2. Power Play
Chapter two
Power Play
Emma
Late September
“ W ider stance, Cole.”
I adjust my positioning on the ice, feeling Luke Anderson’s eyes track every micro-movement like I’m game film he’s reviewing frame by frame. Which, knowing Luke, he probably will later tonight while sitting alone in his depressingly organized office.
Shirtless, if the universe has any mercy.
“Wider,” he repeats, and there’s that edge in his voice—the one that’s been there since day one of preseason. The one that makes my stomach flip in ways that have absolutely nothing to do with proper weight distribution.
We’re three weeks into this sweet torture and it hasn’t gotten any easier.
I spread my legs another inch, biting down on my mouthguard to keep from saying something that’ll get me benched. Or kicked off the team given where my mind is living these days.
He skates closer, and I can smell that same sandalwood soap he’s used since college. “Your weight’s too far forward. ”
His voice is doing that careful coach thing where he’s trying to sound authoritative and detached.
It’s not working. I can hear the slight rasp underneath, the one that used to come through the phone late at night when he’d talk me through his bad days and I’d pretend I wasn’t falling for him with every word.
“My weight is exactly where it needs to be, Coach .“ I put just enough emphasis on the title to make it sound like a challenge. Like an invitation. “Unless you want to show me where it should be?”
This is our new dance. Luke finding tiny imperfections in my form, me pushing back just enough to make him engage, both of us pretending this is normal player-coach dynamics and not foreplay masquerading as instruction.
Not that Luke Anderson would ever actually admit he wants foreplay with me.
His jaw ticks. Again . We’re at seven today and it’s only been forty minutes.
“Emma.”
My actual name.
Since orientation, he’s defaulted to “Cole.” But sometimes it slips out. And when it does, it sounds like an accusation and a prayer wrapped into one. Like he’s reminding himself I’m off-limits and failing spectacularly.
“You’re going to blow out your knee if you keep loading your left side like that.”
“Then I guess you better fix it.”
The silence stretches. I count to five before I feel it—his hand, warm even through my practice jersey, settling on my hip. Professional. Appropriate. Absolutely not making my entire nervous system light up like the scoreboard after a hat trick.
“Here.” His other hand finds my opposite shoulder, and now he’s bracketing me, adjusting my position with the kind of careful precision that makes me want to do something monumentally reckless.
Like lean back into him. Like force him to confess he was full of shit when he told me to move on with my life last Christmas.
He shifts me back slightly, his thumb pressing against my hip bone. There’s a tremor in his touch. “Weight centered. Knees bent. You’re trying to compensate for power with positioning, but you’re leaving yourself vulnerable to checks.”
“I don’t get checked often.” It comes out breathy, suggestive, and his hands disappear so fast you’d think I’d electrocuted him.
“Yeah, well. That’ll change Thursday. Hightower’s defense is aggressive. ”
I turn to face him, making sure he gets the full effect—flushed cheeks from exertion, loose strands of hair escaping my braid, breathing just a little harder than necessary. His eyes are the same gray-blue I remember, but there’s something darker swimming in them now. Something hungry.
“I can handle aggressive, Coach.” I bite my bottom lip, just for a second. Just long enough for him to notice. “In fact, I kind of prefer it.”
His clipboard is going to snap in half.
His voice drops an octave and I feel it everywhere. “Good. I’m not going easy on you just because you’re—”
“Gray’s sister?” I finish, taking a small step closer that I absolutely shouldn’t.
He shakes his head. “No, Em. I was going to say because you’re skilled enough to make Olympic trials.”
Oh.
Oh.
That’s... not what I expected.
“Now, if you don’t mind,” he starts, already turning away. “Back to drills. And fix your stance. I won’t be there to adjust it during games.”
But you want to be , I think as I watch him skate toward where Sloane and our center, Jordan Hayes, are running breakaway drills. You want to put your hands on me every chance you get, and that’s the problem.
I glance down at his skates as he leaves, catching the way his left hand flexes at his side.
Yeah. He’s having just as hard of a time with this as I am.
Good.
“He absolutely wants to do unspeakable things to you,” Sloane Kowalski, my freshman housemate and newest BFF, announces twenty minutes later in the locker room.
Voice carrying in a way that makes me want to murder her.
“Like, unspeakable . Like, the kind of unspeakable that would get him fired and you expelled if anyone with a functioning brain cell was paying attention.”
“Jesus, Sloane, volume control,” I hiss, glancing around to make sure we’re alone. We are, but still…
Fuck. Why’d I tell her about our “history.”
She’s straddling the bench, pulling her dark hair into a ponytail with zero shame. “What? I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. The man looked like he wanted to bend you over the boards and—”
“And we’re done with this conversation.”
“—make you forget your own name,” she finishes, grinning like the absolute menace she is. At eighteen, she’s got the same confidence I had. Outwardly, anyway. “I’m just saying, the sexual tension out there was so thick I could’ve cut it with my skate blade.”
“There’s no sexual tension.”
“Emma. Babe.” She leans forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. “The man’s jaw was clenching so hard I thought he was going to crack a tooth. And that was just from a basic stance adjustment. Imagine what would happen if you actually tried.”
That’s the problem. I did try.
He said no.
And yet here we are. Me still trying .
It’s then that roommate number two, Sky Sweeney (senior swimmer and Chase Morgan’s girlfriend), appears in the doorway. Her blonde hair’s still damp from the pool.
“Are we talking about Coach Anderson’s extremely obvious thing for Emma again?” she asks, dropping onto the bench beside me. “Because Rowan and I have a running bet on how long it takes before he cracks.”
“You’re betting on my professional ruin?” I unlace my skates, trying to hide the wince as my left hip protests. Luke’s right about my stance. He’s always right, which is deeply annoying.
“We’re betting on true love,” Sky corrects, those blue eyes twinkling. “Rowan thinks he’ll make it to Christmas. I give him until Thanksgiving, tops. There’s something about holiday family gatherings that tends to make people lose their minds.”
“There’s no ‘true love.’ There’s a coach trying to do his job and a player trying not to get kicked off the team.”
“Uh-huh.” Sky exchanges a look with Sloane that makes me want to throw my skate at both of them. “Is that why you wore the practice jersey that’s just a little too tight?”
“This is my normal—”
“And braided your hair exactly the way he likes it?” Sloane adds .
“How would you even—”
“And ‘accidentally’ bent over to tie your skate right in his line of sight during warm-ups?”
Guess my trying is obvious then. To everyone except Luke.
Sky’s laughing now.
“You two are the worst,” I mutter, not quite able to suppress my smile.
“We’re the best and you know it,” Sloane corrects, standing and stretching. “Now come on. I need food, and you need to stop mentally undressing your coach long enough to help me figure out what to make for dinner.”
“I wasn’t mentally undressing—”
“Emma, you were one hundred percent picturing what’s under that Silver Pine polo.” Sky pats my shoulder as she stands. “No judgment. I’ve seen him without a shirt. Chase showed me photos from their college days. The man is—“
“Sky!”
“What? I’m just saying, your taste in men has finally improved. Drew was—”
“An asshole,” I finish. “I know. Trust me, I know.”
Drew Markham. My ex-boyfriend from BC. The reason I’m at Silver Pine, though I’d never admit it was because of a guy. Especially when I had the option not to come after finding out Thorton was out.
But I stayed. Definitely not for a guy.
Despite whatever’s happened between me and Luke, he’s brilliant when it comes to hockey. Always has been. Part of why I fell so hard for him in the first place.
So here I am.
Not trying (definitely trying) to seduce my coach.
“Does Coach know about Drew?” Sloane asks as we head toward the parking lot.
“Why would he need to know about Drew?”
“Because we play BC after Thanksgiving,” Sloane says quietly. “And Drew might be there. And if he’s as much of an ass as you’ve mentioned—”
“He won’t do anything.” But my stomach twists for reasons Sloane doesn’t entirely understand. No one does. “He wouldn’t.”
Sloane and Sky exchange another look.
“Men are stupid when they’re jealous,” Sloane says. “Especially hockey players. And from what you’ve told us, Drew definitely fits that category.”
I don’t respond, because she’s right. Drew knows more than I want him too. And if he thinks anything’s actually happening between me and Luke…
No. Not going there.
The hockey house is as chaotic as I remember from the few times I visited Grayson when he lived here.
Three years later, it’s decidedly more feminine (primarily because it’s now occupied by four women) and somehow even messier.
Sky and Rowan’s swim gear is hung in the corner to dry.
Sloane’s stick collection (she’s superstitious about trying new ones) lines the hallway like some kind of weapons cache.
But the smell…? That’s decidedly much less bro hockey gear than when we all moved in five weeks ago. Today, Rowan’s burning some lavender candle, sprawled on the couch with some business textbook that looks heavy enough to kill someone, when the three of us walk in.
“How was practice?” she asks without looking up.
“Educational,” Sloane answers, shooting me a look that makes me forget we’ve only known a little longer than a month. “Emma made Coach teach her all about proper positioning. Very, very slowly. Even got him to put his hand on her thigh today.”
“Sloane!”
“What?” She flops onto the couch beside Rowan. “I know what you’re doing. It’s genius, actually. Make him regret calling you a friend.”
That’s not…
Okay that’s exactly what I’m doing.
But the more people that know, the more dangerous it becomes. Because, for once, Luke actually has a good excuse.
I head toward the stairs, desperate to escape this conversation. “Can we please leave my lack of a love life out of conversation today?”
“She might’ve overheard me and Chase last weekend. Made her touchy,” Sky stage-whispers to the others.
I flip them off without turning around.
My room—Luke’s old room, because I’m apparently great at self-torture—is at the end of the hall. It’s directly across from the master where Sky is. So, no… she’s not wrong about what I get to overhear on the days Chase visits.
I drop my bag beside my door and fall onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The space still doesn’t feel entirely mine. Maybe because I keep imagining him here: studying at this desk, sleeping in this bed, staring out this window at the backyard. Doing other things I really, really shouldn’t be thinking about.
Things that involve significantly less clothing and significantly more of his hands on my—
My phone buzzes. Grayson’s name lights up the screen.
My brother. Luke’s best friend. The human embodiment of why this can never happen.
Not the player-coach thing, though that’s certainly a disaster waiting to happen. Not the age gap, though four years is really nothing. Not even the fact that Luke could theoretically control my entire athletic career.
It’s Grayson.
It’s always been Grayson.
Gray
Mom wants to know what time Thursday. Also, bringing Sienna. And possibly half my team. You ready for that?
Thursday. Our home opener. My entire family in the stands, watching me play for the team Grayson used to play for. Watching me play for Luke.
Tell Mom game starts at 7. And yes, bring whoever. The more people who see us win, the better
Gray
That’s my sister. Confident as always.
Luke says you’re looking great, by the way. Said the team’s really coming together.
I stare at that message for too long .
Luke talks about me to Grayson. Says I look “great.” Discusses how the team is “coming together.”
Meanwhile, we haven’t had a real conversation—an actual Luke-and-Emma conversation, not a coach-and-player exchange—since Christmas. Ten months of avoidance. Ten months of him pretending he doesn’t remember what I said. What I offered.
What he rejected.
He hasn’t even worked up the balls to ask me what happened with Drew.
For all he knows, we could still be dating.
I decide instead to send something that suggests I’m not dying slowly of sexual tension. All because Luke is apparently determined to win some kind of award for emotional self-sacrifice.
He’s a good coach
Gray
Yeah, he is. I’m glad you two are getting along. Was worried it might be weird, you know? With the history.
Totally fine
Good. See you Thursday, brat. Try not to embarrass me in front of my teammates when you score the game winner.
No promises
I toss my phone on the bed and close my eyes.
Four (maybe five if we make NCAA play-offs) more months of this season.
Months of Luke Anderson correcting my form and pretending he doesn’t want to do it in ways that have nothing to do with hockey.
Four more months of Grayson being oblivious while Sloane provides running commentary on my descent into madness.
Four more months of wanting something I can’t have.
From downstairs, I hear Sloane laugh at something, followed by Sky’s voice and Rowan’s lower response. My roommates. My friends. My witnesses to this beautiful disaster.
All while I try to prove I didn’t leave BC for nothing.