10. Chapter Ten #2
But it’s Holden’s voice that takes me by surprise.
“Watch and learn, boys.”
I fight the smile that threatens to break my composure.
Holden already knows I am no stranger to hockey, and the veterans here all learned the hard way.
The newer faces, however, have no idea what’s about to happen.
I almost envy them. There is something deeply satisfying about watching the moment confidence gives way to respect.
Adrenaline hums beneath my skin as they skate into position.
My gaze lands on Holden’s. He doesn’t look away. His grip tightens around his stick, shoulders squaring as his jaw sets. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, the hesitation I had watched moments ago replaced by something far more familiar.
Determination.
Good.
For the first time since I stepped onto the ice, he looks like the hockey player I remember. He isn’t going to go easy on me. Not with the other players watching. Not with Dominic standing only meters away. Not after everything that has happened between us.
This isn’t about me.
It’s about proving to everyone else that he still deserves the letter stitched across his chest. A small part of me is relieved.
The last thing I wanted was for him to treat me like glass.
At least he hasn’t forgotten that part. Because I have no intention of treating him any differently. At least not where hockey is concerned.
I lower myself into my stance, knees bent, my stick resting lightly against the ice as I hold my gap.
“Three-on-one,” I call. “You score on me, you earn the rest of practice off.”
I can hear the movement and murmurs of the players, letting me know they like that idea. Wrong answer.
I don’t want them to head out. I want them to stay here until their ankles bleed and until they know what the fuck they’re doing.
I’m aware of how hard I am being on them.
But there is no other way a woman like me will be taken seriously.
No other way that we’ll win. Especially after all the bullshit that’s set the team on their ass these past months.
“You don’t score…” I tilt my helmet to the side, giving a lazy shrug without ever taking my eyes off Holden’s “...you’re skating until I get bored.
” A beat passes. “And I hate to break it to you, gentlemen.” A smile ghosts across my lips.
“Hockey is my favorite pasttime, and boredom isn’t in my fucking vocabulary.
” I tighten my grip on my stick and watch as Holden does the same.
His shoulders roll back. He’s significantly taller than I am.
Larger in every way. He may be a Beta, but this man rises to the Alpha occasion in ways I wish I could forget.
As if he’s thinking of the same thing I am, he falters, his eyes growing darker as he stares back at me, but quickly shakes it off.
He pushes off first, taking the puck with him as the other two forwards explode down either wing. They spread the ice exactly as they should, trying to force me into committing to one side before slipping the puck across the slot.
At least someone remembers the fundamentals.
I don’t chase the puck. I watch Holden’s hips before darting up to his face. His eyes dart left. A fake. His top hand shifts lower onto the stick. He wants me to bite on the cross-ice pass, but I don’t. What sort of a rookie does he take me for?
Instead, I skate backwards, matching his speed while holding my gap. “Closer!” I bark at the two trailing forwards. “If that’s the fastest you can transition, you’re wasting oxygen!”
One of them curses under his breath before digging harder.
Holden reaches the blue line. He drops his shoulder.
I angle him toward the boards. His winger breaks for open ice.
Too early. Holden commits. I skate into the lane.
The crack of composite against composite echoes through the arena as I lift his stick cleanly, knocking the puck loose before he can complete the pass.
Gasps ripple across the rink. The puck slides behind me.
I pivot, one stride, two. I gather it into my blade before firing a crisp breakout pass straight onto the tape of the waiting winger at center ice. Perfect.
“Dead!”
Every player slows, and I look straight at Holden.
“You telegraphed that pass from the moment you crossed the red line, Woods.”
His brows pull together.
“I didn’t—”
“You did.”
I don’t raise my voice, because I don’t need to.
“You looked where you intended to pass before your teammate even created the lane.”
I skate closer, stopping just outside his reach.
“At this level, every defenseman will read your eyes.”
I tap the blade of his stick with mine. “The great ones read your feet. You’ve gotten lazy.”
His jaw flexes.
“If you don’t want to play for the NHL you can always play the way you’ve been playing. That might just do it.”
A ripple of uncomfortable laughter spreads through the team, but Holden doesn’t move.
“You rely on talent. But you of all people should know that talent isn’t enough. You gotta be good to stay good. And you’re only as good as the last game you played. And from where I’m standing, you’re playing like shit.”
My double meaning hangs in the air between us.
I don’t bother lowering my voice. I want the others to hear.
I want them all to know that if I’m willing to cut the star forward down to size, that they’re totally screwed if they don’t get their shit together.
I’ve been the nice coach. I’ve been the thoughtful and forgiving coach. But she died. And so did this team.
“Winning isn’t everything. But it’s a whole lot fucking better than losing.” I look around at the other players, some with their helmets off, their eyebrows raised. “And I don’t know about you but I hate to fucking lose.”
“Yes, Coach,” a few players answer in unison, finally getting with the program.
“Again!” I say, skating backwards into position, ready to play until we get this right. Every failed rush earns another repetition. Every lazy pass. Mistimed transition. Every player who dares coast instead of skate. Again.
The hours bleed together until every jersey is soaked through, breaths ragged, and the scrape of steel across the ice is heavier with exhaustion. Only then do I finally call it.
“Enough. We’re done for the day.”
No one celebrates it, or speaks. They simply coast toward the bench, utterly spent.
I peel away from the blue line, lazily weaving between the players.
The puck glides effortlessly across my blade as I carry it with me, rolling my wrists out of habit before flicking it into the boards.
The movement is almost absentminded. Comfortable. Home.
I complete another slow lap around the zone before skating toward the bench myself.
That’s when I feel it. The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
I lift my head. High above the rink, standing behind the glass overlooking the arena, Sasha Volkov doesn’t move. His broad frame is rigid. Hands are planted against the railing so tightly I wouldn't be surprised if the metal buckled beneath them.
He’s been watching.
His eyes never leave me. Or more specifically, the jersey stretched across my shoulders.
Recognition washes over his face in an instant.
His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes…
his blue gaze darkens, and I don’t miss the way his jaw locks so tightly I can see the muscle feather beneath his skin even more.
Something fractures behind those eyes. Not anger. Or jealousy.
Grief. Raw and tortured.
Because he recognizes it. The number stitched across my back. His number. The position I filled and played without a second thought.
His throat works around a swallow, and I hold his gaze as I reach the bench as though wearing his number means absolutely nothing. As though I hadn’t just reminded him just how replaceable he really is. This team wasn’t built around one player.
Not even its captain.
Behind me, I hear the scrape of metal.
I don’t need to look back to know he’s stepped away from the glass.
He can watch. He can ache and wonder if I wore his jersey to get a reaction out of him. He’ll never know. I’m a little poetic like that.
That’s the difference between who I used to be and who I am now. Sasha feeds on the fight. The challenge. The chase.
He won’t get one from me.
He doesn’t get anything from me.
If he’s searching for her, he’s standing over a grave.
And I hope what he did haunts him. I hope that me being here haunts him for the rest of his miserable fucking life.