Page 5 of Taking Sides

Jake gives him a cocky smirk and a salute. A chorus of laughter echoes around the rink, and the mood lightens. Even Grady lets out a soft chuckle.

“All right. Let’s break out into two groups for shooting drills. Freshman and sophomores on this side.” He holds a hand up to his left. “Juniors and seniors on the other end. Start with some high-low shooting.”

The boys get to their feet slowly and skate to their respective sides of the ice.

I start to move toward the lowerclassmen, but Grady stops me.

“We have a couple special guests for the boys today.”

“Guests?” My brows rise in question.

“Ah. There they are now.” His gaze lifts to someplace behind me. I turn and find the two men walking along the outside of the ice. I can tell just by the way they walk and the ease in which they own the space that they’re hockey players. There’s something familiar about them, and I’m certain I’ve seen them both before, probably watched them play more than once, but growing up in my family, that isn’t all that surprising. I stopped trying to remember the faces and names of professional hockey players a long time ago. So many guys come and go in the league each year, it’s hard to keep track.

Grady skates to the gate to greet them. I tag along, a few paces behind. The boys have noticed we have company too, and I hear the awe-inspired gasps and comments. I may not recognize these two, but they all do.

“No way!” someone lets out, just a little louder than the others.

Grady holds out a hand as he approaches the two men. The one in front is taller. His hair is a light brown that falls to his ears and is covered with a black baseball cap. He gives Grady a polite nod as he shakes his hand.

The guy behind him is a couple inches shorter, though still tall by any standard of the word. His hair is a shade of blond that most grown men outgrow—dark blond with streaks of lighter pieces that almost look sun-kissed. He isn’t wearing a hat like the other guy. He should never wear hats, for that matter. Hiding any part of him would be a travesty. He’s . . . wow. I’m struggling to look away from him. He’s the kind of hot that knocks the wind out of you. I should know since I’m breathless and a little lightheaded as I reach the three of them. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, but I’ve definitely never seen him this close up before. I would remember.

I miss their introductions and handshakes but come to a stop as Grady lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “I know who you both are. Thank you for coming.”

“We’re happy to be here,” the taller guy says. Or I think it’s him since it isn’t Grady’s voice, and I’m still staring at the other man.

“And this is Whitney. She coaches our JV team.”

I pull my gaze away long enough to see Grady smile as he tips his head in my direction. The way they’re all looking at me, I think I missed more than their names.

Mr. Hotter than the Sun glances up at Grady’s introduction. His blue eyes widen a fraction, giving me the distinct impression that I’ve done something wrong. Did he feel me staring at him for too long? Maybe he’s one of those guys who think women shouldn’t coach men’s hockey or do anything except procreate and have dinner on the table at six o’clock on the dot, and iron his dress shirts so that he always looks flawless. Have I ever used an iron before? Probably, though I can’t remember it. For him, I’d consider it.

I shake off the instant tension building around us and smile. “Hi, I’m Whitney. Sorry, I didn’t catch your names.”

“August Penn.” The first man stretches out his arm and offers me his massive hand.

“Goalie?” I guess. He has that tall, lanky build of most professional netminders.

His lips tick up on the corners. “That’s right.”

“How do you not know August Penn?” Grady jokes with a shake of his head, then says to our guests, “She’s a Houston fan.”

“Ooooh.” August sucks air through his teeth, but he’s still grinning.

“I grew up in Texas,” I say, hitting them with a bit of my Southern drawl that I reserve only for these cases, and occasionally when I talk to my dad or brother on the phone it slips out.

Grady gives me a confused look, but I barely have time to consider because the other guy finally speaks and I’m helpless to do anything but gawk at him.

“Hi.” The single word in his low, quiet voice has me leaning closer as he adds, “Conrad Shepard.”

Conrad Shepard. It’s a name I’ve heard, undoubtedly from my brother. Conrad is also a hockey player, but I can’t guess his position as easily just on his appearance. Maybe if I just stare at him a little longer . . .

Grady clears his throat. Oops. Busted.

“Nice to meet you both. Are you here for the day or . . .” I trail off, not quite finishing the question.

“Sorry. I didn’t get a chance to fill you in,” Grady says. “They’re going to help out all week.”

The kids, who are suspiciously quieter than they’ve been all morning—likely attempting to eavesdrop—are going to lose their minds.