The Coach’s Daughter
I knew exactly who he was when he offered to buy me a drink.
He had no idea who I was.
That should have been enough to make me walk away.
Instead, I looked him over slowly and said, “You’re assuming I want one.”
The charity event had taken over the ballroom of one of the city’s historic hotels, filling it with players in tailored suits, wealthy donors in evening clothes and enough auctioned hockey memorabilia to decorate every basement in the state.
I had been to some version of the event nearly every year since I was a teenager. The venue changed. The charity changed. The players changed.
My father never did.
He was somewhere near the stage, shaking hands and thanking sponsors with the same focused expression he wore behind the bench. I had deliberately entered through the opposite side of the ballroom so I could enjoy at least twenty minutes without being introduced as his daughter.
I was twenty-six years old. I had my own apartment, my own career and my own life in another city.
None of that mattered here.
To everyone associated with the team, I would always be Coach’s little girl.
The man standing in front of me clearly hadn’t received that information.
He was one of the new players signed by the team over the summer, a big forward with a crooked smile and the kind of confidence men developed after spending most of their adult lives being told they were exceptional.
He had played nearly six hundred games in the league. I knew his statistics. I knew his suspension history. I knew my father thought he was talented but undisciplined.
I also knew he had been watching me from across the roulette table for the past five minutes.
“I’m not assuming anything,” he said. “I’m offering.”
“That sounds suspiciously polite.”
“I can be polite.”
“I’ve heard otherwise.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“You’ve been asking about me?”
“Maybe I pay attention.”
His smile widened.
There it was.
The look.
I knew it well enough to recognize it before he even stepped closer. His attention traveled over the black dress I had nearly changed out of before leaving my hotel, lingering at my bare shoulders and the slit ending several inches above my knee.
“And what’s your assessment?” he asked.
“Still gathering information.”
“I’m happy to answer questions.”
“I’m not a reporter.”
“Good.”
The answer came quickly enough to make me laugh.
He signaled the bartender.
“What are you drinking?”
I glanced at the glass in his hand.
“Whatever you’re having.”
“Vodka soda.”
He ordered me the same.
I watched his hand as he passed it to me. Large. Callused. A fading scar crossed one knuckle.
He noticed me looking.
“You like the hands?”
“I was wondering whether you’ve ever won a fight.”
“Several.”
“You hesitated.”
“I was deciding whether preseason counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
“You know a lot for someone who’s only interested in trouble.”
I took a sip.
“I contain multitudes.”
“I’d like to see them.”
That one should have been too much.
It wasn’t.
Maybe it was the anonymity. Not true anonymity, since half the ballroom knew exactly who I was, but enough of it. He was new. He had arrived in the city less than two weeks earlier and had spent nearly every waking hour at the rink.
To him, I was simply a woman at a party who had caught him staring.
It felt freeing.
“You use that line often?” I asked.
“First time. You know, I’m starting to think you don’t trust me.”
“I don’t know you.”
“We could fix that.”
The auctioneer called everyone’s attention toward the stage. A video began playing on the screens around the ballroom, highlighting the work the foundation had done over the past year.
No one was watching us.
His fingers brushed the inside of my wrist.
It was barely a touch, probably invisible to anyone farther than a few feet away.
It sent heat climbing up my arm.
“You’re bold,” I said.
“You haven’t moved.”
“I’m deciding whether to.”
“Toward me or away?”
I set my glass on the bar.
“Come find out.”
I walked toward the ballroom doors without checking to see whether he followed.
I knew he would.
The hallway beyond the ballroom was quieter, lit by gold wall sconces and lined with heavy framed mirrors. I passed the coat check and turned toward a small alcove near the elevators.
His footsteps came behind me.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“I thought you liked uncertainty.”
I stopped beneath one of the mirrors and turned to face him.
He nearly walked into me.
For the first time all evening, his composure slipped.
Only slightly.
His gaze dropped to my mouth before returning to my eyes.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well what?”
“Did you bring me out here to continue the interrogation?”
“I told you. I’m not a reporter.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Probably.”
He stepped closer, but he didn’t touch me again.
The restraint surprised me.
I had assumed a man who flirted that aggressively would close the final inches without hesitation. Instead, he waited, watching me as though he had realized I was the one controlling the situation.
He was right.
I placed my hand against his chest.
The fabric of his suit jacket was smooth beneath my palm. The body beneath it was not.
His breath changed.
“Still gathering information?” he asked.
“I think I have enough.”
“For what?”
I rose onto my toes and kissed him.
He went still for half a second.
Then one hand closed around my waist.
The kiss became deeper almost immediately, his mouth warm and demanding against mine as he backed me toward the wall. I caught the lapel of his jacket, pulling him closer before he could mistake my surprise for hesitation.
His other hand came up to cradle my hips.
I answered by biting his lower lip.
A rough sound left him.
“Trouble,” he murmured.
“You started it.”
His mouth moved to my neck.
I tipped my head, giving him access before remembering there were still hundreds of people less than fifty feet away, including my father.
I pressed both hands to his chest.
He stopped immediately.
His eyes searched mine.
“We should go back,” I said.
“That’s no fun.”
“I agree.”
Neither of us moved.
He looked at my mouth again.
“Give me your number.”
“No.”
He laughed once, disbelieving.
“You kissed me.”
“And?”
“And now you’re refusing to give me your number.”
“Yes.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Seeing someone?”
“No.”
“Do you enjoy making things difficult?”
“Very much.”
He studied me.
“Am I going to see you again?”
The honest answer was almost certainly.
Camp was still running. My father’s annual end-of-camp cookout was less than two weeks away. I had already promised my mother I would be there.
I smiled.
“I imagine so.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
I smoothed the front of his jacket, erasing the evidence of my hands.
Then I walked back into the ballroom.
I could feel him watching me leave.
Training camp ended on a warm Saturday afternoon.
My parents’ backyard began filling shortly after three, first with assistant coaches and staff members carrying trays of food, then with players arriving in groups.
Some brought wives or girlfriends. Some brought children.
The younger players clustered together near the far edge of the patio as though the head coach’s lawn had invisible zones they were afraid to enter.
I had grown up in that house.
I knew every uneven section of the yard, every stubborn patio stone and every loose board in the fence.
My father had taught me to skate on a sheet of backyard ice there when I was four.
He had grilled for birthday parties, graduation parties and team gatherings through three different head-coaching jobs.
My childhood bedroom still existed at the top of the stairs.
My mother had replaced the posters and stuffed animals with tasteful neutral bedding, but the dresser and white-painted headboard were the same.
I had not thought about the bedroom until he walked through the back gate.
Then it was all I could think about.
He was wearing dark jeans and a pale blue button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Sunglasses hid his eyes, but I knew the exact moment he saw me.
He stopped.
Not dramatically. No one else would have noticed.
One step shortened. His shoulders went rigid. His head turned slightly toward the patio where I stood beside my mother.
I lifted my drink.
His gaze moved from me to my mother.
Then to my father, who was crossing the yard toward him.
Understanding arrived in stages.
First confusion.
Then recognition.
Then horror.
I smiled sweetly.
My father shook his hand.
“Glad you could make it.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
His voice sounded normal.
I was impressed.
My father clapped him on the shoulder and guided him toward the coolers, saying something about giving everyone one final relaxed afternoon before the regular schedule began.
The player looked back at me once.
I gave him a tiny wave.
His jaw tightened.
He avoided me for nearly forty minutes.
It became entertaining.
Every time I moved to one side of the yard, he found a reason to occupy the other. When I joined a conversation near the grill, he became intensely interested in helping an assistant coach carry folding chairs.
He spoke to everyone except me.
So I waited until he was alone beside the cooler.
“Having fun?”
His head snapped toward me.
Up close, the surprise had hardened into something much more complicated.
“You’re his daughter.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“You didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”
“At the charity event?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I asked if I should be worried.”
“And I said probably.”
He glanced across the yard.
My father stood near the grill with his back to us.
“You kissed me.”
“I remember.”
“You knew who I was.”
“Yes.”
“And you knew I was trying to make this team.”
“Yes.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You enjoyed this.”
“More than I expected.”
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, fighting what looked suspiciously like a smile.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“Your father decides whether I play.”
“He already decided. You made the roster.”
“That does not make this better.”
“It should.”
He leaned closer.
“Does he know?”
“That I kissed you?”