The widowed team strategist has spent years keeping her hands clean and her reputation spotless, running the franchise her late husband built into something unstoppable. She does not notice women. She certainly does not notice women half her age, women who skate like they were born to break things, women who happen to be the daughter of the only friend she has left.
That was before the equipment room.
That was before fogged glass and borrowed time, before a mouth against her throat and fingers digging into hip pads, before the girl looked up through wet lashes and said her name like it belonged in a bedroom. Every stolen minute costs more than the last. Every locked door only makes them hungrier. The strategist knows better. She has always known better. Her body has other priorities.
She is supposed to be protecting this girl's future. Instead she is marking it, claiming it, ruining both of them in the dark spaces between practices where nobody else looks. The league watches. The reporters circle. Her best friend still calls every Sunday without knowing whose sheets her daughter is tangled in by midnight.
Some empires collapse from scandal. Others burn because the woman running them finally wanted something she could not control.
This is a full length sapphic age gap romance featuring a widowed hockey strategist, her best friends daughter, and the possessive desperation of wanting someone you are not supposed to keep.
