3. Home Ice
Chapter three
Home Ice
Luke
October
T he film plays in slow motion on my laptop screen: Emma Cole, number four in a Boston College jersey, receiving a pass at the blue line and burying it top shelf.
Their conference championship win last February. A game I saw live.
I’ve rewatched this specific goal thirty-three times since arriving at the rink two hours ago. For strategic purposes, obviously. Studying her release, her positioning, the way she reads plays.
Completely normal coach behavior.
The fact that I’ve also noticed the way her braid swings when she celebrates, how she glanced up to where I was sitting instead of where her boyfriend stood, how many times I’ve fantasized about wrapping that braid around my fist while—
“That’s some dedicated film study.”
I slam the laptop shut so fast I nearly catch my fingers. Addison Ryne leans against my doorframe, holding two coffee cups and wearing an expression that suggests she’s been there long enough to witness my insanity .
“BC’s offensive systems,” I explain, which is technically true if you ignore the part where I’ve been exclusively watching Emma’s shifts. “Hightower runs a similar defensive scheme.”
Seriously, Anderson. Why not just tell her the truth while you’re at it?
My assistant sets one of the coffees on my desk—black with two sugars, the way I’ve taken it since my playing days. “You know, most coaches review the whole team, not just their star forward.”
Shit. She noticed.
“Cole’s our best offensive weapon. Makes sense to—”
“Relax.” She settles into the chair across from my desk. “I’m not judging. She’s incredible. That backhand she’s developed? Lethal. And the way she reads defensive gaps?” Addison shakes her head, impressed. “Kid’s got a hockey IQ that most pros would kill for.”
“Yeah,” I agree, probably too quickly. “She’s special.”
“Special enough that you’ve been stress-reviewing her highlight reel for two hours?”
I take a long sip of coffee instead of answering. Addison’s too perceptive for her own good. Or mine.
Then, “I still don’t know why she left BC,” I finally admit. “Don’t understand it. She was on track to get scouted by the PWHL, maybe even get an invite to the Olympic camp next summer.”
“And you want her to?”
“She deserves the chance I never got, Ryne.” The raw truth.
Emma can be infuriating, a goddamn temptress. But she deserves the world. Deserves more than an inaugural team who will struggle to get noticed. Deserves better than me.
“So make it happen,” Addison says like it’s the most obvious thing. “You’re the coach. That’s what they hired you for. And something tells me you don’t fail often.”
She might not know me as well as I thought.
Addison gestures to where the rink sits beyond my office door. “Let the team’s play speak for itself, then worry about which scouts will answer your calls.”
I hate that she’s right. That I have no choice but to wait. Be the coach I’m not sure I can be. For Emma. For all of them.
“Thanks, Ryne.”
She bobs her head then stands to head for the door. “Oh, and Anderson? Blue looks good on you. ”
I glance down at my Silver Pine Wolves polo. Blue, black and silver. My alma mater colors.
“Saw the photos of you in the hallway,” she adds with a small grin. “Must be nice to come home.”
Home .
Is this home? Or the place my career officially ended? Is starting again…?
Instead of spiraling down that staircase, I go with, “I’m in one photo, Ryne.”
Only one.
Not the Frozen Four win my sophomore year because I’d been in the hospital when that was taken. Fresh from my hit that would eventually lead to two surgeries, a year of rehab, and a click when I bend my knee that will never go away.
No, our championship win my senior year. The year I wasn’t sure I’d play in. The one where Marner kept me on the line with Gray and Zane Morgan when we all knew it should have been Zane’s younger brother, Chase, on first line.
The three of them are all playing in the NHL now.
“Still…” Addison pauses, smiling. “You belong here, Anderson.”
Then she’s gone, leaving me alone with thoughts about home and belonging and fate and, because they’re all interconnected, my best friend’s sister.
The locker room smells like nervous energy and fresh tape when I walk in ten minutes before game time.
I’ve given maybe a dozen pre-game speeches in my life. Most of them were to high schoolers at summer clinics who were more interested in impressing college scouts than actually listening.
Today, twenty-three pairs of eyes are watching me. Waiting.
Emma’s are the only ones I’m actively avoiding.
“Alright.” I set my clipboard down, forcing confidence I don’t entirely feel. “Hightower’s going to come out aggressive. Their top line likes to pressure early, test your nerves. Don’t give them the satisfaction. ”
Becca Martinez, our senior captain, nods from her spot by the lockers.
“Cole.” I risk a glance at Emma. Mistake. She’s already focused, fierce, and completely devastating. “You’ll see number seventeen all night. She’s fast but undisciplined. Draw her out of position. Find Kowalski in the slot.”
“Sure thing, Coach.”
God, I hate how much I love hearing her call me that.
She smirks like she knows it.
Focus. You’re the coach. Act like it.
“Locke.” I turn to our freshman goalie, Emery, who looks about three seconds from throwing up. “They’re going to test you early. First shot, make it count. Sets the tone for everything else.”
She swallows hard. Nods.
I scan the room one more time. These women chose this program. Trusted a twenty-five-year-old coach with barely any experience. The weight of that responsibility sits heavy tonight.
The board’s watching. Calloway’s watching. Grayson’s watching. Five hundred students and maybe a thousand fans who paid actual money to see if I can do this.
Don’t fuck this up, Anderson.
“This is your house,” I tell them. “Your ice. Show them what Silver Pine hockey looks like.”
The team cheers. Sticks bang against the floor. Voices overlap in that pre-game chaos that never gets old, no matter how many times you hear it.
Hockey. My world. My element.
The only place that’s felt like home… Aside from the Cole residence.
Which is part of the problem.
I step out to give them space for their own rituals while my own heart hammers as if I’m the one about to take the ice.
Moments later, Becca’s voice carries through the door: “Silver Pine on three! One, two, three—”
“SILVER PINE!”
The roar shakes the hallway as they file out. Several players nod at me as they pass. Sloane winks because she has no fear. It’ll either make her a star or give me a heart attack. Probably both.
Emma is last out and there’s zero of her usual flirtatious boldness.
I can see the nerves she thinks she’s hiding. The tension in her shoulders. The way she’s gripping her stick just a little too tight .
I catch her elbow as she passes. Those dark eyes meet mine. Honest. Fierce. Vulnerable in a way she’d never show the team.
“Have fun out there, Em.”
Not Cole. Not even Emma. Just Em. The name I used during those late-night phone calls. The one that means I see you, I know you, I believe in you.
She nods, and I swear we have an entire conversation without saying a word.
I’m nervous.
I know.
What if I mess up?
You won’t.
We’ve got this?
We’ve got this.
Then she’s gone, following her team toward the ice. I’m left trying not to stare at her ass in hockey pants while simultaneously praying I don’t embarrass myself in the next two hours.
Great start, Coach.
The crowd is bigger than I expected.
Not NHL big, obviously. Not even close to what Grayson’s used to now. But the student section is packed, the band’s warming up, and I can see suits in the administrative box. Board members deciding whether their emergency hire was brilliant or catastrophic.
No pressure.
I’m scanning the stands when I spot them: front row, right behind our bench.
Jeanette Cole wearing Emma’s jersey. Grayson in his old Silver Pine hoodie, blue hair tie wrapped around his wrist. Sienna beside him, effortlessly put-together in a way that makes me notice the coffee stain on my clipboard.
Even Chase Morgan showed up to witness this.
Grayson catches my eye and grins, giving me a thumbs-up so genuine, so full of pride, that I feel like the worst person alive .
Because I’m standing here about to coach his sister while pretending I wasn’t thinking about her in the shower this morning.
I manage something resembling a smile and turn back to the bench.
“Anderson!”
Coach Marner’s making his way down from the stands. The man who recruited me, coached me, believed in me when I thought my career was over.
“Coach.” I accept his handshake, trying not to feel like I’m eighteen again.
“Good luck tonight.” He claps my shoulder. “You’ve got a solid group. Kowalski’s special. And Cole—” He grins. “Well, you know the Cole genetics. That family doesn’t do anything halfway.”
Don’t I know it.
“That power play adjustment you made at the exhibition game last weekend?” Marner continues. “When you had them overload the weak side? Brilliant. I’ve been coaching twenty years and didn’t see that lane developing. You did.”
The compliment takes me by surprise. “I just… It seemed like—”
“You’ve got good instincts, Luke. Trust them.” He heads toward his seat, leaving me trying to remember how to breathe.
Hightower comes out aggressive, just like I predicted. For the first shift, we’re hemmed in our own zone while their top line peppers shots at Emery, who’s decided tonight’s the night to prove she’s un-fucking-shakeable.
Thank God.
“First line!” I call.
Emma’s group hops over the boards.
Beside me, Addison’s already pulling up stats. “They’re winning seventy-three percent of faceoffs.”
“I can see that.” I watch Jordan line up in our defensive zone. “Hayes! Cheat left!”
She glances back, nods once. When the puck drops, she does exactly what I called. Wins it clean. Chips it to Sloane on the boards .