Chapter 2
She hates me.
She fucking hates me.
And I fucking love it.
I'm still sitting on the treatment table, my thighs now tightly wrapped in athletic tape, as Ally Hart walks out of the room, leaving me to watch her perky ass and her ponytail swing.
The door hasn't even clicked shut and I'm already replaying the whole thing back in my head. The way she snapped that tape in warning, the little tick in her jaw when I mentioned the swimmer, how her fingers pressed into my quad just a fraction harder than necessary when I pushed her buttons.
Fuck. It makes me hard just thinking about it.
Ally Hart, the first girl on this campus I saw and liked, is single... and she blushed when I flirted, even if she tried to hide it. Everyone else on this campus treats me like I'm a celebrity. Not her. Ally Hart treated me like I was the last drill after a lengthy training session.
It's the hottest thing that’s happened to me all year.
I pull myself off the table and walk through to the locker room, surprised at how supported I feel. I've had my thighs taped before, but not with an injury like this.
Shit, maybe this girl is a miracle worker.
I take my time putting my pads and jersey on, knowing that I'm going to have a fight on my hands when I get out there.
Coach McKibbon hasn't wanted me to play ever since I hurt my thigh two weeks ago, and even with this new tape job, I seriously doubt he's going to let my skates touch the ice.
Still, I try.
The rest of the team are already mid-drill by the time I push through the doors onto the ice. Coach McKibbon is standing in the middle of it with his arms crossed, watching.
I take a tentative step on the ice, watching him the entire time, waiting for him to notice me.
When he does, his expression shifts.
“Cross.” His voice echoes across the rink. “What do you think you're doing?”
I skate toward him, keeping my stride, even though my thigh is screaming at me to sit down. It might have felt good when I was in the locker room, but the ice has a lot less traction. “Joining practice, Coach.”
“Like hell you are.” He jabs a finger toward the bench. “You're supposed to be resting that leg.”
I tap my thigh with my gloved hand. “I just got taped up. Fresh wrap. Feels better than it has in weeks.”
“I don't care if you got taped up by the great Scott Hendricks himself. You're benched until medical clears you for full contact.”
“Coach—”
“No.”
“Just let me—”
“Absolutely not.”
I stop in front of him, planting my stick on the ice. The rest of the team has slowed their drills, watching me.
Great. An audience.
“Look.” I keep my voice low, just between us. “We've got St. Michael's tomorrow. You know they're going to come at us hard, and you know I'm the only one who can match their center's speed. If I'm rusty because I've been sitting on my ass for two weeks—”
“Then you'll be rusty and healthy instead of sharp and sidelined for the rest of the season.” He doesn't blink. “The answer's no, Cross.”
Desperate times.
“Give me thirty seconds,” I say. “Let me show you a few moves. If anything looks off, I'll bench myself. No arguments.”
Coach's jaw flexes as he takes me in. I've been standing on the ice for the better part of five minutes now. That's surely a good sign that I have enough stability to hold myself up.
“Thirty seconds,” I press. “That's all I'm asking.”
He stares at me for a long moment. I can practically see the calculations running behind his eyes—risk versus reward, my stubbornness versus his authority, the fact that we both know I'm going to find a way onto that ice tomorrow whether he likes it or not.
Then he sighs.
“Fine.” He holds up a hand before I can celebrate. “But the minute it starts hurting—and I mean the second you feel so much as a twinge—you're off this ice and back in that training room. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“I'm serious, Cross. One wrong move and you're done. Not just for today, for the week.”
“Understood, Coach.”
He waves me off with a disgusted look, and I push off toward center ice before he can change his mind.
My first few strides are tentative as I test how much give there is in the tape, waiting for that familiar spike of pain with each move, but it doesn't come.
There's pressure, sure, and a dull ache that tells me the muscle's still healing, but nothing like the sharp, stabbing sensation I've been dealing with.
Well, that confirms it. Ally Hart is definitely a miracle worker.
I ease into the drills, taking everything slower than I normally would. Crossovers at half speed. Turns with wider arcs. Quick sprints that are more like aggressive jogs. It's not my best work—not even close—but it's enough to prove I can move without falling apart.
Coach watches from the blue line, his expression unreadable.
After a few minutes, he gives me a curt nod. Not approval, exactly—more like reluctant acceptance. I'll take it.
I coast to a stop near the boards, catching my breath, when Cade and Dash glide up beside me.
“Well, well, well.” Cade's grin is sharp enough to cut glass. “The captain lives.”
“Was there ever any doubt?”
“Considering Hart looked like she wanted to murder you in there.” Dash snorts. “Yeah. A little.”
I grab my water bottle from the bench, taking a long pull. “She's just... processing.”
“Processing what?” Cade asks with a raised brow.
“That she's immensely attracted to me.” I smile. I can't help myself.
“Wow.” Dash shakes his head. “You sure the injury wasn't to your head?”
I laugh. “Nah. She's playing hard to get. I left her hanging freshman year—now she wants me to work for it. It's a tactic.”
“Or,” Dash says flatly, not even turning around, “she genuinely wants nothing to do with you.”
“Impossible. The threats are real, but there's a very fine line between love and hate, and I'm pretty sure I could tip it.
Dash groans. “You’re going to get blacklisted.”
“Maybe.” I shrug.
Or maybe she’ll fall for me. Either way, the tape on my leg is tight, secure, and I swear I can still feel the heat of her hands through it.
And yeah. That’s not nothing.
Coach's whistle cuts through the air. “Last drill! Five-on-five scrimmage. Keep it clean, Cross—and I mean clean. No hitting.”
I push off toward center ice, Cade flanking me as Dash heads for the goal.
“For the record,” Cade says as we line up, “I've already made a bet with Dash. I give it two weeks before one of you snaps.”
“Two weeks until what?”
He grins. “Until you're either together or she's actually murdered you. Fifty-fifty odds, honestly.”
“Helpful.”
“That's why I'm here, captain.” He claps my shoulder pad. “To provide emotional support and running commentary.”
The puck drops, and I forget about everything else. My thigh, the pain, the way Ally's hands felt pressed against my skin.
Almost.