Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Grady
Getting some sleep helped me sort out my thoughts. As surreal as it was to run into Noah Abbott and have him greet me like a stranger, I’ve come around to it. After all, it would be way more uncomfortable if he’d put two and two together. Would he feel guilty if he realized who I am? Dismissive? Smug? It doesn’t matter because he’s clueless. As long as I don’t make it weird, we’re good.
Besides, it’s not like he tried to hurt me. I know it was an accident. I’m still mad about what that did for my career, but hockey is a sport. I’m not the first guy to get injured. And Larisse and I were already over by then, even if I didn’t know it yet.
In a way, it’s kind of liberating. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. I’ve built up this whole rivalry in my head, and now I can let go of it for good.
Silver linings. I’m all about them. I’ve got great colleagues, great players, and a boss who’s guaranteed to keep things interesting. Today’s going to be a good day.
I get myself set up, then check my phone. I’ve still got a few more forms to sign, and Renee said she’d have them ready for me today. I should have time to handle that before my first time leading practice with the team. I check that I’ve got my stuff and step into the hall.
Only to come face-to-face with a fucking mermaid.
For a moment, I just stare, because… well, because there’s a mermaid in the hall. Was there something funky in that breakfast burrito I picked up on my way in?
But even when I blink a few times, she’s still there, hands braced against the wall, neon blue hair tumbling over her shoulders, breathing hard in a way that makes her impressive cleavage do mesmerizing things.
Then she turns her head, and I feel like someone smacked me in the gut with a lead pipe. She’s gorgeous. Her eyes sweep over me, and my bad knee trembles as all my blood rushes away from my already-addled brain.
To my second brain.
“Well?” she asks, as though we’re in the middle of a conversation and this is a natural segue. “Are you going to stare, or are you going to help me out of this thing?”
“Uh,” I say, because like I said, the red blood cells have left my brain in favor of southern climes. “Yes.”
The mermaid’s lips quirk to one side, revealing a dimple. “Which one? I hope it’s both because you’ve got the staring part down pat.”
“Oh, yeah, I…” I hold up my hands. “What exactly am I helping you with?”
“The zipper.” She tilts her chin over her shoulder, which is bare except for a few layers of colorful shells and what appears to be a sheer shimmering top with scales airbrushed on. “It’s jammed.”
“Right.” As much as this feels like a fever dream, I’m coming to grips with the fact that this scenario, however bizarre, is very real. I shuffle around behind her and eye up the zipper in question. I reach out to touch it, then flinch away, rubbing my hands together to warm them up.
The mermaid sighs. “You better not be doing what I think you’re doing.”
“Which is?”
“ Rubbing .” I can hear the smirk in her voice.
My neck goes hot. “I’m warming up my hands. They’re cold.”
“So? I’m on a schedule here. If you could hurry up, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’m just…” Buying time. Trying to wrap my head around this. Wondering, if this is what my job demands of me on day two, what in the hell day three is going to look like.
“You’re treating me like a princess,” the mermaid says. “Trust me, it’s not necessary.”
“You sure about that?” I glance up to her hair. “There’s a seashell tiara in your wig.”
“What makes you think it’s a wig?”
I reach out to touch the zipper. “I mean…”
The mermaid laughs. “Kidding. It’s a wig.”
The zipper doesn’t look like much, but it’s definitely stuck. I don’t want to risk damaging her tail, but I need to get the zipper free. I slide two fingers beneath the material to pull it away from her skin so that I don’t catch it in the mechanism.
As soon as I touch her, the mermaid lets out a little hiss and arches her back. “Damn,” she says, “your hands are cold.” Goosebumps form on her skin, and I resist the delusional urge to run my fingertips over the slight dip in her spine, trace the smattering of freckles on her skin, press my face against the back of her neck, and just breathe in.
“I think part of your wig got stuck in here,” I say. “Any chance you could take it off?”
“Sure.” She reaches up and pulls the blue updo free. Her hair is pinned up underneath, covered with a cap. Sure enough, a few blue hairs remain behind in the zipper of the tail.
Now that there’s not all that hair in the way, I can see better. In addition to the zipper itself, there are few other little clasps at the top, so cleverly sewn in that they’re almost invisible. I start disconnecting them, and when I do, the pressure on the zipper eases. One more tug, and it slides down to her mid-back.
She’s not wearing a bra. In fact, I’m not sure she’s wearing anything underneath at all. Am I going to get fired for undressing a mermaid in the hallway? The HR handbook did not cover this extremely specific scenario.
“I’ve got the little hook and eye things done,” I tell her. “Why has this thing not fallen off yet?”
The mermaid snorts. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Her tone is teasing, as if she wouldn’t mind that I liked it. Are we flirting? God, I hope so.
“I thought that was the point,” I say. “You’re the one who wanted me to undress you, remember?”
She chuckles again, and the sound goes straight to my dick. Who knew I had a thing for mermaids? “So, there are buckles on the sides.”
I look around until I find them. They’re not hard to spot, but… they’re close to her side boob. As in, really close. As in, there’s no way for me to undo them without touching her breasts. Surely I’m getting pranked right now. Is this some sort of Venom hazing ritual? At this point, anything seems possible.
“You’re doing that thing where you stare and say nothing again,” the mermaid observes.
“Right. It’s just…” It’s not that I don’t want to touch her breasts. The problem is how much I want to. Tail aside, this woman is exactly my type: beautiful, confident, and offbeat.
She twists around to meet my gaze. Brain #1, which has apparently come back online, unhelpfully provides me with a mental image of what it would be like to stand behind her, undressing her in my bedroom. Swiping off my track pants and boxer briefs with just one movement. Then driving my aching dick into her over and over. “You don’t strike me as a guy who doesn’t know his way around some side boob. Just unhook it. You’re fine. I promise I won’t sue.”
I nod. “Fair. But surely your man wouldn’t be thrilled to have some stranger feeling you up…”
“My man?” The mermaid lifts a brow.
“Your merman,” I correct.
“Nice. I see what you did there.”
I reach out for the clasps in question. “And I see what you didn’t do.”
“What’s that?”
“Answer my question.” I am officially touching her lush side boob. I am both terrified and hopeful about the apparent lack of garments beneath her top.
“Was there a question? I feel like it was more of a statement. And I don’t do fill in the blank.”
“Got it,” I say. The clasps are free. “Now the other side.”
I circle around. This time, when I start unbuckling, the whole costume comes free. It drops to the ground, revealing flesh-tone tape she’s used to keep her boobs in place and a pair of boyshorts that are perfectly fitted to her ass and thighs. Even though the get up is discreet, it’s somehow intensely erotic at the same time.
“Thank Christ, ” she groans, “I can breathe again.” With no sign of haste, she peels the rest of the costume away, then plunges her hand into the duffle bag at her feet. There’s a dress inside. I get one last look at her taped-down breasts and bare back before she’s covered in a loose sundress. She stuffs her mermaid costume into the duffle, although she opts to pull the wig and tiara back on rather than toss them in with everything else.
“Well,” I say, awkwardly fascinated and completely out of my depth, “I need to get going.” There won’t be time to sign the forms now. It’s almost time for morning skate.
“Going down?” she asks.
My eyes bulge.
“On the elevator,” she clarifies.
“All the way down,” I croak.
She laughs. “Street level for me.”
I trail after her to the elevator and tuck my hands into my pockets as I try to think of how to extend this bizarre and delightful encounter by event a few seconds. This… this is definitely going in the spank bank.
“Do you have a name?” I ask as we begin our descent. I have to know.
The now-transformed mermaid looks me up and down. “Sure do,” she says. The door chimes and slides open.
She’s halfway out the door when she pauses to fix me with a sensual smile. “Oh, and for the record? Mermen don’t exist.”
With that, she’s gone, and I’m left alone with no witnesses to whatever the fuck just happened.
Nobody pops out with a camera to tell me that I’ve been punk’d, or that I need to meet with the boss, or even explain the curveball that today threw at me. I’m left to conclude that this isn’t some elaborate prank but one of those Vegas things people talk about when they tell you to expect the unexpected. Whoever that woman was, she’s messing with my head. And my groin.
I have to see her again. She’s a mystery, and I have to know more. It feels like fate. I want to touch her for real. But only after she begs me to with that sassy mouth of hers.
The door opens at ice level, and I step out, just as a maintenance guy with a toolbox tries to step on.
“Sorry,” he says. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I nod, rubbing my jaw. “I just saw a mermaid. They do exist.”
The guy frowns up at me. “You gotta stay hydrated if you’re not used to this heat. It’ll play tricks with your head.”
That woman was no mirage. I can still feel the warmth of her skin on my hands. When I look down at my shirt on my way to the ice, I smile.
Clinging to the material is a single, bright-blue strand of mermaid hair.
* * *
Stepping onto the ice for the first time as Coach feels surreal. Rinks used to be my battleground, my home. Now, they’re my job. The weight of it all presses down on me as I take in the sight of the guys warming up. Most of the guys are already racing around like they own the place, and Ranger’s leading the drill like it’s second nature. Of course, he is. The guy’s got this team eating out of his hand in two days flat. Me? I’m still trying to shake off my own past and figure out how to build theirs.
I blow the whistle and call the guys into line. It’s basic stuff to start, puck handling, skating, and some light passing. I need to see what I’m working with up close. Viktor Abbott is the first one up, and of course, he takes off like he’s got something to prove—fast, cocky, and smooth as hell. The kid’s got talent; I’ll give him that. Knight Hale’s more focused, all business, but I catch the hint of a smirk as he watches Viktor show off.
Camden Beck steps up next, and I can already see the nerves. He fumbles the pass, and Viktor doesn’t waste a second ribbing him. “You trying to pass it to the other team, Camden?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes and cut in with a quick, “Glad you’re not a brain surgeon, Beck.” It gets a chuckle out of the guys, and even Camden cracks a grin, though I can tell he’s still feeling the pressure.
Tristan Dubois brings energy, but there’s something off with his coordination, like he’s thinking too much. The kid has the potential to be great, but he’s got to get out of his own head.
As the drills progress, my gaze keeps drifting toward Noah. He’s off with the goalies, focused, cool as always, effortlessly in command. He’s still got that calm, unshakable vibe, like nothing fazes him.
From what I understand, he ended up with the perfect wife and the perfect family of five. And it pisses me off.
I blow the whistle again, calling a break. The guys skate over, grabbing water, talking quietly. I lean against the boards, trying to shake off the tightness in my chest.
Just then, Noah skates over, casual as anything. “Good drills, Coach. I think Hale’s getting faster.”
I nod, keeping my response short. “Yeah, maybe.”
Noah’s face flickers with confusion, like he’s expecting more from me. “I think we’ll see a lot from these guys this season. Beck’s looking solid.”
I give another nod, still not offering much. I know he’s trying to make conversation, but every time I look at him, all I see is the moment that ended my career. He doesn’t even recognize me. It’s like he’s forgotten. Must be nice.
Noah lingers for a moment, probably wondering what the hell my problem is, but I don’t have it in me to explain. He eventually shrugs and heads back to his group, and I exhale a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.
What does he expect? That we’ll just shoot the breeze like old buddies? Maybe go get a coffee together after we leave the arena today?
I blow the whistle again, calling for some scrimmage drills. This is where I’ll see how they really move together, how they communicate on the ice. The puck drops, and right away, Viktor and Knight fall into a rhythm, like they’ve been playing together for years. There’s a natural chemistry between them that’s hard to miss—sharp passes, quick reads, and a little playful competition as they try to outdo each other.
Along with Tristan, that’s my first line.
Then there’s Camden, trying to keep up and prove he belongs. But he’s overthinking every move, hesitating just long enough to throw off the flow. He goes in for a pass, but Viktor’s already blown by him, stealing the puck with a quick flick of his wrist.
When his kid gets relegated to the second line, Anders Beck, Stanley Cup and Conn Smythe trophy winner, is going to hate my guts.
But I answer to Sergio—and sometimes Dante—and I have to do what’s best for the team.
“Keep your head up, Beck!” I shout, but I can see it in his eyes—he’s rattled. Trying too hard. I’ve been there before. Hell, I was him, once upon a time. That kid on the ice, doing everything he could to make a name for himself.
Tristan’s no better, burning energy but not syncing with the team. He’s fast, sure, but speed doesn’t mean much if you’re out of step with your linemates. Viktor and Knight have the chemistry down, but Tristan and Camden? They’re still trying to find their place.
But they will, I’m sure of it. They both have the goods. For them, it will be all about the mental game.
The guys skate hard, and the competitive banter keeps the mood light, but I can’t shake the feeling in my gut as I watch them. These players still have their future ahead of them. I used to be that guy, but now... now I’m the one watching from the boards, shouting instructions like a coach should. It’s where I’m supposed to be. But damn, it still stings sometimes.
Just as I’m about to call the next drill, I hear a familiar voice from the bench. “If you let Beck keep playing like that, Coach, I’ll be seeing him in the treatment room by tomorrow.”
I glance over and see Violet Newberry—Briggs’ daughter and the team’s head injury specialist—grinning as she steps onto the ice. She’s got that no-nonsense vibe, but also a warmth that makes the guys respect her without hesitation. The players smirk at her comment, and Camden gives a sheepish wave.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he’s still in one piece,” I reply, half-smiling. “Though a little time in the treatment room might be just what he needs.”
Violet arches a brow, her lips twitching into a smirk. “To toughen him up or break him down? You coaches really know how to walk that line.”
There’s a lightness to her teasing, but I know she means business. She’s one of the best in her field, and no one takes head injuries more seriously than Violet. It’s personal for her, given her dad’s history. She’s always on alert, watching these guys like a hawk, ready to jump in the second something seems off.
As Violet checks Camden’s helmet and runs a quick inspection, I catch a glimpse of how easily she connects with the players. There’s no awkwardness, no hesitation. They all trust her, even when she’s giving them hell about keeping their heads on straight—literally. I’ve got a lot of respect for her, not just because of her job, but because of the way she holds her own in a room full of high-testosterone hockey players.
As she finishes with Camden, she shoots me another look. “You’re responsible for him out here, Coach. Don’t make me look bad.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say with a grin. “But if he does end up in the treatment room, I’ll make sure he brings you coffee.”
Violet chuckles, shaking her head. “You’ve got a deal.”
As she leaves the bench area, I can’t help but admire how she handles herself. This whole team seems full of people who are just... good at what they do. And here I am, still trying to figure out how to let go of my past while keeping these guys moving forward.
As the practice winds down, I blow the whistle one last time and call the guys in. They skate over, breathing hard, but there’s a glint in their eyes—a mix of pride and exhaustion. They worked hard today, and it shows.
“Good effort out there,” I say, my voice firm but not too heavy. “This is just the beginning. We’ve got a tough season ahead, but if you bring that same energy every day, we’re going to be a hell of a team. No shortcuts. We do it right, or we don’t do it at all.”
The guys nod, a few glancing at each other, the camaraderie already building. Viktor elbows Camden, a teasing grin on his face. “You hear that, Beck? No shortcuts into the treatment room just because you want to see Violet.”
Camden rolls his eyes but smirks back. “I can’t help it if she’s a trillion times better looking than you, hotshot.”
I resist a smile, shaking my head. “As long as you don’t crash the encore, Abbott,” I add, surprising myself by joining in on the banter. Laughter ripples through the group, and for a moment, I feel a spark of something—maybe I’m getting through to them after all.
“Alright, hit the showers,” I say, and they scatter, skating off the ice in pairs, still jostling and ribbing each other. I watch them go, feeling a strange mix of pride and longing. My job now is to guide them and shape them into something great. But I’ll never be one of them again. I’m on the other side now.
As I turn to leave the ice, I catch Noah looking at me from across the rink, his brows knit in confusion. He’s still wondering why I’m so distant, why I’m not warming up to him like everyone else. He doesn’t know, and maybe that’s for the best. But it doesn’t stop that ache from creeping into my chest every time I see him.
I force myself to look away, stepping off the ice and heading toward the locker room. I’ve got a good team, a solid crew, and an assistant coach I can trust. But no matter how much I try to focus on the future, my past keeps gnawing at the edges.
Ranger calls out to me as I make my way toward the exit. “Hey, Coach. You good?”
“Yeah.” I nod, waving him off. “Just heading out.”
He gives me a knowing look but doesn’t push. “See you tomorrow.”
I don’t linger. I’ve done enough for today. As I walk through the tunnel, the weight of the ice, the team, the job... it all settles in, heavier than ever. Tomorrow’s another day, but tonight, I need space to breathe.
I’ve got to find a way to let go of the past.
Or it’s going to ruin everything.