Break My Heart: An Enemies-to-Lovers Coach’s Daughter Sports Romance (Western Wildcats Hockey)
Break My Heart: Chapter 1

Unknown number:

We need to talk.

Those four words hit me like a punch to the gut, and the ground drops from beneath my feet. My sneakers squeak against the tile floor of the corridor as I stumble to a halt. As I stare at my phone, the words blur before my eyes.

I really thought this nightmare was finally over.

It takes a handful of seconds for my brain to play mental catch up as my fingers hover over the keyboard, and I fight the urge to smash my cell against the wall. It’s so tempting to ignore the message and pretend I never saw it.

How the hell did he get my number?

Again.

Every time I change my digits, he figures it out. My heart slams against my ribcage as a potent concoction of anger and frustration surges through me like wildfire.

Screw him.

That’s all it takes for something to snap inside me as I stab out a response.

Me:

Don’t contact me again. There’s nothing more for us to say.

Nausea roils in my stomach as I hit send.

Why won’t he leave me alone? It’s been more than a year.

Before I can take a steady breath, my phone vibrates with another message.

Unknown number:

We both know that’s not true. There’s quite a bit to say. In person.

No.

There’s no way that will ever happen.

This time, I don’t bother with a reply.

My thumb lingers for half a second before I block the number.

Not that it’ll do any good.

With a frustrated huff, I pocket the phone in my jacket and shove through the door into the men’s locker room.

Transferring to Western was supposed to be a fresh start. That’s one of the reasons Dad took the head coaching position last summer—to give all of us a break from the mess back home.

It seems like no matter how far or fast I run, some things refuse to stay buried in the past.

The second I step inside, I’m hit by a wave of steamy moisture, thick in the air with the undeniable scent of sweat, wet gear, and damp towels.

My nose scrunches.

You’d think I’d be used to it by now, having spent my whole life around hockey teams.

But men’s locker rooms?

They always reek.

I hesitate inside the door, cocking my head and listening for signs of life. The steady drip of water echoing from the showers is the only sound that can be heard.

Thank God.

Dad would totally lose it if I walked in on the guys undressing.

For as long as I can remember, there’s been a strict no-hockey-players rule in place. It was never a problem because I was too busy skating to notice them.

I’ve been on the ice since I was four. After one of my coaches said I was a natural, my parents signed me up for private lessons. The next thing I knew, we were traveling all over the country. By the time I was twelve, we had uprooted our entire lives so I could train with a world-renowned coach. My life revolved around the rink—practice, competition—and little else.

Until last year.

I shove that depressing thought away as I swing around the corner and stumble to a halt. My eyes widen as I take in the naked guy with his back turned toward me. There’s not even a towel slung around his waist to shield the view.

Somewhere in the back of my brain, I realize I should retreat or, at the very least, stop staring, but I can’t pull my attention away from the sight in front of me. His back is broad and rippling with muscles, each one perfectly defined.

Before I can stop myself, my gaze dips lower. His ass is just as finely sculpted as the rest of him.

Tight.

Perfect.

Damn.

I suck in a harsh breath and almost choke. A coughing fit is the last thing I need right now. The noise is enough to alert him to my presence, and he swings around.

His green eyes lock on mine, and there’s a beat of silence as the air thickens with something I can’t quite place.

My heartbeat stutters.

And still, he doesn’t bother to cover himself. His eyes scan me lazily, as if he catches girls sneaking into the locker room and eating up his naked body with their gazes all the time.

Who knows, maybe he does.

His gaze never wavers as he lifts the white towel to dry his damp hair. The guy is completely unfazed that he’s stark naked, dripping, and on full display.

If only my reaction were just as casual.

Heat floods my cheeks, as if I’m the one who’s been caught without a stitch of clothing.

My eyes do the exact opposite of what I tell them to. They should be locked on his face, but no, they take a slow and thorough tour of his body. First, the broad expanse of his chest—all hard muscle and glistening with droplets of water.

My mouth turns cottony as my attention drifts lower. I can’t help but catalogue the ridges of his abs. There are eight of them, by the way. I swear, he’s got abs on top of abs. It would be difficult not to appreciate every contour.

My gaze continues to meander until arriving at his⁠—

Oh my God.

He’s shaved.

Completely.

There’s not a single hair in sight.

And yeah, I’m staring.

Hard.

A deep chuckle escapes from him as he breaks the silence. “Like what you see, sweetheart?”

Unsure how to respond, I remain frozen in place, my feet rooted to the floor.

Much to my mortification, my brain remains on hiatus, unable to compute anything beyond the scene playing out in front of me. I should tear my gaze away, but it’s like a train wreck I can’t stop staring at.

As if this situation isn’t mortifying enough, he wraps his hand around the thick length and slowly strokes it. My mouth falls open as he stiffens up until his cock is pointing straight at me.

“Well,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement, “what are you waiting for?”

I blink and attempt to rouse myself from the daze that’s fallen over me. It takes a handful of seconds to wrap my lips around a response. “Waiting for?”

I bite back a groan of embarrassment. Under normal circumstances, I pride myself on being quick-witted, always ready with a sharp retort. But right now?

My brain has short-circuited.

There’s nothing.

With his fingers still wrapped around his erection, his lips lift into a smirk. “Why don’t you strip off your clothes so we can get to it.”

My heart nearly stops. There’s a beat of silence so loud it feels like it’s echoing in the room.

Excuse me?

I force myself to say something.

Anything.

But I’m stuck, frozen in disbelief, as my mind scrambles to process what the hell is happening right now.

With a tilt of his head, he gives me another slow perusal. “My guess is that you’ll look good on your knees with a mouth stuffed full of cock.”

The silky words are like a bucket of icy water dumped over my head. They manage to do the impossible and wake me from my stupor.

My narrowed gaze slices to his sparkling eyes.

Even though I only started at Western in the fall, I know exactly who this player is.

Introductions aren’t necessary.

Hayes Van Doren’s reputation precedes him.

It’s so tempting to blast this guy into next week. Instead, I force the corners of my lips into some semblance of a smile as I prod my feet into movement. As I step closer, it becomes necessary to tip my chin upward in order to hold his steady gaze.

He’s tall.

Well over six feet.

I’m lucky if I top out at five foot three.

When there’s no more than a handful of inches to separate us, and the heat of his body is enough to singe me alive, I reach out and knock his hand away before wrapping my fingers around his hard length and giving him a long, slow stroke.

Fire leaps to life in his green eyes, making them sparkle like emeralds.

When a shiver dances down my spine, I stomp it out and drop my voice until it turns husky. “Is this more like what you had in mind?”

It doesn’t take long for his eyelids to droop and a deep groan to escape from him. “Yeah, baby. That feels so damn good.”

I give his erection one final stroke before tightening my grip.

The yelp of pain he releases is sweet music to my ears.

“You’re kind of hurting me, sweetheart.”

With an arch of my brow, I apply more pressure. “Huh. Am I?”

He studies my expression for a long beat. “You’re not my birthday present, are you?”

It’s not really a question.

I purse my lips. “No, sweetheart. I’m not.”

“Hon, is that you?”

Our gazes stay locked in silent combat as Dad’s voice echoes off the orange and black cement walls.

“Yup,” I say, loud enough for him to hear me from inside his office.

“Please tell me all the guys have taken off.”

The corners of my lips tilt upward. “There’s not a single man in sight.”

His sigh is audible. “Good. I would have really hated if you’d walked in on one of them changing.”

“No worries there.”

Hayes winces when I give his appendage one final twist before releasing him.

Without another word, I swing toward Dad’s office.

I would be lying if I didn’t admit to feeling the heat of Hayes’s stare boring into my back. It takes every ounce of self-control not to turn around and meet his gaze.