Page 108

She turns the folder toward Miles. “The position includes full benefits, travel allowances and a salary reflecting that we expect this to become more than an experiment. You’ll stay in Chilmore and work directly with Samuel and the rest of the coaching staff throughout the season.”

Miles finally touches the edge of the paper and his throat moves beneath a swallow. I squeeze his hand and feel how warm and sweaty they've become, but I keep my hand linked with his.

Across the table, Darcy is watching me again.

Her tablet rests across her knees, one finger poised near the screen as though she’s waiting for the hockey discussion to finish before beginning an entirely different meeting.

What the hell is she planning?

Big Mike folds both hands over his stomach. “Well, Stratton? Do you want to spend another year letting your body absorb slap shots, or are you ready to teach younger idiots how to avoid them?”

Miles reads the first page slowly.

Then, instead of answering, he turns toward me.

His blue eyes meet mine, nervous and hopeful and full of everything we promised beneath that tree last night.

“What do we think?” he asks.

Not what should I do?

Not will you let me take it?

What do WE think?

The man who walked into an Ottawa meeting alone is sitting beside me now, holding my hand and asking for my input into his decision.

“Well,” I say, trying not to let the emotion crush my ability to form sentences. “How much travel is involved?”

The director of hockey operations answers first. “Most road trips last between three and five days. The player-development staff doesn’t usually attend every game, but we’d expect Miles to travel regularly during the season.”

“What about contract security?”

“One year guaranteed, with a club option for two more.”

I nod thoughtfully. “And will Miles be required to wear a suit every day?”

Big Mike’s eyebrows rise. “Is that relevant?”

“To the offer? No. To the continued safety and well being of every woman in Chilmore? Absolutely.”

Miles squeezes my hand and laughs along with everyone else.

The hockey-operations director closes the folder. “Game days require formalwear. Practice days are considerably less dangerous. Depending on who you ask, that is.”

“Then I have no further questions.”

Miles looks down at the contract before lifting his gaze toward the ice. For a moment, I can see every version of his hockey career reflected in his face—the teenager who believed talent would be enough, the journeyman who accepted every role and the captain who finally discovered that leadership was never his consolation prize.

“This job uses the part of hockey you’ve always been best at,” I tell him. “You were never only the player filling empty spaces. You’re the man who teaches everybody around you how to be better. I'm not a hockey player, but I know that's how you've made me feel, too.”

His blue eyes return to mine. “You really think I should do it?”

“I think we should ask them to improve the relocation allowance even though you already live here.”

Big Mike barks out a laugh. “I like her.”

“That's why you hired her in the first place,” Miles reminds him.