Chapter 17
Finley
Boston is loud. Their fans are hostile, and their boys are out for blood. As we near the end of February, teams are playing like their season is on the line—because in most cases, like ours, it is.
Our team moves the puck, J.D. pushing forward as our wingers fly to beat him into position. Murmuring to Shaw, I make a suggestion about a tweak before turning my attention back to the play.
Kane racing along the boards catches my attention, and I remain transfixed, hyperaware of what he’s doing. He’s the anchor of our D, and I need him. That’s why I can’t look away.
Boston plays a fast transition game, and our defense has been in chaos more than I’d like.
I watch, transfixed, as Kane slams into number eight.
They battle against the boards, large bodies knocking into each other.
Bjork digs the puck loose and slaps it to point.
Kane collapses onto the front of the net and ties up a stick to clear the rebound into the corner.
He’s barely had time to recover before their left winger is there, firing a shot through traffic.
Kane’s stick darts out, meeting the puck just in time to block the shot.
There’s something about the way Kane is moving that isn’t quite right. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s something in the way he accelerates. Or changes speed, maybe. Like he’s not at full strength. Maybe his—
“Coach Blake?”
“Huh?” I ask Rob.
“I said, did you see that hole Lefevre just found?”
“Yes.” My eyes dart to the other side of the rink, and I wonder what I missed when I was unable to tear my eyes away from our defense. From Beckett.
It’s exactly the type of distraction I cannot let happen, though this time it might’ve been warranted.
The game is another brutal one, and the men give it their all. With less than thirty seconds left, Kane jumps a zone and forces a turnover. J.D. takes the puck, flying across the ice to drill a shot through the five hole before the goalie can seal it with fourteen seconds left on the clock.
Boston wastes no time pulling their goalie for one final push. The seconds tick down as Boston fires shot after shot at our goal, my players always there to get in the way.
Finally, the buzzer sounds, and there is a mass of black Yeti jerseys as they all dogpile on J.D. Beckett extracts himself early, and as he skates toward the bench, our eyes lock in the chaos. A warmth spreads inside me as I return his smile with one of my own.
I’m proud of him. In a way I shouldn’t be. The thought hits me like a punch to the gut.
And when he dips his chin in a slight semblance of a nod, it doesn’t feel like a player acknowledging his coach. It feels like more.
***
Josie hands me an envelope with my name on it as I climb off our charter plane and onto the bus four hours and ten minutes later.
I make my way to my second-row seat, the same place I always sit on the team bus, confirming my room key for our stay in Philadelphia and a schedule for the next thirty-six hours are safely in the envelope.
Beckett is a few people behind me. As he passes, his hand lightly grazes my arm.
My gaze flicks upward, catching the slight smile on his face as he continues, acting as if he didn’t just light my entire right side on fire.
It’s late, well past the time when good decisions are made, and the need I normally keep locked deep down inside is surfacing.
“Let’s talk systems and adjustments, so we can go straight to sleep, eh?
” Rob says as he sits in the row across from me.
My feelings are too all over the place to expect any kind of decent rest, but if it helps Rob get his beauty sleep, I’m fine to run through what we need to here, rather than waiting until we get to the hotel.
We discuss options for our game tomorrow—technically, tonight now—against the Hawks as the bus winds through the deserted streets of Philadelphia.
A few guys look half-asleep in the back, but most are still riding the post-game adrenaline, trying to cool down enough after the game to be able to sleep when we get to the hotel.
I’ve already let them know there wouldn’t be a morning skate after the pounding their bodies took this evening, so they’ll likely rest as late as they physically can.
When we get to the hotel, the players all bump and push to try to get into the elevators, everyone tired and grumpy and ready to get to their rooms. I let the first elevator go, but the second is just as full, and I end up smashed against Beckett, his arm almost wrapped around me as we test the equipment’s maximum weight capacity.
“Good game tonight, Coach,” Beckett says softly. It’s not intimate—just a congratulations between colleagues, but the way his warm breath tickles across my ear and neck makes it feel far too private for the number of players and coaches surrounding us.
I swallow hard, begging my hormones to stop their nonsense.
“Thank you. You as well.” I tilt my head up enough to catch the glint of amusement in his eyes.
“Yeah, I heard the end of your interview tonight. You said some nice things about me to the press.”
I shrug, though his comment sends my worry into overdrive. Was I too positive about his play at the end? It would’ve been weird if I hadn’t mentioned him, but now, maybe I said too much. Was it what I would’ve said about any other player?
We all pour out of the elevator on the twelfth floor, a flurry of motion as we all make our way to our rooms. Beckett and I both look at the room numbers on the wall before heading in the opposite direction from the rest of the team.
“Looks like they stuck you on the staff side of the floor,” I tease. “Is it because you’re too old to room next to Larsen?”
Beckett’s laugh is a short chuckle, almost a wheeze, as his hand flies up and lightly wraps around his ribs.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “Did the trainer see you? Do you have an ice pack?”
“Yes, dear,” Beckett replies, walking down the hall.
“Dear?” I ask, hoping my amusement isn’t obvious to anyone else who might be in the hall.
He gapes at me, his eyes immediately widening when he realizes what he’s said. He clears his throat. “I mean, yes, Coach. I did all the things I was supposed to. I iced on the flight, and I have new packs in my bag to strap on once I’m in bed.”
“Did they just look at your ribs? Or did you get a full exam?” My curiosity about his acceleration from earlier resurfaces. “You seemed like you were a bit less explosive than usual, even before you took that hit.”
Kane’s gaze darts away before snapping back to mine. “I’m fine. Just a little sore. You know how it is when you reach my age.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Because if something is bothering you, even if it seems inconsequential, you need to tell someone. Culture of accountability.”
“I’m fine, Coach,” he says before coming to a stop. “Well, this is me.”
I stop as well, our rooms, evidently, across the hall tonight.
“Neighbors for life,” I joke, wanting to cut through the chill that’s lingered between us since I asked him about his injury.
Beckett scans his card, turning to face me as he pushes into his room. “Lucky you.”
If Tantalus was lucky to be constantly surrounded by fruit and water without ever being able to eat or drink, then sure, I’m lucky, too.
I wash my face and get ready for bed, my mind on what’s happening across the hall. Is he tucked in bed for the night? Watching film for the upcoming game? Was he able to get his ribs wrapped so the ice stays on? Did he have to call a trainer?
After spending the last few nights together watching film and answering random questions about ourselves in what has become an unofficial ritual, it feels weird not to be with Beckett.
I roll through a list of excuses I could make to visit him, like checking on his injury, practicing for the competition, or needing to talk to him about matchups for tomorrow.
But they all feel flimsy. Especially for this time of night.
If I ran into Rob in the hallway, would he really believe I was headed to a player’s room in the middle of the night to talk matchups?
Well, Rob might believe it of me since he’s been on the receiving end of many a late-night strategy call, but I don’t think it would fly with literally anyone else from the team.
Though, it is just across the hall. How likely is it that I’d run into someone in the seconds I would be exposed?
I drop heavily onto the bed. I shouldn’t do it. For all I know, Beckett has his own rituals for decompressing after a game, and if it happens to be of the female variety, I’d rather not know.
As his coach.
Even if I haven’t heard any evidence of that since he moved in across the hall.
There’s a soft tapping from the hall, and after a moment, a deep voice whispers, “Queenie.”
I jump from my bed, and when the comforter catches on my foot, I’m thankful for all the agility drills I’ve done over the years that allow me to perform a spin in the air to free myself before rushing to the door.
“Hey,” I gasp, swiping strands of hair out of my face.
He’s here. Beckett is here.
“Hey,” he replies, his voice low, his gaze penetrating. “Can I come in? I had a film question about tomorrow.”
I don’t even try to hide my skepticism as I pull the door open wide, gesturing him in. He passes by so close that his sweatshirt-covered chest almost touches mine, and every last one of my nerve endings snaps to attention.
I close the door before asking, “Film question, huh?” I force myself to face the man I can’t seem to ignore.
“Yeah. Do you want to watch film together?”
I let out a laugh. “That’s your question?”
“It is a film question, Queenie.”
I roll my eyes at the nickname’s reappearance. “What kind of coach would I be if I supported you watching film at four in the morning?”
“The kind who knows I’m not going to bed for at least another hour anyway.”