Chapter ten
Line Change - Substituting players during live play.
Dante
I was halfway through reviewing game footage on my tablet when Kincaid dropped into the seat beside me.
The team plane wasn’t full. Most of the guys had spread out, Max and Flint in the back going over plays, Cole and Phoenix across the aisle with their heads together, Keegan two rows up already asleep with his headphones on.
I’d taken a window seat by myself because my ribs still ached and my face throbbed, and I wasn’t in the mood to make conversation about the loss or Antoine or any of the thousand things I didn’t want to think about.
Kincaid settling beside me changed all of that.
“Russo,” he said by way of greeting.
I pulled out my earbuds. “Coach.”
He had a folder with him—the physical kind, paper and everything, which seemed anachronistic for a man who ran plays off a tablet behind the bench. He set it on the tray table between us with care that suggested it contained something important.
“I want to talk about your training schedule,” he said. “Once you’re cleared to skate again.”
That made sense. Professional. The kind of conversation a coach had with a player who’d been sidelined by injury. I relaxed fractionally. “Okay. Cinder said maybe in a few days if the ribs cooperate,” which meant I would miss the next one, maybe two games.
“That’s what he told me too.” Kincaid opened the folder, and I caught a glimpse of what looked like practice schedules, ice time allocations, the organized chaos of planning around a playoff series.
“I want you working with me directly. One-on-one, before team practices. Shooting drills, confidence building, getting you back to trusting your instincts.”
I came up with replies but didn’t use any of them.
“I’m the coach and I’ve been negligent.” His voice had that flat sound that meant the decision was made and arguing would be pointless. “You’ve got the skills, Russo. You just need to remember you’re allowed to use them.”
I looked down at my hands—the knuckles still raw from the bathroom fight, the nails bitten shorter than they should be because I’d spent two months anxious and hadn’t noticed I was doing it. “Okay. Yeah. That sounds good.”
“Good.” He didn’t close the folder. Instead, he shifted slightly in his seat, and I became aware of how close he was—close enough that I could smell whatever soap he used, something clean and understated that my brain was cataloging without permission. “Where are you living?”
I blinked at the subject change. “What?”
“Your apartment. Where is it?”
“Uh, Capitol Hill. Why?”
“Roommates?”
“No. Just me. It’s a studio.” I studied his face, trying to figure out where this was going. “Is there a problem with—”
“No problem,” he said, cutting me off. “I’m just trying to get a sense of your situation. Support system. Whether you’ve got people checking in on you while you’re recovering.”
That felt like a strange question coming from my coach, but I answered it anyway. “My family’s all in Chicago. I talk to my ma a couple times a week. Marco and Nicky when they’re not busy. But here, it’s just me.”
He was quiet for a moment, his eyes on the folder but his attention somewhere else. I could feel the weight of whatever he was thinking, the focus that made the air between us feel heavier than it should.
“Coach—”
“Your apartment,” he said, redirecting again with the smooth efficiency of someone who’d had practice avoiding questions. “Is it secure? Good locks, building security?”
I stared at him. “It’s fine. Standard Denver apartment building. Why are you asking about my apartment?” It was a bare box I’d never mustered any enthusiasm for.
He met my eyes then, and something in his expression made my breath catch.
It wasn’t the professional assessment I was used to.
It was something else—something that felt like concern except sharper, more personal, the kind of attention that made my pulse pick up for reasons I absolutely could not examine on a team plane with half my teammates within earshot.
“Because three men jumped you in a bathroom two days ago,” he said quietly. “And until we’re certain there aren’t more people looking to make a point, even though we’re back home, I want to know you’re somewhere safe.”
My chest seemed to stop expanding. “I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can.” His voice had gone lower, making my brain short-circuit. “I’m asking anyway.”
The plane hummed around us. Someone laughed in the back—probably Taz telling a story. The flight attendant moved past with the drink cart. Normal sounds, normal things, except nothing about this conversation felt normal.
“The building’s secure,” I said finally. “Keycard entry, cameras in the lobby. And I’m on the third floor, so no one’s coming through the windows.”
“Good.” He still hadn’t looked away from me, and I was becoming acutely aware of how close we were sitting, of the way his knee was almost touching mine, of the fact that I’d woken up pressed against his side three days ago and my body apparently hadn’t forgotten.
I needed to say something. Anything that would break whatever this was before I did something stupid like lean closer or ask him why he was really asking these questions or admit that I’d been thinking about the way his hand had felt on my face every single day since it happened.
“My apartment’s fine,” I said again, because my brain had apparently given up on producing new material. “Really. You don’t have to worry about me.”
Something flickered across his face—too fast for me to read, gone before I could name it. “I’m your coach, Russo. Worrying about my players is part of the job description.”
Right. The job. Professional concern. Nothing more complicated than that.
“Of course,” I said, and made myself look back at my tablet even though I couldn’t focus on the footage anymore. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize.” His voice had gentled slightly, though the roughness was still there underneath. “You’ve had a rough week. I just want to make sure you’ve got what you need.”
What I needed was for him to stop sitting so close, stop smelling like whatever that soap was, stop looking at me like I was something more than just another player on his roster.
What I needed was to get my head straight and my priorities in order and stop having completely inappropriate thoughts about a man who was my coach, my boss, and approximately thirty years older than me.
What I said was, “I’m good. But thank you for checking.”
He nodded once, that efficient movement that meant the conversation was over.
But he didn’t get up. Didn’t move back to wherever he’d been sitting before.
He just opened the folder again and started going through practice schedules like this was completely normal, like sitting beside me for the rest of the flight was exactly what he’d planned to do all along.
I put my earbuds back in and stared at game footage I wasn’t processing and tried very hard not to think about the fact that his knee was definitely touching mine now, just barely, the kind of contact that could be accidental except it had been there for five minutes and he hadn’t moved away.
My ribs ached. My face throbbed. I kept my earbuds in for the rest of the flight, even though I’d stopped actually listening to anything about twenty minutes in.
My awareness had narrowed to that single point of contact—his knee against mine, the warmth of it bleeding through two layers of fabric, the fact that he hadn’t moved away.
Professional. This was professional. Coaches sat with players all the time. Discussed training schedules. Asked about living situations to make sure their roster was stable and secure. That was the job.
Except the job didn’t usually involve this type of attention, or the way my pulse had been elevated for the last forty minutes, or the fact that I could feel him breathing beside me in a way that suggested I’d been paying far too much attention to things I had no business noticing.
The plane started its descent into Denver. The seatbelt sign came on. Kincaid closed his folder with the same methodical care he’d opened it, and I felt the loss of that knee contact like something physical when he shifted to adjust his seatbelt.
Get it together, Russo.
We landed. The team collected bags, filed off the plane into the terminal with the sort of exhaustion of men who’d just lost two playoff games and had a long week ahead. I grabbed my duffel, wincing as my ribs protested the movement, and headed for ground transportation with everyone else.
“Russo.”
I turned. Kincaid was standing by the exit with his own bag, his jacket slung over one arm, looking like he’d made a decision about something.
“I’m heading your direction,” he said. “I’ll give you a ride.”
That wasn’t a question. That was a statement of fact delivered in the same tone he used for line changes.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to.”
Max walked past us with Sorin, caught the tail end of that exchange, and gave me a look I couldn’t quite read before continuing toward the parking garage. Cole and Phoenix were already gone. Keegan had his headphones back on and was walking like a man on autopilot.
“Okay,” I said, because arguing with Kincaid when he’d made up his mind about something was pointless. “Thanks.”
His truck didn’t surprise me. It was the sort designed for Colorado winters and stowing hockey gear. I loaded my bag beside his, then got into the passenger seat and immediately wished there wasn’t a center console between us.
He started the engine. Pulled out of the garage with the same controlled precision he brought to everything. The city slid past the windows—airport roads giving way to highway, the mountains visible in the distance against the evening sky.
“Capitol Hill, you said?” he asked.
“Yeah. I can give you directions once we’re closer.”