“There,” I say. “That player.”
He straightens slowly. “You only like me exhausted and obedient?”
Heat flashes through me so fast I turn away. “Push sled.” He grins.
The weighted sled scrapes across the turf while I track posture and output. Halfway through the third push, Scott Fusak and Anthony Dudek wander past the glass wall carrying breakfast burritos. They stop immediately.
Fuze presses both palms to the glass. “Ooooh, she’s making him work for it.”
Dude nods solemnly. “Respect.”
“Keep walking,” I snap.
Neither moves. Max strains through the final push and stands tall, chest heaving.
“You heard coach,” he tells them. “Show some class.”
Fuze cups his hands around his mouth. “Blink twice if she’s dom?—”
I slam the blinds shut. Silence.
Max laughs so hard that he has to bend over. I should be furious. Instead, I’m fighting one too.
“Medicine ball slams,” I say. He wipes hisface with his shirt, exposing a hard line of abs no woman needs before breakfast. My gaze dips before I can stop it. His smile turns slow and wicked. “Keep up the shenanigans and I’ll make you do edge work drills until you fall to your knees.”
“I’ll give you some edging that’ll make you get on your knees and beg for it,” he wiggles his eyebrows.
I roll my eyes, feigning indifference. He actually looks like he’s turned on during all the torture I’m inflicting. “You can also stop watching my mouth anytime,” he says.
I freeze. Because I hadn’t realized I was. He sees it. Of course, he sees it. The smug bastard. I recover instantly also noted by him. “Fifteen slams,” I say coldly. “Count aloud.”
He grabs the ball. “One.” Drives it hard into the turf. “Two.” Another slam. “Three.” He steps closer with each count. By fifteen, each number sounds filthy. He drops the ball and leans in. “Did I pass?”
I meet his gaze. “No.”
“You’re evil.”
“I’m qualified.”
From outside the blinds, Fuze shouts: “Did he get detention?”
Max never breaks eye contact. “Worse,” he breathes. “I’m interested.”
I set my iPad on the table and turn to the whiteboard. The fire inside me is not professional. Behind me, silence. The quality of silence that exists when someone is doing the forbidden. I turn back around.
Max is holding my tablet. He is not looking at it in any waythat suggests he is doing anything to it. He is simply holding it with the serene expression of a man whose hands happened to find an iPad and whose intentions are entirely wholesome.
He hands it back when I reach for it.
We run the warm-up. We move through the ladder drill sequence. I pull out the tablet ten minutes later to access the penalty file, and I see it.
My background image is a golden retriever. Wearing a tiny referee uniform. Black and white stripes. Whistle around its neck. The dog has the expression of an animal that is taking its responsibilities very seriously.
Underneath it, in the caption field: your supervisor.
I look up.
Max is on the resistance band. Completing his reps with textbook form, eyes forward, the picture of an athlete who has definitely not spent this session sabotaging a league official's personal device. I open the settings menu, change the background, and return to the penalty file. I pull up the Vancouver clip and turn the screen toward him. My background is the golden retriever again. I check the settings. I look at him. He’s watching the clip with a small frown of genuine analytical attention, his head tilted, one finger pressed to his lips.
