Chapter 15
Finley
He’s been home for almost an hour.
Not that I’m stalking him. I just happened to be near my door around the time when he got back from the arena.
So, I heard him walking down the hall. And his door close.
It’s not a big deal. We just need to practice. Not for the next competition, which is going to be some sort of maze or skills event with other professional athletes from the area, but for the one after that. The one where we’re tested on how well we know each other.
It’s our duty, to the team, to practice. Sabrina said so. More or less.
I pull out my phone and type a quick text, asking Beckett to come over. I stare at it for a minute before deleting the whole thing. Too formal. I try a few more times before finally giving up. I have no idea how to casually text. Plus, putting anything in writing makes it seem official.
It’s fine. I’ll just go over. Knock on the door. He’s probably watching game film tonight, anyway. It’s what I should be doing. We could watch it together. While we chat. Two hockey team–based things that must be done.
It’s the only efficient solution, really.
Knowing it’s what any respectable coach would do, I slip on my tennis shoes and grab my laptop. Laptops are the height of professionalism.
I walk across the hall and knock twice. Fuck. That’s how I announce myself at the locker room. Making a snap decision, I lift my fist and knock a third time.
“I said I was fucking busy tonight, Larsen!” Kane yells, pulling the door open as he finishes his sentence.
He looks good. And, holy mother above, what is that smell? Is that him? I scan his fresh-from-the-shower hair, past his navy suit jacket, down the seams of his tailored pants, to his expensive-looking leather shoes before bouncing up to his face, where his gaze meets mine.
Smile, Finley. I squeeze my short nails into my palm, determined not to feel anything about the fact that Beckett is clearly about to go out on a date.
“We can do this another day.” I nod toward my laptop. “Should’ve texted first.”
“Finley.” Beckett’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Want to come in?”
I shake my head. Definitely not. I can’t stay this close to date-ready Beckett for one minute longer.
I might cry… or institute a no-dating policy for the team.
Neither of which is acceptable. “You’re busy.
No worries. I wouldn’t want you to be late for”—I gesture sporadically at his various limbs—“your thing.”
He quirks his head to the side before looking down at himself. “Oh, it’s okay. No thing.”
“You just said you were busy. And you’re wearing a suit.”
Boy, is that an understatement. Like he’s somehow in the same league as the accountant who has to put on a suit to go sit in a cubicle all day. He is fucking wearing a suit that is hugging every single inch of his immaculately toned body like it was made for him.
Beckett chuckles. “I’m only busy if it’s Larsen asking.”
“And the suit?”
“I just got a delivery of game-day suits from a designer I like to work with. Since I was freshly showered, I figured I should try them on.” He holds his arms wide. “What do you think?”
Good. Sooo good. “Not bad,” I say instead. “Do you always try your suits on with shoes?”
He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Of course, Finley. Do you know nothing about trying on suits? The shoes tie the whole outfit together. They can make or break an entire ensemble.”
“Oh, I know all the things about trying on suits,” I tease. “I may not be Kim Mulkey, wearing sequins and feathers for my games, but I still know a thing or two about them.”
He cocks his head to the side. “She’s the…”
“Women’s basketball coach, yeah.”
“Right. I was getting there.”
I nod like I totally believe him. “Sure you were.”
“Now that we’ve established that we both know things about suits and that everyone watches women’s sports, can you please come inside?” He steps back to hold the door open wider.
I let out a small laugh. “Well, since you’re clearly desperate for my company.”
“Right,” he chuckles as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Clearly.”
I walk in and, suddenly, I’m uncomfortable.
He’s not watching film. He’s trying on suits.
What exactly am I doing here? Trying to get my Beckett time, not that I can tell him that.
And maybe a bit of Finley time. The few minutes a day when I’m not Coach Blake, not the first female head coach, but just Finley, the woman.
“Water?” he asks. “I have sparkling and the kind out of the fridge.”
“Fridge water?” I ask. “That’s so fancy. In fact, I remember it being very tasty the last time you offered it to me. Who could turn that down?”
“No one. I’ve heard it’s even kept people alive,” Beckett replies, grabbing two glasses out of his cupboard and filling them both. He hands me one, his eyebrow raised as I stand in the middle of his kitchen.
Real smooth, Finley.
“So, um, with the trivia competition coming up, I thought it would be smart if we spent some time together. You know. For research.”
Beckett doesn’t say anything, just searches my face.
When the silence has gone on too long, I add, “For the kids, of course. So they don’t lose out to the sea lions.”
“For the kids,” he replies, like it’s an answer to a question he’s been considering for a long time.
“Well, and Sabrina. And the team. Lots of people, really.”
“It’s almost a requirement,” he says, nodding slowly. “No option.”
“Right!” I agree. “It might actually be part of our contracts.”
Beckett’s smile pulls wide across his face as he leans his hip against the counter. “I’m in. What’s with the computer, though?”
“Film,” I answer with a nod. Because, yup. “I thought we could prep for Winnipeg together. Team things, you know?”
“Team things. I… I like that. Want to get it set up on my TV while I go get changed?”
“Not planning to wear your suit all night?” I ask. I could be convinced it’s a good idea. I could also be convinced it is the world’s worst idea and would end with me getting fired and letting down literally everyone.
Beckett smirks. “This is a game-day suit, Finley. Not a film suit. Don’t be ridiculous.”
When Beckett returns a few minutes later in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt that’s stretched across his chest and shoulders, I regret that he’s changed. Even the suit was safer than this.
Why, oh why, must men look so good in sweatpants? Me in sweatpants? Homeless raccoon. Beckett? So fucking terrible. I mean, really, really yum—yucky. Gross. I definitely don’t want to lick… anything.
“So.” I force my gaze back to my computer screen. “Want to start with the Blizzard at the Guardians?” I ask, naming the team we are about to play and the one we just beat. “Or do you want to watch the Blizzard’s most recent game against the Riptides?”
“What would you normally do?” he asks, like he might want to know because it’s something about me, not because he can’t decide.
“I’d start with the Guardians since we just saw them, and then move to their most recent game. Doctor Pearce also put together a file of specific plays I need to see, so I usually finish with those.”
“Let’s do that, then,” he says.
I pull up the video, navigating Doctor Pearce’s ridiculous folder-naming conventions, and mirror the game from my laptop to his large TV. Luckily, he kept the one that came with the place, so it’s like mine and my adapter works.
He drops onto one end of the couch, clearly leaving the other side open for me.
“Okay,” he starts as I sit as far from him as possible. “What’s your usual night look like?”
We talk about our lives, sticking to topics that feel easy, ones that might come up in a trivia game about ourselves. Our routines. The food we like. Nothing about our pasts or how we got here. Nothing with potential landmines.
We’re both, unsurprisingly, boring. Our routines are our lives.
We don’t have much time or make much time for people or activities outside of hockey.
I survive on coffee. He’s powered by protein and greens.
It should be dull, but somehow, everything feels easy.
Like, he understands why I spend every night watching game film without me having to explain myself.
Like, he would enjoy curling up on a couch and spending hours dissecting a team’s weaknesses and how my players could exploit them.
If only he weren’t one of those players.
But, no. We need him. The Yeti is a different team now that he’s there. I need Beckett Kane on my roster. It’s just too bad that I also appear to want him in my life.
“Rewind that,” I say, my eyes following the Blizzard’s center as he delays on the zone entry and drags the winger out of position.
We both lean toward the laptop at the same time, and our shoulders touch when we reach for the trackpad.
My breath catches. I can smell his soap, feel the warmth of his skin where it touches my bare arm.
“Sorry,” I apologize, and he quickly pulls back. I clear my throat, rewinding to the start of the play.
When I lean away, I realize we’re closer than we were before, our shoulders almost touching. It’s close enough to feel like something without it being anything.
I don’t move away.
Neither does he.
“Do you see it?” I ask, taking in his profile as he tracks the center again.
Beckett exhales slowly before reaching out and tapping the space bar to pause the film. “He likes to bait the D-men. Slows up just enough to make them bite and pull them out of their gap.”
I nod. “He runs every entry through that hesitation move. We can pick it apart if you guys see it early enough.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t catch it until now,” Beckett comments, the look on his face something close to admiration.
I grin. “Well, to be fair, it is my job to catch it. Not yours.”
This—us—feels easy. Too easy.
Beckett pauses, a soft smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “You should do that more.”
“What?”
“Smile,” he answers, and his thumb, as if controlled by an entirely different being, slowly traces a line down my cheek, leaving a trail of tingling flesh in its wake.
He quickly removes his hand, a look of horror flashes across his features, and the sudden loss of contact hits me in my chest—a place I hadn’t known was hollow until he momentarily filled it with his touch.
I reach out and hit the space bar, restarting the film and unnecessarily pointing out the way their goalie drops too early.
We fall into an easy analysis of the play, discussing their team in a way that feels much more enjoyable than any other strategy session I’ve been in with my coaches.
Finally, we make it through all the film, and, unable to put it off any longer, I start to gather my things.
“You know,” Beckett says, massaging the back of his neck, “this has been a lot of fun. I didn’t… Well, I didn’t realize how lonely I’d been.”
It feels like an echo clanging through me, so I offer him the only thing I can—my truth.
“Me, too.”
We’re both silent as I close the laptop, and I wonder whether he’s regretting confessing that to me. If he thinks he said too much, or if it feels like someone understands him for the first time in a long time. Maybe forever.
“We should do this again sometime,” I offer, turning back from the door I just opened.
Beckett nods, and I swear he’s fighting a smile. “Whenever you want, Finley.”
Once I’m in my apartment, I lean against the door, my heart racing like I just sprinted two miles rather than slowly crossed the few feet between our apartments. And as I stand there, all I can think about is when I’ll get to do it again.