Chapter 1
The air in Steamboat Springs was crisp with the bite of oncoming winter, carrying the scent of pine and the distant whisper of snowmelt trickling through the Yampa River. Vivianna Ortis stepped out of her truck, stretching after the long drive from Calgary, and took a deep breath of the mountain air. It was different here—clean, sharp, invigorating. A town with the heart of a winter wonderland and the soul of a hockey team that needed saving.
She pulled her duffel from the truck bed and slung it over her shoulder, walking toward the entrance of the Howelsen Ice Arena. The familiar chill of the rink’s air hit her as soon as she stepped inside, a welcome embrace she had known her entire life. The ice glistened under the overhead lights, reflecting streaks of white and blue, like a frozen ocean waiting to be tamed. She had seen rinks like this all over the continent, each with its own heartbeat, its own story. This one had potential—if only its team wasn’t the worst in the nation.
“Vivianna Ortis?” A gruff voice pulled her from her thoughts. She turned to find a broad-shouldered man in his forties, wearing a Steamboat Stampede hoodie and a well-worn baseball cap. His silver-streaked beard and tired eyes told her he had spent years keeping this place running.
“Nate Mooney.” He extended a hand. “Rink manager. Been waiting for you.”
Vivianna shook his hand firmly, her grip unwavering. “Good to meet you, Nate.”
“I won’t sugarcoat it,” Nate said, crossing his arms. “This team is a disaster. No coordination, no teamwork, no discipline. But we’ve got one hell of a player—Art Goodwin. If we had a few more like him, we’d be in business.”
Vivianna nodded, already making mental notes. “Then I’ll turn the rest of them into players like him.”
Nate let out a chuckle. “I like your confidence. Let’s see if it lasts past the first practice.”
She followed him through the rink, taking in the worn-down bleachers and faded banners that told the story of a team that hadn’t seen a victory in years. The locker room smelled of sweat and the faint sting of old skate leather, a scent she found oddly comforting.
A whistle cut through the air as the players took the ice. They skated in disorganized lines, fumbling passes and tripping over their own sticks. In the center of the chaos, one skater moved differently—sharp turns, quick hands, and an undeniable fire in his stride. Art Goodwin.
She studied him as he weaved through his teammates, controlling the puck like it was an extension of his body. He was their foundation, but even the strongest foundation couldn’t hold up a crumbling house alone.
“Who’s the coach?” a deep voice asked behind her.
She turned, startled to find herself face to face with a man who looked like he had stepped out of a mountain-town fairytale. He was tall, with dark wavy hair that curled slightly at the ends and a strong jaw that hadn’t seen a razor that morning. His blue eyes—icy and piercing, held a quiet intensity, but there was something else there too, something guarded. He held a small girl in his arms, no more than six, her blonde curls bouncing as she peered at Vivianna with bright curiosity.
“You must be Bradley Goodwin,” she said, already piecing together the story. The town bookstore owner, the single father, the man who had lost his wife in a skiing accident five years ago.
He nodded. “And this is Taylor.”
The little girl gave a shy wave before burying her face in her father’s shoulder.
“I’m Vivianna Ortis, the new head coach.”
Bradley studied her, his gaze lingering a beat too long, as if trying to figure out whether she was real or just another coach who would come and go, leaving the team as hopeless as before.
“Art talks about hockey like it’s his whole world,” Bradley said, shifting Taylor in his arms. “If you can make this team better, I’ll owe you more than you know.”
Vivianna met his eyes, unwavering. “I don’t need favors, Mr. Goodwin. I just need your son to trust me.”
Bradley exhaled, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t entirely doubt, either. “Then I guess we’ll see how good of a coach you really are.”
As Vivianna stepped onto the ice, all eyes turned to her. The weight of expectation, of skepticism, of desperate hope pressed down on her shoulders. But she had spent her whole life proving people wrong.
And she wasn’t about to stop now.
The moment she blew her whistle, a collective groan rippled through the players.
“She’s a girl?” one of them muttered under his breath. “We’re doomed.”
Vivianna arched an eyebrow but said nothing, letting the comment hang in the air like frost. Before she could respond, Art’s voice cut through the murmurs.
“You don’t know who she is, do you?” Art skated forward; his expression sharp. “She’s coached five teams into championships. Five.”
A few of the boys shifted uncomfortably.
“She played against some of the best guys in the sport and beat them,” Art continued. “I’ve been watching her since I was ten. If anyone can fix this team, it’s her.”
Silence followed. Vivianna let it settle before smirking. “Glad at least one of you did your homework. Now, let’s see what we’re working with.”
Practice was grueling. Vivianna pushed them harder than they’d ever been pushed. The drills were fast, relentless, punishing. Yet, she was right there with them, skating just as hard, demonstrating every move with precision. She didn’t just tell them what to do—she showed them.
From the sidelines, Bradley watched, arms crossed, his interest piqued. He had expected the players to resist her, but something shifted when Art spoke up. Now, they weren’t just listening. They were trying.
By the end of practice, exhaustion weighed on the team, but something else lingered in the air—something like hope.
As the last players left the ice, Vivianna leaned against the boards, catching her breath. Bradley approached, Taylor still nestled in his arms, her eyes half-closed in sleep.
“That was impressive,” Bradley admitted. “They actually listened.”
Vivianna smirked. “They’ll do more than listen soon. They’ll win.”
Bradley let out a soft chuckle. “I’d like to see that.”
“You will.” Vivianna met his gaze, the quiet determination in her voice unmistakable. “This year’s going to be different.”
Bradley nodded, something stirring in his chest. For the first time in years, he found himself looking forward to the season ahead.
The cold night air nipped at their skin as they stepped out of the rink, boots crunching lightly against the thin layer of frost beginning to settle over the pavement. Vivianna shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket, the smirk on her lips betraying the warmth in her teasing tone.
“You walk all your coaches to their cars, or am I just special?” she quipped, glancing up at him beneath the glow of the parking lot lights.
Bradley exhaled sharply through his nose, almost a laugh. Almost. “Nate would get jealous,” he muttered. “Figured I should make sure you actually come back tomorrow. We’ve had a few coaches bolt after the first day.”
Vivianna let out a soft chuckle. “And here I thought you just couldn’t resist spending more time with me.”
Bradley shook his head, his jaw tightening just slightly. She was bold, he’d give her that. He wasn’t used to it. Not anymore. He stuffed his free hand into his pocket, the other still steadying his daughter’s small backpack slung over his shoulder.
“You’re different from the other coaches,” he admitted.
“Oh? Is it the accent? My charm?” She turned to him with a grin. “Or maybe it’s the fact that I can actually whip this team into shape?”
Bradley cleared his throat, gaze flicking to the ground. “Something like that.”
He wasn’t sure what it was, exactly. Maybe it was the way she walked onto the ice like she belonged there, or how Art had looked at her—like she was a coach he could actually believe in. Or maybe it was the way she talked to him now, as if she saw something in him beyond the bookstore owner, beyond the widower, beyond the man who had been stuck in his own shadow for the past five years.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Vivianna mused, nudging him lightly with her elbow. “I’d say you’re thinking about something dangerous, but you don’t seem like the type.”
His lips quirked, the ghost of a smirk. “I don’t do dangerous.”
“No? What a shame.” Vivianna clicked her tongue. “I guess that means I won’t be seeing you out on the ice anytime soon, then?”
Bradley huffed, shaking his head. “I leave the skating to Art.”
“Pity. I bet you were a heartbreaker back in the day,” she teased, tilting her head. “Handsome guy, strong jawline, that brooding thing you’ve got going on—it’s a deadly combo.”
He stopped beside her truck, his grip tightening on Taylor’s backpack for just a second. There it was. That fine line between playful banter and something heavier. He felt it settle in his chest, the weight of the past pressing down.
Vivianna leaned against the driver’s side door, watching him. “Let me guess,” she said, lowering her voice just a touch. “You’re worried about what people would say if they saw you talking to me like this.”
Bradley’s eyes flicked to hers, sharp and assessing. The truth of it sat there, unspoken but understood.
She shrugged, tapping her fingers against the cold metal. “I hate to break it to you, Goodwin, but I don’t care much for small-town gossip. And you shouldn’t either.”
He exhaled, a slow breath that misted in the cold. “It’s not that simple.”
“Nothing ever is.” She pushed off the truck and reached for the handle. “But for what it’s worth, I think you deserve to be happy. Even if that means letting yourself flirt back every once in a while.”
Bradley swallowed. He didn’t have a response for that, not one he was ready to give, anyway.
Vivianna smirked as she climbed into her truck. “See you at practice, Coach’s Escort.”
Before he could form a proper retort, she shut the door and started the engine, leaving him standing there, staring after her.
Damn.
He hadn’t felt this off-balance in years.
And he wasn’t sure what to do about it.
