Page 22 of Coached By the Grumpy Gargoyle

"Get your coats," I say. "I'm driving you both home."

"Coach, I can walk, it's not..."

"It's November, it's dark, and I'm driving you home." I hold the door for him. "Come on. You've done enough for today."

Eli pulls on his coat, and Rory collects hers from behind the door. We walk out together. My truck is in the staff lot because I've been hauling the team's cold-weather gear, and I open the back door for Eli before going around to the passenger side. Rory eyes her own car two spaces down, keys already out.

"I'll walk in tomorrow," she says, to nobody in particular, and climbs into my truck like she's scaling a cliff. I keep a hand near her elbow until she's settled, then close the door. Having her in my truck pleases me far more than it should, considering how we got here.

By the time we leave, frost is shining in the headlights. Eli rides in the back and gives directions in a quiet voice, and I drive him to a narrow house with a bike against the steps and a yellow bulb burning over the door.

"Thanks, Coach." He hangs in the open door a second, hood up.

"I'll see you at practice tomorrow," I say. "My sideline doesn't run itself. We need our team manager."

That gets me something that's most of a smile, and then he's up the steps and inside. I wait for the door to close before pulling away.

Rory gives me her address. It's only a few minutes away, and once she's told me where to turn, neither of us says anything. The heater ticks, and the streetlights slide over her profile. Her hands rest in her lap, her keys caught between them. At this range the bond is strong enough to make it hard to concentrate on driving, but it can't tell me what she's thinking.

I wish she'd look at me. Then she does, and I have to keep watching the road with my knuckles turning white on the steering wheel.

Her street is lined with maples and old porches. She points out the tall Victorian on the corner, bare branches over the roofline. I pull to the curb and put it in park, and the engine idles, and neither of us moves.

"Do you want to come in?"

I turn toward her. She's looking at me, her coat still buttoned, one hand resting on the door handle. She hasn't opened it.

"Yes," I say.

Her shoulders ease, and she gives me a small smile before getting out. I switch off the engine and follow her up the path, trying very hard not to think past getting through her front door.

Her front hall smells like old wood and lemon cleaner, and her staircase was built steep and narrow in a century that didn't plan for me, so I climb it sideways like furniture being delivered. Rory pauses on the landing and looks back.

"Can you get through?"

"I'll manage." I turn one shoulder, clear the banister with my folded wing, and look up at her. "Don't tell anyone about this."

That gets a smile out of her, a proper one this time, and I'd climb the damned thing twice for another. She unlocks her door, and I duck inside.

The apartment is warm, with sloped ceilings and string lights, plants on every sill, and a small yellow couch buried under a pile of pillows. I can only stand upright along the center of the room, so I stop there while Rory closes the door. She takes off her coat and hangs it up, then reaches for mine. I unzip it and let her help ease it free of my wings. Her hand brushes my shoulder, and I almost turn into the touch.

I want to stay here. Sit on her little couch, if it'll hold me. Find out what she does when she gets home from work. But she's already coming back toward me, and the look on her face makes me forget the couch.

She catches the front of my hoodie and pulls my mouth down onto hers. I bend willingly, my hand finding her waist as she presses close. Her lips are warm, and heat spreads beneath my skin, all the way to my wingtips. When she makes a soft sound against my mouth, I draw her closer.

I want to lift her. I want her arms around my neck and her feet off the floor, and I don't want to wake up alone afterward. That last thought is enough to make me stop. I draw back an inch, keeping my hand at her waist.

"What about your rule?" My voice is rough already. "About a coworker?"

Her breath is quick against my chin. She looks up at me, cheeks flushed, her fingers still curled in my hoodie. For a moment she doesn't answer. Then her grip tightens, and a small, unsteady smile lifts her mouth.

"Maybe you should spank some sense into me again."

The sound that comes out of me was never going to be a word.

"Brat," I growl, and kiss the smile right off her mouth.

Chapter 9