Chapter 6
six
MIKE
Why the hell didn’t I ask for Sophie’s surname?
The thought tortures me as I watch Sophie standing next to Coach Pearson, her gray eyes locked on mine with the kind of horror usually reserved for finding your parents’ sex tape. The same Sophie whose breathless moans have been my personal soundtrack for two weeks.
The same Sophie who’s apparently Coach’s daughter.
My stomach plummets like a severed elevator cable, probably cratering straight through to the arena’s foundation and beyond. Around me, the locker room’s familiar cocktail of sweat, body spray, and industrial disinfectant suddenly feels like it’s choking me.
Coach keeps talking—something about Sophie hating hockey—but his words blur into white noise.
Because my brain decides now is the perfect time for a highlight reel: Sophie arched against her kitchen counter, head thrown back, my name spilling from her lips as I thrust into her from behind for our farewell.
Christ. Stop. That’s your coach’s daughter, you absolute disaster.
The cosmic joke writes itself.
Of all the women on this campus—hell, in this entire state—I had to fall into bed with the one who’s completely, catastrophically off-limits.
Right when I’ve finally gotten my shit together after last year’s ankle-induced spiral.
Right when scouts are circling. Right when hockey needs to be my focus.
Coach continues, blissfully unaware that his team captain is imploding three feet away. “Don’t go breaking any bones just to get her attention.”
The guys laugh.
I force my mouth into something that probably resembles a smile.
And Sophie?
Well, her cheeks bloom pink, the exact shade they’d turned when I’d whispered filthy promises against her skin that night. But she’s handling this way better than me, her gaze fixed somewhere past my left shoulder like I’m just another forgettable face in hockey gear.
Maine springs forward, because of course he does. “Sophie! I’m Maine Hamilton, left wing and future NHL star. Currently single, if that matters!”
Half the team groans. Coach’s eyebrow climbs toward his hairline.
“And currently operating without any filter between his brain and mouth,” I add, surprising myself with how normal my voice sounds.
The team cracks up, laughing and giving Maine shit for trying it on with the coach’s daughter, and I catch Sophie’s lips twitch before she schools her expression back to neutral. That tiny fracture in her composure shoots straight through me like lightning finding ground.
Coach clears his throat and gestures at me. “This is?—”
“Mike Altman.” I stand and extend my hand like we’re strangers.
Sophie forces a smile and, when our palms connect, her skin is exactly as soft as I remember, triggering a sense memory of those same fingers digging into my shoulders. For one reckless second our eyes meet, and a million questions and answers flare between us, and then it’s done.
“Nice to meet you,” she says, formal as a tax audit, yanking her hand back.
Nice to meet you?
Lady, I’ve had my mouth on you in ways that would make a porn star blush.
But, sure, let’s pretend we’re exchanging LinkedIn profiles.
“Sophie’s going to be around the rink sometimes,” Coach explains while I try not to think about how her hands had felt twisted in my hair. “My wife has some health stuff going on, so Sophie helps coordinate my younger daughter’s schedule.”
Well, there are the family obligations she’d briefly mentioned but declined to provide much detail about. Of course. I’d been too busy respecting her one-night boundary to ask questions, too focused on memorizing the way she moved beneath me to care about backstories.
Coach launches into his new-season philosophy—team culture, academic standards, and representing the university with class. I should be absorbing every word, but instead, I’m hyperaware of Sophie’s every micromovement as she hovers by the door, shoulders rigid with discomfort, keen to escape.
Every few seconds, I sneak glances at Coach, searching for any hint he’s picked up on the tension crackling between his daughter and his team captain. But from what I can tell, he’s all enthusiasm and dad-pride, dropping “my daughter” into sentences like he’s showing off a trophy.
And I can’t disagree that she’s a hell of a prize.
Sophie, meanwhile, deserves an Oscar for her performance. Each time Coach says something particularly paternal, she produces this tight, polite smile that reveals absolutely nothing. If I didn’t know better—if I hadn’t been in her apartment, in her bed, in her—I’d buy the act completely.
But Maine’s watching me with raised eyebrows and a question scrawled all over his face that I pretend not to understand. Because the last thing I need is his particular brand of romantic wisdom, which generally involves shooting your shot with anything that moves and sorting out the carnage later.
“And remember, gentlemen,” Coach wraps up, capping his marker with finality, “we represent this university both on and off the ice. We’re a family, and family means both support and accountability. I expect excellence in your conduct, your academics, and your commitment to this team.”
His gaze sweeps the room, landing on me. I straighten my spine and nod gravely, channeling every ounce of captain aura I possess. But as the guys look to me, I look to Sophie, who’s already halfway out the door without a backward glance.
“That’s all for today.” Coach nods. “Captain, a word?”
The guys make exaggerated “ooooh” sounds like I’ve been hauled to the principal’s office after skipping class, and Rook makes a sound that resembles a police siren. I subtly flip them off as I approach Coach while they file out, Sophie vanishing before the first player reaches the door.
Coach grips my shoulder. “Altman, the team’s energy feels great, and I think that’s largely your influence.”
Pride swells despite the chaos ricocheting through my skull. “Thanks. I’ve been working on it. I was an asshole last year and, well, I’m trying to do better.”
“It shows.” He squeezes before letting go. “Listen, I’m thinking about some team-building activities before our first game...”
He talks. I nod. Something about trust falls or escape rooms or virgin sacrifice—honestly, I’ve got no fucking clue what I’m agreeing to because my brain is still processing the nuclear bomb that just detonated in my carefully reconstructed life.
“Sounds great,” I manage when he pauses expectantly. “I’ll talk to the guys.”
He claps my back. “Good man.”
Throwing on a shirt, I escape from the locker room and into the corridor, my footsteps echoing off the concrete. The familiar arena sounds—distant Zamboni hum, muffled music from the weight room—usually center me, but right now they feel like they’re coming from underwater.
I shove through the exit doors and freeze.
Sophie stands at what must be her car, as the late September wind whips loose strands of hair across her face.
For a second I just watch, knowing I should leave.
Walk away and protect us both from whatever disaster lurks around this corner.
That would be the smart play. Instead, I walk straight toward her.
“Hey,” I say.
Her shoulders snap taut before she turns. “Mike. Hi.”
We stand there, neither of us sure how to navigate this minefield. The breeze carries the scent of her shampoo—vanilla, I remember—and I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from doing something catastrophically stupid like reaching out to touch her.
“So,” I finally break the silence. “Your dad seems like a good coach.”
She nods, keys clutched like brass knuckles. “He is.”
“Was he telling the truth back there? About you hating hockey?”
“Yes.” No elaboration. “You didn’t tell me you played.”
“Never came up.” I shrug. “I’m glad, because you might’ve told me to beat it.”
I laugh, waiting for her stone-faced resolve to crack, for the joke to reveal itself, for her to give me something. But her expression stays deadly serious, jaw set like she’d rather be getting a root canal than talking about it, and it settles on me that maybe there is a problem here.
“Wait, really?” My laughter dies. “You actually hate hockey?”
“Yes.” She shifts. “And hockey players.”
The words land like a cross-check to the sternum. I search her face for any sign she’s exaggerating, but there’s nothing. Just careful distance that makes my chest constrict. I know we’d agreed to only one night, but I’d been hoping we might score a friendship out of it, and maybe more…
“Wow. That’s… direct.” I try to keep it light even as something defensive rises in me. “What, some puck bunny drama in high school?”
“No,” she says quietly, her voice going brittle as old ice. “But I learned early that athletes come with complications I can’t afford.”
“That’s a pretty big generalization.” I step closer without meaning to. “We’re not all interchangeable, you know. Some of us can even read multi-syllable words.”
She studies me steadily, but something hardens around her eyes like armor clicking into place. “I know that. But I can’t risk it.”
“What if I wasn’t an athlete?” The question escapes before I can stop it, laying my cards face-up on the table. “Would you give me a shot then?”
Something flickers in her eyes—hesitation, possibility, maybe even want—before she shakes her head. “No.”
“Why not?” I press, even though I should shut the fuck up, because I’d agreed to one night only.
She looks at me for a long moment, and I feel flayed open. Like she can see straight through to every insecurity, every doubt I’ve buried since my ankle went to shit.
“Because you’re complicated, Mike, hockey or no hockey.” She says it simply, like stating gravity exists. “And complicated is too much for me right now.”
The word hits like a slap shot to the throat.
Complicated.
Sophie climbs into her car without another word, the door closing with a soft thud that somehow sounds final.
I stand there like a statue while she starts the engine and pulls away, her taillights disappearing around the arena’s corner like punctuation at the end of a sentence I never wanted to finish.
Complicated.
What the hell does that even mean? She doesn’t know me. One night of admittedly spectacular sex doesn’t make her a psychological profiler.
Except… fuck. Maybe it does.
Last year was complicated. My ankle, the depression everyone insisted on calling a “funk,” the identity crisis that came with realizing I didn’t know who Mike Altman was without the Devils jersey. I’m still untangling that mess, still figuring out who I am when I’m not just a defenseman.
But now, I’m finally feeling solid again—ankle healed, head clearer, skills sharp, developing interests outside of hockey—and I’m staring down the biggest opportunity of my life.
Three NHL scouts are confirmed for next week’s opener alone, to bear witness to my last shot to prove my injury wasn’t a career-ender.
To show I’m worth drafting despite missing crucial development time.
The smart play is obvious. Sophie needs distance, which aligns perfectly with the fact that I should focus on hockey and that the coach’s daughter should be completely off-limits anyway. No matter how good that night was. No matter how her eyes had gone soft and unguarded in the morning light.
No matter how my body apparently memorized every sound she made.
I shake my head hard, like I can physically dislodge the thoughts, because Sophie Pearson is officially forbidden territory.
Case closed. So now I just need to convince my brain to stop replaying every moment of that night on an endless, torturous loop, and stop wanting more than is sensible or more than she can give.
Easy.