Playing With Fire (Playing the Game #3)

1. Blind Side

Chapter one

Blind Side

Luke

Now, Early August

M y hand is shaking.

Not the good kind of adrenaline shake you get before a championship game. This is the what the fuck am I doing shake. The kind that makes you spill coffee all over a job offer you accepted thirty minutes ago because you were too desperate to negotiate.

“Shit.”

I grab napkins from my truck’s console, dabbing at the contract that officially makes me the last minute, desperate-to-sign someone, head coach of Silver Pine University’s inaugural D1 women’s hockey team.

D1. Head coach. At twenty-five.

Director Calloway’s voice echoes in my head: “We need someone who understands the game, someone who can step in immediately. The position comes with a competitive salary, housing stipend, and the opportunity to build something from the ground up.”

I’d said yes before he finished the sentence.

Literally interrupted him mid-pitch to accept, which in retrospect wasn’t my finest moment.

But when you’ve been sending out resumes for six months with nothing to show for it except a growing collection of “we’ve decided to pursue other candidates” emails, you don’t exactly play hard to get.

You’re going to fuck this up, the voice in my head whispers, sounding suspiciously like my father after his fourth drink.

I tell that voice to shut up, shove the semi-soggy contract in my bag, and glance up at Grayson’s house through my truck’s windshield. Time to tell my best friend the news before I spiral any further into imposter syndrome.

His new place is a renovated colonial that sits between the Grizzlies downtown arena and Silver Pine’s campus. A house that screams “successful NHL player” without being obnoxious. Manicured garden beds, a stone facade, a four-car garage that probably has heated floors.

A future I might have had before my knee decided otherwise.

Grayson opens the door wearing a shit-eating grin and a shirt I'm pretty sure he owned freshman year of college.

He pulls me into one of those bro-hugs that’s half affection, half attempt to crack ribs. “Thought you weren’t coming around until Thanksgiving. Then you call me today to tell me you’re in town? Zero heads-up? What the hell, man?”

“Wasn't sure I was coming until yesterday.” I follow him inside, taking in the pristine hardwood and furniture that reminds me we’re not college students anymore. “Place looks great.”

He grabs two beers from the fridge, tossing me one. “Sienna’s influence. Left to my own devices, I’d still be using a lawn chair as living room furniture.”

Sienna. His fiancé. Until their wedding in April, anyway.

“Speaking of the future Mrs. Cole, where is she?”

“Rink. Media thing for next weekend’s youth event.” He shakes his head, eyes settling on me. “But since I know you didn’t come here to talk wedding planning, maybe you can share why you’re really in town?”

I take a long pull from the beer, buying time. Just say it. Rip off the band-aid.

“I, uh… I got a job,” I finally manage. “Here. Well, not the city here, but… nearby.”

His face lights up. “Luke, that’s fucking amazing! Doing what? Please tell me it’s not one of your mom’s boyfriend’s ‘opportunities'.”

“God, no.” The thought of working for my mother’s twenty-nine-year-old rich-ass boyfriend makes my skin itch. “Coaching, actually. At Silver Pine. Hockey. Women’s hockey.” The words rush out now. “Calloway called Friday. Said they were in a bind. Signed the papers this morning.”

For a second, Grayson just stares at me. Then he’s grinning like I just won the lottery. “Holy shit, Luke! The NEW program? The one that just got approved?”

“Yeah.” My shoulders start to relax. “Apparently Thornton recruited talent from Pine Ridge before the legal situation.”

“You mean before he knocked up a student and tried to cover it up?” Grayson’s expression darkens. “Calloway must’ve been desperate.”

Ouch. Not wrong, but ouch.

“I prefer to think of it as him recognizing my vast potential,” I correct, going for light and probably missing entirely. “And my very impressive MBA that prepared me for the realities of coaching college athletes.”

Grayson snorts. “The MBA you got because you didn’t know what else to do after hockey?”

“That’s the one.” I drain half the beer in one go. “But hey, it gets me back into the sport. Good pay. Comes with housing in that complex off Morrison—you know the one near where we used to get pizza at 3 AM when the parties finally died down?”

“Giuseppe’s.” He’s still smiling, and something in my chest loosens a fraction. “Man, this is perfect. You’ll actually be around now. Mom’s going to lose her mind. And Emma? She’ll be psyched to have you coaching.”

The beer turns to sand in my mouth.

“Wait. What?” I set the bottle down carefully, like it might explode. “Emma? Like your sister, Emma?”

“Do you know another Emma?” He reaches over, patting my torso like my lungs aren’t on fire. “She decided to transfer a few months ago.”

The floor doesn’t actually drop out from under me, but it feels like it should. “Transfer?”

“From BC. To Silver Pine.”

Emma. Will be at Silver Pine. As my player.

“Thornton recruited her before everything went sideways,” he continues, oblivious to the fact that I’m having a full-body crisis.

“She’s gonna be living in the hockey house since Chase is in Boston this year.

With Sky and a couple other girls. This is great, Luke.

You can keep an eye on her. Make sure she’s settling in okay. ”

Keep an eye on her.

Like that’s something I’m capable of doing without losing my mind .

I haven’t spoken to Emma since February. Since I watched her play in the BC playoffs and saw Drew Markham’s arm around her shoulders. Since I realized that telling her to “move on” on Christmas Eve actually worked, and somehow that was worse than anything else.

Seven months of radio silence. Seven months of telling myself distance was the right choice. Seven months of not thinking about the way she looked at me in the glow of Christmas lights and said “he’s not you.”

Emma’s last message still sits in my phone like evidence: “You’re really just gonna ghost me, Anderson? Cool. Cool cool cool.”

That was after she messaged me on my birthday. In March.

I never responded. Couldn’t trust myself to.

“Luke?” Grayson’s watching me. “You good? Can’t believe she didn’t tell you.”

Of course she didn’t. Why would she?

“No. Yeah, I mean—” I force myself to breathe normally. “Processing. That’s... Calloway couldn’t give me names yet. Privacy regulations.”

“Makes sense.” He settles onto the couch and I have no idea how I’m holding it together. “Sienna’s gonna be excited. Both you and Emma so close? The four of us can hang out again.”

The four of us. Like a wholesome family sitcom. Like I’m not the guy who’s been gone for his sister and he has no fucking clue.

Because I can’t tell him. Can’t act on it.

I promised—literally promised him, sophomore year that I’d “look out for her”, that I’d be another older brother to her. Protect her. From guys like me.

I’d agreed. Of course I’d agreed. Because at the time, Emma was sixteen and still had braces, and the idea of anything happening between us was laughable.

That was before the injury. Before the late-night calls. Before I learned exactly how easy it was to fall for someone’s voice in the dark.

“Sounds great,” I hear myself say.

I can still hear her voice from that first late night call. The first game I’d sat on the sidelines while my teammates lost their home opener. How I’d told her about the nightmares I’d been having.

“You’re not broken, Luke. You’re just scared you might have to want something different. And that’s okay.”

She’d just turned seventeen. I’d been twenty.

It was the first time I realized she was a lot more than just my best friend’s little sister .

“She looks up to you, you know,” Grayson continues. “Always has. I think she missed having you around after you moved to Chicago.”

Looks up to you.

That’s what he thinks this is. Sweet little sister admiration.

“You were too far, man,” he adds, words cutting like a knife.

Not far enough , I think. Not nearly far enough.

Because here’s the thing about good decisions: you don’t always know if they’re good until they blow up in your face. And as I sit here, listening to Grayson talk about how great it’ll be to have everyone together again, I can feel the timer ticking down on whatever the hell I’ve just walked into.

I’m going to see Emma at least six days a week. In hockey gear. In workout attire. Sweaty and beautiful and completely off-limits.

My best friend’s sister.

My friend.

One month until pre-season starts.

Until I have to pretend I don’t remember every single detail she ever told me about her game.

Pretend I haven’t been secretly watching her highlight reels at midnight for two years like some kind of obsessive creep.

Pretend I don’t know she switched to a lighter stick last season, or that she’s been working on her backhand, or that she scores most of her goals from the left circle because that’s her sweet spot.

One month to figure out how I can survive an entire season without burning both our futures to the ground.

Who am I kidding?

Emma will be the one to light it on fire. I’ll just add the gasoline.