Chapter 11 #2
Halfway through a neutral zone drill, Declan blew the whistle and pointed at me.
“You’re cheating high.”
I stopped hard, spray kicking up. “I’m reading the lane.”
“You’re leaving Lowell exposed.”
“I had the step.”
“You had a gamble.”
I felt heat crawl up my neck. Guys coasted in, listening even while pretending not to. “That’s not a gamble if I win the puck.”
“And when you don’t?”
“But I did.”
Declan stepped onto the ice from the boards, not far, just enough that the entire group shifted attention. His voice didn’t rise.
“We’re not building the system around your best-case scenario.”
My fingers flexed around my stick. “So you want me passive.”
“I want you responsible.”
A few skates scraped. Someone coughed. My ears filled with static.
“I know what I saw,” I said.
Declan’s gaze stayed on me, steady and unforgiving. “And I know what I asked for.”
That was it. Not cruel. Not loud. Not humiliating.
Worse.
Simple.
A line laid down in front of everyone.
My teeth pressed together hard enough to ache.
For one stupid second, I wanted to push again just to see what he would do. Wanted to force his hand, force that controlled voice lower, force the calm to crack. The impulse hit bright and reckless, and I had to grip my stick with both hands to keep it from becoming action.
Declan waited.
Not long.
Just long enough.
I looked away first. “Yes, Coach.”
“Run it again.”
I ran it again.
Perfectly.
The rest of practice was a blur of legs burning, lungs working, Declan’s voice landing and my body answering. By the time we came off, my skin felt electrified and raw, like I had been scraped open without anyone touching me.
Roman didn’t say a word in the room. That was worse than him pushing.
Tessa caught my eye in the hallway and lifted her brows a fraction.
I kept walking.
Milo nearly followed me, then appeared to think better of it when Declan said, “Holloway. Video room.”
Of course.
The empty video room was too small for the amount of air inside it.
Declan shut the door behind us. Not slammed. Just closed.
My brain served the memory up immediately.
The closed door.
My body reacted before I could stop it.
I moved to the far side of the table, dumping my gloves down like distance was casual. “If this is about the drill, I got it.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He came around the table, not rushing, not crowding. “Tell me what you got.”
I laughed once, sharp and humorless. “You want me responsible.”
“I want you to understand why.”
“I understand.”
“No, you’re repeating words because you’re angry.”
That hit clean.
I looked at the black screen mounted on the wall instead of at him. “Why me?”
Silence.
The kind that made me regret asking and need the answer at the same time.
Declan said, “Be specific.”
My laugh came out rough. “Of course. God forbid I’m not specific.” I turned back to him. “Why are you pushing me harder than everyone else?”
He didn’t deny it.
That alone stole some of the fight from me.
His hands rested at his sides. He looked too composed. I wanted to mess him up. I wanted to know what it took.
“Because you’re capable of more,” he said.
I swallowed.
He continued, voice even. “Because when you’re locked in, you see things other players don’t. You change pace better than anyone on this roster. You make reads most guys only make after watching tape. And because you keep settling for less than that.”
The words went through me in layers.
Praise first, sharp enough to hook.
Then the rest.
Less.
My throat felt tight, but not in a sad way. In an exposed way. Like he had found the exact bruise and pressed one thumb into it.
“I don’t settle.”
“You do when you rely on talent to excuse discipline.”
“I produce.”
“You could lead.”
“I do lead.”
“Sometimes.” He took one step closer. “When it suits you. When the room is already following. When there’s enough noise around you that no one notices you’re avoiding the boring parts.”
My chest rose too fast.
“Fuck you.”
The second it came out, I knew it was too much.
Declan didn’t flinch. “Try again.”
Two words.
Not loud.
Not angry.
My mouth went dry.
I should have told him to go to hell. I should have walked out. I should have done any of the things I normally did when someone put a hand on the back of my neck without touching me.
Instead, I stood there with my heart hammering and said, “That was out of line.”
“Yes.”
“I’m pissed.”
“I can see that.”
“You make it sound like I’m lazy.”
“No. I think lazy would be easier for you.”
I stared at him.
He was closer now. Close enough that I could smell cold air and clean soap under the rink. Close enough to see the faint silver in his eyes, the little mark near his eyebrow, the way his beard was trimmed tighter along his jaw.
Too much detail.
My attention caught and stayed.
That was the problem with my brain. It either scattered everywhere or locked on one thing until the rest of the world disappeared. Right then, it locked on Declan’s mouth. Not romantically. Not in some soft, cinematic way.
Sexually.
Violently.
I thought about what his voice would sound like against my ear.
Thought about his hand closing around the back of my neck for real.
Thought about being told to stay still and actually doing it.
Thought about the size of him, the controlled strength, the terrifying certainty that if he gave me an order in that room, my body would answer before pride could interfere.
My cock thickened under my compression shorts.
Panic fired through me, hot and immediate.
I stepped back so fast my hip hit the table.
Declan stopped.
For the first time since I’d known him, something in his composure slipped. Not much. A blink held too long. His attention dropped for half a second, not all the way, but enough that I knew he had clocked the movement. The space. My breathing.
Maybe everything.
The room felt airless.
“I have to go,” I said.
His voice was lower when he answered. “Jace.”
“No.” I grabbed my gloves, missed one, bent to pick it up, hated the shake in my hand, hated that he could see it. “I got it. Responsible. Leadership. Boring parts. Crystal clear.”
“That’s not what this is.”
I looked at him then, and it was a mistake.
Because he wasn’t looking at me like a coach correcting a player anymore.
He was looking at me like a man who had just realized the fire wasn’t only on one side of the room.
Neither of us moved.
Not fast enough.
My body begged me to close the distance. My brain supplied images I did not ask for and could not shove away. Declan’s hand on the table beside my hip. Declan’s body blocking the door. Declan’s voice telling me to stop running.
I hated how badly I wanted all of it.
I got out before I could do something that could not be taken back.
The hallway was too bright. The locker room was too loud. I showered on autopilot, dressed with my shirt inside out the first time, ignored Roman’s silent look, and left the rink without saying goodbye to anyone.
By the time I reached my car in the parking lot, my hands were cold and my entire body felt wrong.
I threw my bag into the back seat, got behind the wheel, shut the door, and sat there breathing like I had just finished a shift.
Then I looked down.
Still hard.
Not a little. Not a leftover twitch of adrenaline. Hard enough that there was no pretending, no convenient explanation, no blaming the fight or the drill or the way my head sometimes mixed signals until everything felt like too much.
This was not stress.
It was not hockey.
It was not ADHD.
It was not confusion.
It was Declan.
The realization landed with brutal clarity, and underneath the fear, underneath the guilt, underneath the part of me already trying to outrun the consequences, there was something worse.
Relief.
Because I knew.
I knew exactly what I wanted.
The problem was that what I wanted was my coach.