Chapter Twenty
Rhodes
I’ve spent the last three weeks buried between Monroe’s thighs every spare second I have.
And I’d gotten her to go on an actual date with me.
On Valentine’s Day, no less. I’m still riding the high of both of those things.
If she’d been agreeable, I would have done something like riding in a hot air balloon or brought her someplace really fancy.
She was not agreeable, however, so we did not do either of those things.
Instead, we went to a concert for an underground band in downtown Hartford.
She got to watch the show, and I got to watch her.
I’m making so much progress that I’m starting to forget she still has rules.
Monroe is starting to forget she has rules, too, I think.
The whiplash of spending time with Monroe while simultaneously fielding calls from my increasingly persistent father is getting overwhelming.
Eventually, I am going to have to deal with it.
But the Wolverines are on a winning streak right now, and I’m choosing to ignore my daddy issues and focus on that.
That, and watching Monroe prep for the clinic.
It’s a week and a half away, and she has been an absolute machine.
School during the day, clinic prep at night.
At first, I was only catching glimpses—Monroe tucked into the corner of the rink, scrawling notes on a clipboard.
She’d be talking to herself, muttering combinations under her breath.
A tilt of her head. A furrow of her brow.
Then she’d nod to herself and skate out, testing whatever new idea she’s just cooked up in that brilliant, stubborn brain of hers.
She took my advice and scrapped the entire clinic plan she was trying to revise, and the clinic is going to be better for it.
She’s honestly over-preparing for a bunch of kids who barely know how to skate anyway.
I’d never tell her that, though, because all of her work is healing her. You can see it.
Sometimes I’d meet her there at night just to watch. She’d blast her playlist through the rink speakers and go over her notes again and again. She didn’t really need my help, but I think she liked that I was there anyway.
When she isn’t on the ice or in class, she’s reviewing old footage in her dad’s office, flipping through videos on her phone, analyzing angles, landings, toe pick placements from her beginner-level competitions.
I like to peek in after practice and catch her sending herself voice memos.
Making diagrams, bent over a notebook, marking up an old routine, chewing on the cap of a pen like she’s strategizing a war.
I started to wonder if this is what she was like before the accident. Her routine for the clinic is still basic, not nearly to the level it was before, not yet. But that fire? That obsessive focus? That need to get it right? It’s burning again, and I haven’t been able to look away.
I haven’t told her this yet, but her drive has inspired me to really step it up with the team.
While she’s working her clinic prep, I’ve been on the other side of the bench, working on new plays to show Coach, tactics we can use that we haven’t before.
Maybe we use them, maybe we don’t—but working them out makes me feel like I’m taking a more active role in the team and I’m relishing in it.
I’m adding them to my own folder of clinic prep, too.
I feel like we’re in one of those montage scenes in a coming-of-age movie, except we’re not in high school and this is real life.
Still, it makes me want to play I Wanna Get Better by the Bleachers.
The cold air bites at my skin the second I step onto the ice for practice, but I welcome it. It sharpens my focus, cuts through the noise still bouncing in my head. This is my domain. My ice. My team. If Monroe can pull herself up and out, so can I.
I push off, gliding into a tight turn as the guys trickle out behind me. Pucks ricochet against the boards as Callum and Tyler start a quick passing drill.
“So I guess you won the bet,” Jax says, skating up beside me. I turn my head, confused. “Monroe’s panties. You got them off first.”
I snarl at him. He’s been better lately, but he can still be such a little shit. “Fuck off, Jax.” He exhales a laugh and skates backward away from me. I hope Coach puts him in his place today, because he’s back to playing the entire rink instead of sticking to his position.
“Hey, Jax, if I put a mirror on the blue line, think you could skate faster toward it?” Finn hollers, and I hide a laugh. They compete for ice time as our two top six left wings, and instead of working game plans together, they mostly hiss back and forth like a couple of feral cats.
“Shut up, O’Reilly,” Jax snaps back. “I’m faster than you’ll ever fucking be.” He bodychecks Finn, and Callum and JD have to pull them apart.
Coach watches from his usual spot near the bench, arms crossed, sharp eyes tracking everything.
Aside from a few spats here and there—mostly thanks to our resident rookie—we’ve been good lately.
Better than good. The team finally feels like a unit, instead of a bunch of guys still figuring out how to play together.
But we still need to be better.
I grab a puck from the nearest pile and tap my stick against the ice. “All right, let’s go. Warm-up laps—pick up the pace.”
JD chuckles. “Someone’s cranky.”
“Yeah, Rhodes. Sleep okay last night?” Callum calls, skating past me backward, grinning like an idiot.
I flick a puck at his skate. “Worry about your shot, King.”
Tyler barks out a laugh. “He’s not wrong.”
“Oh, fuck off. That shot scored two goals this week,” Callum snaps back.
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble. “Less talking, more skating.”
The guys pick up their pace. Coach has us run through a series of technical drills—edgework, tight turns, explosive starts. Then we move into passing drills—fast hands, one-touch passes, quick transitions.
He’s pushing the tempo. We don’t have time for lazy plays.
“Move it, Finn!” I bark as he hesitates on a pass. Finn scowls, but he does react, snapping a clean saucer pass to JD.
“There it is.” I watch Coach adjust the camera that records our practice footage for playback. We make eye contact and he gives me a tight nod.
We cycle through drills, refining plays, tightening our movement as a unit. When we hit scrimmage time, I dig in. I don’t let up. If the guys want to keep winning, they need to feel what that means in every practice.
Beck’s on the opposing line, grinning as he squares up against me for the face-off.
“Let’s see if you’ve still got it, Cap,” he chirps.
I nod back at him. The puck drops, and I win the draw. Puck control is second nature, my stick damn near an extension of my hands as I wheel up the ice. I split two defenders and shoot—Weston barely gets a glove on it.
“Shit,” Weston grumbles as the puck clinks off the post.
“Close one, Matty,” I call.
“Eat shit, Rhodes,” Weston Matthews shoots back.
We run the last play of the scrimmage—Beck tries to put a puck past Weston, but I intercept, kicking it to my stick. I pass to JD, who buries it in the back of the net.
The guys roar.
I feel it in my chest. And we still have time to get better. Coach finally blows the whistle, signaling the end of practice.
“Better,” he calls. “Much better.”
A flicker of movement behind him catches my attention, then she’s there. Leaning casually against the bleachers like she hasn’t been standing there for at least five minutes. Like she wasn’t just watching.
Cropped black tank top, braid looped over her shoulder, toned stomach flexing slightly as she shifts her weight. My gaze catches for a second too long—long enough that she notices. And smirks.
Fuck.
A heavy arm slams around my shoulders, yanking me out of my trance. “Look at that,” Tyler drawls, grinning, “your girl came to watch your practice.”
“Yeah, yeah, Novy,” I mutter, eyes still locked on Monroe.
Tyler snorts. “If it makes you feel better—” he lowers his voice “—she definitely wasn’t being sneaky about watching you play. Very subtle.” He pushes off me and laughs as he skates away.
I fight back a grin as I skate back to my guys, throwing a wink in her direction just to watch her eyes roll.
Logically? I know she’s probably here to talk to Coach.
Very not logically? There is a caveman, animalistic part of me that is beating on his chest right now at the idea of her watching me practice.