Two hours until game time.

Charles slid closer to his desk, his fingers tapping a nervous beat on the only clean spot in front of him: the corner. And the only reason that small section was clear was because the coffee mug that usually sat there was currently in his other hand.

More coffee was the last thing he needed but that didn't stop him from taking a long swallow. One more wouldn't hurt, not with the way he was already bouncing around with nerves. And if he was this nervous, how was the team holding up?

He had watched from the window as cars slowly drifted in over the last thirty minutes. The coaching staff. A few of the players.

Taylor.

She had pulled her gear bag from the trunk of her car then paused and looked over her shoulder, glancing up at the window where he was standing. Could she see him? Yeah, obviously, because she gave him a quick smile and a short wave before slamming the trunk closed and walking across the parking lot.

He had watched her disappear inside before making his way back to his tiny cubicle and taking a seat at his desk. And he was still here, his mind a jumbled mess as he tried to ignore his jangling nerves.

Sex would probably be good for that. But it wasn't an option, not right now. And it hadn't been an option last night, either.

He had taken Taylor out to dinner last night, early. He shouldn't be feeling this hunger to see her again, not so soon. He told himself it was because they'd done nothing more than a quick goodnight kiss at her door—Taylor preferred to be by herself the night before a game, to take time to relax and do whatever it was she did to prepare. Charles told himself not to take it personally, reminded himself that lots of athletes had different rituals before each game.

Maybe he should come up with his own ritual, because sitting here overanalyzing everything—with Taylor, with the team, with the upcoming game—wasn't doing him or his nerves any good. He'd add that to his to-do list, right after everything else.

The door at the end of the hall opened and closed. Footsteps, steady and sure, moved closer. Charles didn't have to look to know who it was. Murphy was here, only a little later than expected.

The older man stopped in front of Charles' cubicle, looking every inch the professional businessman in an expensive designer suit. "Are we set for everything today?"

"Everything is good to go."

"Good. Good." Murphy glanced around the cluttered cubicle then rested his steely gaze on Charles, no doubt sizing him up and making sure he was appropriately presentable. He was—or at least, he would be, as soon as he put on his tie.

"Run through the schedule again for me."

Charles placed the coffee mug back on the desk then grabbed the small planner spread open in front of the computer. "Channel 2 will be here an hour before the game for your interview. The reporter won't be staying, but they agreed to leave a film crew to capture some of the game. The Sun and the Times will both be here in time for the first face off. You have an interview scheduled for the first intermission and another one for the second intermission."

Murphy nodded his pleasure. "Good. Excellent. And after the game?"

"Channel 2 is promising to send a reporter back for that. Channel 13 says they'll try to get someone out but no guarantees. It's going to depend on what else happens."

"Then I guess we hope for a slow news day. What about Channel 11 or 45? Anything from them?"

"Nothing concrete, no." Charles watched the older man, studying his expression for any sign of irritation or disappointment. There was none. At least, none that Charles could see. Was that good or bad? Time would tell. Maybe.

Charles glanced back at the planner, running through the list with the tip of one blunt nail. "There are also two small newspapers—one from the county and one from the eastern shore—that are going to be here, as well as a reporter from the community college. I'm hoping to do a small press conference after the game but—" Charles let the words fade into the silence. There wouldn't be any sense in holding a press conference if there wasn't any press around. All he could do now was wait and see. And hope.

"I guess that'll do for now." Murphy reached up and smoothed the silk tie, then readjusted the cuffs of his shirt with a precise tug on each. "I'm going down to talk to the girls. Give them a little pep talk. Would you care to join me?"

Charles glanced at the clock hanging over his desk then turned back to Murphy with a frown. "Is now a good time? They're probably getting ready for the game and—"

"Nonsense. Of course, it's a good time. Why wouldn't it be?"

"It's just—" Charles hesitated, searching for the right words. "Sometimes athletes have rituals—I mean, routines—that they do to get ready. They might be busy—"

"I know all about that superstitious nonsense and that's exactly what it is: nonsense. I'm the owner. There's nothing wrong with me stopping in and giving them a pep talk."

"James, you have to remember these are women. It's probably not a good idea to just barge into the locker room and—"

"Are you coming with me or not?" Impatience flashed in the steel of Murphy's eyes. Charles bit back the rest of what he was going to say and nodded. "Good. Grab your tie and let's go."

Charles did just that, wrangling the silk around his neck as he followed the older man downstairs. The rink was still eerily deserted and oddly quiet as they walked through, heading toward the main locker room. He could hear voices, muted and muffled, as they approached. Not just from the main locker room, but from the visitor's room as well. Was it his imagination, or could he actually sense the nervous anticipation seething under the doors?

Or maybe that was his own nervous anticipation. Today was a big day—for all of them. And if he was feeling this nervous, he could only imagine how bad it was in each locker room.

Murphy stopped in front of the door and raised his hand, knocking against it twice. Then he pushed through without warning, entering the locker room with a hearty greeting. Charles winced as nineteen faces—players and coaching staff together—turned toward them, all of them wearing expressions ranging from astonishment to irritation. Two of the girls made small gasps of surprise and quickly turned away as they pulled shirts over their heads. One set of eyes found his, irritation flashing in their whiskey depths.

Heat flooded his face and he had to force himself not to rush over to Taylor and cover her with his jacket. She stood there, her chin tilted at a defiant angle, wearing nothing more than compression shorts, hockey socks, and a sports bra. A moisture-wicking shirt was held in one hand but she made no move to put it on. She also wasn't doing a very good job of hiding the anger flashing in her eyes.

"Mr. Murphy." Coach Reynolds's voice was short and clipped. Her hand tightened around the clipboard as she stepped closer, so close that James actually backed up a step. "Now isn't a good time—"

"Nonsense. I just came down to tell the girls—"

"Again, this isn't a good time." Coach moved forward, each step forcing Murphy—and Charles—back toward the door. One more step and they were standing outside the locker room, the door swinging shut behind Coach Reynolds.

Anger flared in her eyes and colored her cheeks as she pointed a finger in Murphy's face. Charles held his breath, waiting to see what the man would do, but he simply stood there, his lined face comically blank.

"Don't you ever—and I mean ever—come into the locker room unannounced again. Is that clear? And never before a game. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

James blinked, color seeping into his face. A second went by, then another, before he squared his shoulders and leaned forward, meeting Coach's glare with his own.

"You're forgetting that I'm the owner. Those girls work for me. And so do you."

"I don't give a shit. Those ladies are mine, not yours, regardless of what you think. And I'm telling you right now, if you ever dare come into the locker room before a game again without being invited, there will be hell to pay. Is that understood?"

"Now see here—"

Coach stepped forward, shorter than James by a head but a thousand times more intimidating. "Is that understood?"

Silence stretched around them, tense and sharp. Charles remained perfectly still, afraid to draw the coach's attention even if he did happen to agree with her. He watched, waiting to see what Murphy would do, wondering if the Blades would suddenly be out a head coach in the next thirty seconds.

To his surprise, James finally nodded and stepped back, the anger that had colored his cheeks slowly fading. He nodded, just a curt motion of his head. "My apologies, Diane. It won't happen again."

"Good. Make sure it doesn't." She lowered her hand then glanced over at Charles, as if she was seeing him for the first time. She frowned then looked back at Murphy. "Now what is it you wanted?"

"I just wanted to wish the girls good luck, that was all."

"Fine. You can do that." She held up her hand, stopping Murphy before he could move, and looked at her watch. "In twenty minutes. I'll come out and get you. Will that work?"

Murphy's eyes narrowed, the first hint of impatience finally cracking his smooth veneer. But he didn't say anything, just simply nodded. Coach studied him for a few long seconds, almost as if she was waiting for him to say or do something. Then she spun on her heel and pushed through the locker room door without another word.

Charles stood there, uncertainty tugging at him. He briefly considered walking away, pretending he hadn't witnessed the verbal altercation. He was getting ready to do just that when James turned toward him, something that almost resembled a smile wreathing his face.

"She does have spirit, doesn't she?"

"Coach Reynolds? Um, yes. Yes, she does."

"And she's one hell of a coach, too. No doubt in my mind she's doing a great job with the girls." Murphy laughed, the sound loud in the rink. He clapped a hand on Charles' shoulder then motioned toward the offices. "Why don't we head back and make sure everything's ready? Then we can come back in twenty minutes."

"I don't think you need me—"

"Nonsense. You're the PR Director. I'm sure the girls would like to hear an update before the game. Now, let's go back and you can tell me what else we're working on while we wait."

Charles bit back a groan of irritation and followed Murphy toward the office. But he wasn't listening to the older man.

He was remembering the anger that flashed in Taylor's eyes and the way her chin tilted in stubborn defiance. And he couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't because of their unexpected entry into the locker room.

What the hell had happened to make her so angry?