The fifth and final installment of Stephanie Archer''s sensational Vancouver Storm series!

Autorentext
Stephanie Archer writes spicy romantic comedies with sharp banter, lots of laughs, and guaranteed HEAs. She believes in the power of best friends, stubborn women, a fresh haircut, and love. She lives in Vancouver with a man, a dog, and a baby.

Klappentext

In this steamy hockey romance, a single dad and hockey coach must mentor his biggest temptation—from the viral TikTok author of the Vancouver Storm series.

Former star player Tate Ward has become easily the best coach in professional hockey, leading the Vancouver Storm team to victory. Everyone is in love with the handsome, authoritative single dad—except Jordan Hathaway, the newest staff member on the Vancouver Storm team.

Jordan was more than comfortable behind her bar at the team’s favorite watering hole. When her father threatens to sell the team, though, she’s forced to put her grievances aside and work with the man who likes everyone but her—: Coach Tate Ward.

But beneath his controlled exterior, Tate is funny, encouraging, and protective. He moves her Jordan into his guest house, trusts her with his daughter, and fires the person who made her cry. He’s her boss, and a relationship would ruin both their careers, but Jordan still finds herself dreaming of a life with Tate. As the lines between them blur and Jordan encourages him to be selfish, Tate realizes what he wants . . . is her.

Leseprobe
Chapter 1

Jordan

It’s a quiet afternoon in the Filthy Flamingo.

My bar doesn’t usually get busy until the evenings, and tonight is game night, so the Vancouver Storm hockey team will fill the place with their boisterous, friendly energy. For now, it’s just me and the cook, but he’s hiding in the small kitchen, prepping for tonight.

The twinkle lights strung across the ceiling give the dim, windowless bar a warm glow. As I move behind the counter, the old wood flooring creaks. I have the music cranked—­seventies rock, my late mom’s favorite.

I’m at peace; being alone like this in my safe space. Behind the bar, where I belong. My gaze strays to the wall of Polaroids tacked up behind the bar, images of the players and their partners, smiling, laughing, enjoying themselves at the bar they’ve made their usual hangout after games. My heart gives a weird tug, but before I can dwell on it, the front door opens.

The head coach of the Vancouver Storm walks in, and my good mood pops like a balloon.

“Good afternoon, Jordan.”

He takes a seat at the bar stool right in front of me and I keep my best disinterested bartender stare firmly in place.

Tate Ward—­one of the greatest hockey players of all time, forced to retire when a knee injury ended his career more than a decade ago. Beloved head coach of the Vancouver Storm. My best friend, Georgia, says he has a nine-­year-­old daughter, but he keeps her out of the media, and obviously she’s never been in my bar.

Today, he’s wearing a light blue button-­down oxford shirt tucked into slim-­fitting jeans that emphasize his narrow hips, and my eyes linger on the shape of his muscles. The fabric pulling across his broad shoulders.

F***able Dad style, Georgia would call this outfit.

“Wow,” I drawl, holding his eyes despite the nervous flutter in my stomach. “The great Tate Ward, come to pay me his monthly visit.”

“Great to see you again, too.” His polite tone makes my blood boil, but it’s the shard of sarcasm beneath his words, almost undetectable, that hooks something behind my ribcage.

Tate Ward doesn’t want to be here, either, but he’s doing my father, the Storm’s owner and Tate’s longtime mentor, a favor and checking up on me. He will never, ever admit it, but he can’t stand me.

I could kick him out. It’s my bar and I make the rules. This tiny building is my little kingdom, and something tells me he’d oblige. He’s an incurable rule follower. He’s unfailingly good, so responsible and ethical and kind and patient and truthful. Like Jesus. Or the Dalai Lama. Except extremely hot.

More than a decade after he left the NHL, he’s still more fit than most guys on the team, with broad, muscular shoulders, a trim waist, and forearms that make me lose my train of thought. His face? Like a model. My stomach dips at the sharp, rich green of his eyes. His thick, dark hair with threads of silver at the temples. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes from smiling at everyone but me. Strong nose but soft-­looking lips. Stubble across a sharp jaw.

His gaze lifts to the specials board. “I’ll have the club sandwich, along with a soda water with lime. Thank you.”

Without a word, I leave to plug his order in, returning minutes later with something clutched behind my back.

“I was wondering,” I start, and he looks up from his phone. “Could I get your autograph?”

He studies me, something bright in his eyes. “You want my autograph.”

“Mhm.” I hold my expression neutral and detached instead of letting myself smirk.

His eyes narrow slightly but there’s an infuriating tilt to his lips. “Sure. I’d love to sign something for you, Jordan.”

“Great.” I hand him a pen before pulling out the toilet paper and unrolling it on the counter. “Right here.”

He stares at it for a moment before his eyes close and he takes a deep, calming breath. A flutter of delight moves through me.

This is our game. I push and poke and prod and flick and he doesn’t give an inch. Doesn’t show an ounce of frustration or annoyance or impatience.

Tate Ward is so controlled. Just once, I’d love to see him break.

“I’m going to keep it in the men’s room,” I tell him.

His eyes open and he’s actually smiling.

“So people can use it to wipe their ass,” I add, and he drops his head. Watching him squirm fills my heart with joy.

“Yeah.” He nods. “I got that, Jordan.”

He holds that annoying, unfazed expression, his eyes bright with entertainment. Tate Ward is so handsome that it makes me sick.

“Sometimes,” I tell him, “I really want to punch you in the throat.”

His eyebrows lift in mild surprise, like I told him I got a parking ticket. “You think you could reach?”

My jaw drops. “Was that a short joke?”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

The unwelcome urge to laugh sneaks up my throat and I clamp my lips shut so I don’t give in to this childish game we’re playing. He isn’t funny. “I’m five-­four. I’m not short.”

He’s at least a foot taller than me, though. Could I actually reach? Of course I could—­oh. He’s smiling like he knows he’s gotten to me.

“You seem tense today, Jordan.”

“I’m not tense.” I’m so tense, now that he’s here. “I feel great.”

His eyes narrow, that stupid f***ing smile on his dumb mouth. “Hmm.”

“I do.”

I sound defensive. My face is going red, so I mutter something about checking on his order and whirl around, heading to the kitchen.

“Don’t be fooled by Tate Ward’s dashing good looks, though,” I read out loud from the magazine article about him as he eats his sandwich. I bought it weeks ago and kept it tucked under the bar for exactly this purpose. “This single dad is the m…