Chapter 10 #2
“God, that would be…” Hot. It would be fucking hot. Though I obviously can’t say that. “Good. Yeah. But we aren’t on the ice,” I remind her instead. “Sabrina’s email said we’re performing in the team theater.”
I was honestly surprised when the HR woman showed me that room on my tour on the first day. Turns out, playing for a team that just built a new practice arena and office space has definite perks.
“Well, shit,” Queenie curses, leaning back in her chair. “I have no non-hockey-based talents.”
I snort. “That’s a lie.”
She doesn’t smile this time. Her fingers tap against her plate once, controlled but still noticeable.
“Well, I sure as fuck can’t sing,” she says after a beat, and I grin, pleased that her snarky side is making itself known again. She pauses, her jaw clenching. “It’s not that I don’t want other talents or interests, or maybe it is. But it’s more that I just don’t have… room in my life for them.”
Her words hit me in the chest. It’s exactly the way I feel.
Yet, I’ve never met a woman who understood the space this sport takes up.
The way that curiosity for something more will occasionally poke its head up, only to be whacked back down again by training or games or just the headspace of staying on top of everything.
“I know a thing or two about not having enough room in your life for anything but hockey.”
She lets out an exhale that might’ve been a sigh or a laugh. “I’m sure you do. It’s pretty hard to make it this far without it taking over your entire life.”
We both sit in a charged silence, and finally I moan, “God, I bet Larsen has a million ideas for things to do.”
She chuckles. “Yeah, to make a complete fool of himself.”
“True.”
“It’s also…” she starts before trailing off.
“What?” I ask.
“Well, it’s just that—it’s challenging, doing something like this. In my position, I mean. If Larsen does something stupid, it’s funny. If I do, it somehow becomes a meme about why women shouldn’t be allowed to coach men.”
“I don’t know if that’s true. You’re a person like the rest of us. You’re allowed to be silly.”
A smile flits across her face, but then she swallows whatever she’s about to say. Finally, she shakes her head. “I’m not like the rest of you. I mean, you literally call me Coach Blake rather than Blake.”
I shrug. “I call you Queenie most of the time. At least, in my head.”
She glares at me, and I can’t seem to help the smile that spreads across my face. There’s something about riling her up that makes me feel like I just won a fight on the ice.
“I mean, I’m not going to stop calling you that—you are the Ice Queen—but I think I get it. I’ve felt the need to succeed, to be perfect,” I say. “It might not be the same pressures, but the results are the same.”
“It’s not just about succeeding. It’s about paving the way for the women and girls who come after me. About making sure that nothing I do looks bad for women.”
I study her. “That sounds really hard. To feel like the success of your entire gender is on your shoulders.” I reach out and place my hand over hers. Electricity sparks between us, and we both jump, jerking away from each other.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “I just mean I could see how it would be hard. I can’t imagine the expectations.” I stare at her as she picks at her food. “Would you feel less like you’re in coach mode if I call you Finley?”
The name feels weird rolling off my tongue.
“That’s the problem, I don’t think I can come out of coach mode for this. I’m only here because someone decided it falls under ‘other duties as assigned’ in my job description. So yeah… I always have to be in coach mode.”
“Not when it’s just us. You can just be… you.”
She considers it, her gaze scanning me as if looking for signs that I’m not being sincere.
“That would be… nice. But only when it’s us.
” Her eyes gleam, amused. “The first time you call me Finley in front of anyone, I’m forcing you to do sprints until you puke, and then I am benching you for the next game. ”
I chuckle. She drives a hard bargain. “I can agree to that… Finley.”
“Well, thanks… Beckett.”
The conversation turns lighter then, as we talk about growing up playing hockey.
The injuries and experiences. Finley shares a little about what it was like growing up with a Hall of Fame coach for a dad.
I tell her my dad played hockey, too, though she clearly already knew that from my bio.
My ribs hurt from laughing when she tells me about having to do sprints for showing up late during her first few weeks of college.
Her roommate had hidden her skates in retaliation after Finley punched the girl’s boyfriend when he snuck into their room in the middle of the night.
“So you were fun in college?” I tease. Finley might just be more fun than Coach Blake.
She smiles. “Not as ‘fun’ as I’m sure you were. I saw the puck bunnies who lingered outside the rink for the men’s hockey team.”
There’s a tug in my chest, a feeling like we’ve actually made some kind of breakthrough here.
Except not the one we actually needed, which was figuring out what our talents are. I know I disagreed with Finley’s assertion that she only had hockey-based talents, but I have no idea what else we can do. The only time I’ve tried anything else was… college.
“Oh! Maybe I do have an idea for the talent show. So, in college,” I start hesitantly.
Finley quirks her eyebrow, her expression suggesting she’s following that train of thought down the puck-bunny path from earlier.
I lift my own eyebrows suggestively, willing to go along with her teasing.
“I don’t think they’ll let us do that in the theater,” she says, a belly laugh chasing out the words.
And fuck. Now all I can imagine is laying her out on a stage and giving her the show of a lifetime.
Though not with the entire team watching and cameras rolling.
I’m very fucking possessive and do not share well.
“Beckett.” Finley snaps in front of my face.
I jolt, my mind returning to the conversation. “Right. Anyway. So, in college.” I pause, daring her to make it sexual again. “I needed an elective, and my only option for the timeslot I had available was dance.”
Finley laughs again. “No way.”
“Yeah, I mean, it’s supposed to help with coordination and—”
She holds up her hands. “I wasn’t judging. I took dance in college, too.”
I stare at her. She stares at me.
Damn her eyes for looking like that.
“So we’re dancing?” I finally suggest, pulling my gaze from hers.
She shakes her head. “Only if you did something other than ballet, because I can assure you, I will not be getting up on any stage in a tutu.”
“They’d be able to add a Yeti tutu to the team store, though,” I joke. “Think of how much Sabrina would love that.”
“I’m going to make you room with Larsen on the next away trip. One king bed. Snuggling,” Finley deadpans, and I can’t help but laugh.
It feels good to let go, just a little, and the laughter just keeps coming, pouring out of me until my cheeks hurt.
Finally, when I’m able to catch my breath, I hold up my hands.
“No, mine was a contemporary class. And it just so happens that the dance I was assigned was the one from Dirty Dancing.”
She leans forward slightly. “Because you could do the lift?”
“Oh, certainly. And I look damn good in all black.”
“Were you also paired with some cute petite blonde?” she asks. “Because I have to tell you, I’m none of those things.”
I want to argue with her about the cute portion, but decide on a different tactic. “You’re petite compared to me.”
“I’m petite compared to no one. I’m not a light human. I’m made of a lot of muscle. Skater’s muscle, not runner’s muscle. It’s big and bulky.”
Lies. I mean, not that she’s not made of muscle, but she’s not bulky. She’s strong.
“I can do it,” I assert. “If you can do the steps, I guarantee I can do the lift.”
It’s a challenge, and we both know it.
We also both know she won’t say no. Coach Blake doesn’t back down from a challenge, and based on the gleam in her eye, I don’t think her less professional counterpart, Finley, does, either.
“Prove it.”
“Now?” I ask, looking around the room. Okay, this may have backfired. I know I can do it, but I should certainly warm up beforehand. Fuck.
“Yeah,” she says, sending the challenge right back at me. “We’ll go out in the hall. I’ll run; you catch me.”
I nod. “I’ll always catch you. And you better get your pink dress ready, because if we’re doing this, we’re fucking doing this all the way.”