Chapter 18
eighteen
MIKE
My ankle throbs, and each pulse sends fire shooting up my leg, a reminder that three periods against Northeastern have consequences.
I shift in the stiff leather chair across from Coach’s desk, searching for a position that doesn’t make me want to scream. The medical staff cleared me to play—technically—but that doesn’t mean the joint has forgiven me for last night’s punishment.
It’s my first setback since taking the ice this semester, but I’ll be fine.
It’s the other setback I’m more worried about.
Seven days. That’s how long it’s been since Sophie kissed me at the batting cages and then yanked herself back into the friend zone. Seven days of replaying that moment, wondering if it was a mistake to ask her if she really wanted me, even though I know the uncomfortable truth.
But every time those thoughts creep in, I remind myself of the promise I made: I only want to be with her if she genuinely wants to be with me. Not because she’s vulnerable. Not because she’s seeking comfort. Because she’s made a clear, deliberate choice.
And maybe it’s for the best anyway. Scouts pack the stands at every game now, their eyes locked on my every shift. My NHL dreams are finally within reach again after last year’s spectacular implosion, and a relationship might be the last thing I need.
I tell myself that enough times that I almost believe it.
Hockey has been my entire life since I could walk. Dad strapped skates on me at three, and I never looked back. But lately, I’m starting to wonder if there’s supposed to be more. If normal people have lives outside the rink that don’t revolve around ice time and protein shakes.
My fingers pick at the frayed edge of my jersey. “Why the hell did Coach want to see me?” I whisper to myself.
Maybe he’s going to tell me to stay away from Sophie. Because, while Coach doesn’t strike me as the overprotective-father type, maybe he thinks I’m not good enough for her and that she’s been through too much to date me. But before I can spiral further, the door swings open and Coach strides in.
“Mike!” He drops into his desk chair with the ease of someone who never played a contact sport, grinning. “Thanks for coming by.”
“Of course, Coach.” I straighten, ignoring the fresh spike of pain in my ankle, and hoping it dies down soon.
He leans forward, clasping his hands on the desk. “I’ve been making some calls to my connections in the Midwest.”
My stomach drops. “OK…”
“The chatter about you is excellent,” he continues. “If you keep playing like you have been, scouts are going to forget all about your missed year.”
The words hit me wrong. “Oh. That’s… great.”
Relief should flood through me. Instead, irritation rises, hot and unexpected. I don’t want that year erased. Sure, there were moments when I wished I could delete the injury, the depression, the lack of time on the ice, the way I treated everyone around me…
But that year made me who I am now.
I’m a better player and a better person because of it. My ankle will never quite be the same, but the cross-training during recovery didn’t just rebuild my strength—it taught me how to move differently, think differently, and see the ice in ways I never did before.
More than that, it changed me as a person. It led me to therapy, where I learned that feelings aren’t the enemy and talking about them won’t actually cause spontaneous combustion. It led me to my “try new things” approach that’s expanded my world beyond the confines of hockey.
It led me to a bar on a random Friday night where I met a beautiful girl.
If I hadn’t been injured, if I hadn’t been forced to grow the hell up, would I have been the kind of guy who could listen to Sophie’s fears without immediately trying to fix them? Would I have respected her boundaries when she stepped back from our kiss?
The old Mike would’ve pushed and charmed until he got what he wanted.
The old Mike was kind of an asshole.
“Mike?” Coach’s voice cuts through my thoughts, even as his eyes bore into me. “You alright?”
I realize I’ve been staring at the wall behind his head, completely zoned out. Heat creeps up my neck. “Sorry, Coach. Just… processing.”
His brow furrows. “I thought you’d be more excited. This is what you’ve been working toward, isn’t it?”
The concern in his voice catches me off guard. He actually cares about my reaction, not just my stats, which puts him worlds apart from our old coach, who didn’t give a damn about anything but wins.
“No, I am excited,” I say, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. “It’s been a long road.”
He studies me, and I get the unsettling feeling he sees right through my bullshit. But he lets it slide, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, then letting out a long sigh.
“Look, Mike. I’ve been coaching long enough to know when something’s eating at one of my players?—”
“Everything’s good.” The words come out too fast. “Just thinking about last night’s game.”
Coach’s grin returns, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Mike, you know you can talk to me, right? Not just about hockey.”
The offer hangs between us. For a wild moment, I consider taking him up on it. Hey Coach, funny story, I’m kind of falling for your daughter but she thinks I’m too complicated and also I can’t stop thinking about her even though I should be focused on hockey and what do you think I should do?
Yeah, that would go over great.
“I know, Coach. I appreciate it.” I shift again, using the movement to mask my discomfort. “Really, I’m good. Ready to get out there tonight.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he nods. “Alright. Better get to the locker room, then. Get the boys fired up.”
I leave the office and head for the locker room.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that particular shade of institutional hell that makes even elite athletes look vaguely diseased.
My mind churns over Coach’s words, so distracted I almost walk straight into the roadblock ahead.
“Hey, Captain.”
Amber McKenzie.
Of course .
She’s positioned herself dead center in the hallway, all five-foot-eight and 32DD of Pine Barren’s head ice girl blocking my escape route. Her blonde hair cascades over her shoulders, the kind of expensive waterfall that probably cost three hundred dollars and required sacrifice to the salon gods.
“Big game tonight,” she purrs, twirling a strand of hair around her manicured finger.
“Every game’s big.” I attempt to sidestep her, a move I’ve perfected since sophomore year when she first tried to claim me.
Physics suggests this hallway should accommodate two people passing without incident. Amber apparently operates under different laws of motion, because she mirrors my movement with defensive precision, and it’s clear that I’ll only be getting past her when she’s done with me.
“I’ve noticed you haven’t been at any of the after-parties this season.” Her voice drops into phone-sex territory. “The one at Schmidt’s place last weekend was epic. You really missed out, Mike, and I was hoping to see you there, and see more of you there…”
Epic.
Right.
My idea of epic has shifted considerably since my ankle auditioned for a horror movie last year. Plus, most of the guys I used to party with graduated—Dec for his art dream, Linc for the NHL—meaning I’ve become the old man of the team without meaning to.
“Been busy. You know, trying new things.” I go for boring. “Did you know you can take a three-day course in?—”
She yawns, exactly as intended. Amber’s interests extend to hockey, hockey guys, fashion, and parties. Full stop. In every way, she’s Sophie’s opposite. Hell, even Old Mike wasn’t interested in Amber, and he sure as hell took plenty of girls to bed.
“All work and no play makes Mike a dull boy.” She reaches out, her nails—sharp enough to qualify as weapons—straightening my collar. “But if you’re not keen on parties, maybe I could help you unwind after the game? How does a massage sound?”
She draws out ‘massage’ until her meaning is clear.
The thing is, Amber is objectively gorgeous. She’s got the kind of face that launches ships and ruins credit scores, legs that demand their own insurance policy, and curves that make yoga pants consider early retirement. But when I look at her, all I see is everything she’s not.
She’s not five-foot-four with freckles scattered across her nose. She doesn’t have gray eyes that shift from silver to storm clouds depending on her mood. She doesn’t bite her lip when she’s nervous or get that little furrow between her eyebrows when she’s worried.
She doesn’t make me want to learn what makes her laugh just so I can hear it again, or hold her when she’s crying. She doesn’t make me want to write terrible poetry or embarrass myself at karaoke or spend hours at batting cages just to see her smile.
She’s not Sophie.
“That’s really nice of you to offer,” I say, aiming for gentle but firm. “But I’m not looking for anything like that right now.”
“Like what? I’m just offering a massage, Mike.” Her tone suggests we both know exactly what’s on the table.
“I know.” I shrug, wishing she’d just back off. “But I’m kind of hung up on someone else.”
The words escape before I can stop them, and I instantly regret them. Shit. Amber’s eyes light up with the kind of interest usually reserved for Black Friday sales and celebrity divorces, because she’s suddenly got the strong whiff of hockey team gossip.
“Someone else?” Genuine surprise colors her voice, as if Mike Altman being unavailable violates natural law. “Do I know her?”
Christ, the last thing I need is Amber playing detective. She’s got the determination of a bloodhound and a spy network that rivals the NSA. If she starts digging, the entire campus will know I’m pining after Coach’s daughter within hours.
“Just someone special,” I say, going for mysterious but probably achieving constipated.
Amber studies my face with safe-cracking intensity. I can practically see her mental database cycling through every female on campus—other ice girls, sorority girls, athletes, professors, research assistants—and grading them for looks and how much they put out.
Finally, she steps back with a shrug. “Well, if things don’t work out with your mystery girl…”
“You’ll be the first to know,” I say, clearly lying, but not wanting to hurt her feelings or prolong the conversation any longer.
“Good luck tonight, Captain,” she says.
As I escape down the hall, warmth spreads through my chest. Maybe it’s pride, maybe it’s stupidity, but turning down Amber feels like passing a test I didn’t know I was taking. I’ve rejected her before, sure, but not everyone like her, not all offers like she just made.
That guy got his ankle destroyed and his ego demolished and somehow came out better. He learned to treat people well, use them less, and feel more whole as a result. He discovered new things are worth trying and some things—some people—are worth waiting for.
If I can’t have Sophie, I don’t want anyone.
The certainty settles deep in my bones.
Maybe that makes me pathetic. Maybe Maine would stage an intervention if he knew I was turning down guaranteed action for a woman who friend-zoned me. Maybe I should be trying to move on, looking for girls who come with less complexity.
But I can’t.
I won’t.
Because here’s what I’m learning: I don’t do casual anymore. Not with my body, not with my time, and definitely not with my heart. Sophie Pearson has ruined me for anyone else, and the strangest part is that I’m totally OK with it, because I can’t imagine anyone else being worth it.
And, for just a moment, I let myself feel the weight of this choice. The weight of choosing possibility over certainty. Of choosing hope over distraction. Of choosing the maybe of Sophie over the sure thing of anyone else. It feels like growth.
It feels right.