inside me really likes something about her. Lots of women have been hot or sexy or a thousand other things, but no one has stirred whatever this is before. 

I can't even name it with certainty. Feels like a riddle I was meant to solve, but I'm not usually attracted to opaque feelings. I've had enough uncertainty in my life to cure me of any urge to play games off the ice.

Not that she's playing games with me.

But I'm not sure I'd mind if she did. And that is definitely concerning.

"Did you want to go put on some clothes?" She gestures to my bare chest.

I step back and tip my head, indicating that she can enter the apartment. "You're not on my calendar."

"I know," she says as she steps through, stops short, and then does a full circle. "It's so weird being here when it's not Nathaniel's."

"Nathaniel?"

"My older brother. This was his apartment until he moved into his house with Hollyn and Kinsley."

I go to the mantel above the fireplace, which had seemed comical to me yesterday. Why would anyone need a fireplace here? My driver told me the old buildings can get a chill during the rainy season—whenever that is.

I'd sit on one of the couches, but I'm already dripping water everywhere, and I don't want to wreck any of the furniture that came with the apartment. Fully furnished had felt like a bonus—no need to clear out my place in California—but now I'm wondering if I'll always be conscious of every piece in the apartment belonging to someone else.

She sinks into one of the armchairs across from where I'm standing and runs her hands along her thighs. There's a weird energy coming off her—less sure than she appeared last night.

"And you're here because..." I prompt.

Her gaze skitters over me, and I consider getting a shirt and then discard the notion. I didn't know she was coming, and it's a bare chest. It's not like I answered the door with no pants on.

"I thought maybe we got off on the wrong foot last night."

"So, you are a sports trainer?"

"No, and I'm sorry that my father and Alex misled you. I didn't know they'd done that."

"Alex," I say, unable to hide my surprise. "The king?"

"He's just Alex to me, mostly." She lets out a little laugh. "I should probably be more careful, but I've known him forever. Once a pompous ass and now somewhat tolerable. He's not going to behead me or anything for calling him Alex."

"Good to know," I say, running a hand through my damp hair. "My manager's on it."

"On what?"

"Telling them they need to fulfill the contract."

She sinks a little deeper into the couch, and I try to push down my annoyance that she appears to be getting more comfortable here, not less. Her suggestion that I get dressed seems more like a warning around the length of this conversation than a suggestion.

"I know I'm not who you asked for—what you're entitled to—but I know I can do what you need, if you're willing to give me a chance."

When our gazes connect, something in her blue depths causes a pang across my chest that's too similar to how I feel when I've been off the ice too long. Restlessness. Like I'm missing out on something I know is great. Which is fucking weird. I shake my head and raise my eyebrows, wondering how I can keep whatever's happening inside me from getting its hooks too deep in me. I've got one passion, one love, and that's hockey.

"My career is extremely important to me—the most important thing to me. Staying healthy is the only way I get the longevity I want."

"That's true for most professional athletes, isn't it?"

"I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that a long, healthy career is what most professional athletes should want, but few are willing to do all the things necessary to get that."

"I can see how the current situation would be less than ideal—"

"There's not a single person on this island who seems to be taking the team's move seriously. My comment last night was dead serious."

"People on the island are invested. They just aren't necessarily knowledgeable yet."

"Forgive me for not wanting to be Bellerive's guinea pig when it might fuck up my career. This team isn't some cute lark for me. It's my life."

"I can do the job you need," she says again, more firmly than before.

"How much do you know about the game?"

"Ice hockey?"

"No, break dancing. Yes, ice hockey."

"Absolutely nothing. I've never even seen a game."

"Jesus Christ." I close my eyes.

"I'm a fast learner." This is said with slightly less certainty, as though there's something she's holding back in that statement, or some recollection that makes her question her own claim.

"I need strength, endurance, power, speed, agility, and flexibility training that's geared towards what I do on the ice. If you don't know the game, you're basically useless."

Her eyes widen, and she seems taken aback by my bluntness, which immediately makes me regret how I said it.

"That was harsh," I say, my voice gruff. "You need to know the game to train me. The two go together."

"The team must already have some training."

"Basics that everyone has to complete, yeah. I've never been looking to be the same as everyone else. I want to be better. Fuck it, I want to be the best. Always. At everything. To me, there's no such thing as too competitive, too driven."

"Win at all costs?" She suggests, eyebrows raised.

"No," I say, carefully, "which is why I want a trainer. When all this is over—which is inevitable—I want to be able to have a real future outside hockey. I don't want to be crippled up, brain full of CTE. But when I'm in a game, I'm only focused on winning, which is why I need to be certain I've done everything I can off the ice to prepare for those moments on the ice."

"You don't want me?"

Her words cause that same twinge in my chest, as though some part of me longs to protest in some way. "Being forced to come here has probably damaged my career. I can't mess with my life too."

She takes a deep breath and releases it before standing. "I can understand that. If you ever need a physiotherapist, I'm your girl."

"Look," I say, suddenly not so sure I want her to leave, "I've got some old game tape. If you seem to pick up the basics, and if you've got some training ideas, we can do a trial. A few weeks. It'll take that long to fill the position to my satisfaction, anyway."

"I appreciate that your natural instinct might be to speak to people who don't know hockey like they're idiots, but if that's how you're going to be while you teach me, I'd really rather not."

Our gazes lock, and I see something in the depths of her eyes that reminds me of how I felt as a kid—before I found hockey—a little untethered, and if I've done that to her, it makes me feel like a total piece of shit.

"You don't think I can keep my inner asshole in check?"

"Inner?"

I can't help the grin that rises at how hard she came at me with one word. "Fair," I say with a bit of a laugh.

"You're a twenty-one-year-old star player who's probably pretty used to getting what he wants. I just—I made a promise to myself that I'd set clear boundaries around how I let people treat me. You've said a few things since we met that were—"

"I didn't intend—"

"Intention and impact aren't the same thing."

It's not the first time I've been told that, but it might be the first time it's actually hit home.

"How old are you?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.

"Thirty-one. Old enough to know what I will and won't take from someone."

But the way her voice wavers makes me wonder if that's totally true. I don't know how old I thought she was, but ten years older than me wasn't it.

"I'll tuck my inner asshole away. Bury him under my little kid coaching persona."

"You have a little kid coaching persona?"

"I do. It's a real winner, you'll see." I push off the mantle at her skeptical expression and head toward the primary bedroom suite. "I'll get dressed, and we'll watch a game."

She sinks back into the couch, and I realize I have no idea how the next few hours are going to go. We might get along great, or she might never want to talk to me again. Because the truth is, my little kid coaching persona isn't that far removed from who I am all the time. 

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