3. Home Ice #2
Suddenly we’re breaking out instead of defending.
Sloane skates like she’s been shot out of a cannon. Emma trails, reading the play.
The pass comes. Emma one-times it.
Top shelf. Far side. Goalie never had a chance.
The lamp lights up. The horn sounds. The crowd loses their minds.
Emma turns toward the bench and finds me, and the smile on her face is so purely, genuinely happy that I forget for half a second that two thousand people are watching me watch her.
At least until Grayson shouts, “THAT’S MY SISTER!”
His sister. My player. Number four.
Who just scored the first goal in Silver Pine women’s hockey history.
I let myself smile (coach-proud, nothing more) and try to ignore how hard my heart’s pounding.
We win 2-1.
It’s messy and raw, but it’s a win.
1-0record.
The team looked like they at least vaguely knew each other, which is progress.
I’m standing by the bench realizing I didn’t completely fuck the game up when Grayson and Jeanette come into view. To see… me .
“Lucas Anderson!”
Jeanette pulls me into a hug that smells like vanilla and home and every Sunday dinner I’ve missed.
“That was incredible,” she says, pulling back with actual tears in her eyes. “You were incredible.”
“The team—”
“Don’t.” She squeezes my shoulders. “They’re a new team. You’re bringing them together. You, Luke.”
Grayson pulls me into another hug, this one with more back-slapping. “That timeout in the second? When you drew up that play? Genius, man. Pure genius.”
“It was basic weak-side overload—”
“It worked perfectly,” he interrupts. “She scored thirty seconds later.”
Sienna’s appeared now, also smiling. “Really impressive, Coach Anderson.”
“Thanks. Team executed well. ”
“They did.” Sienna’s perceptive eyes flick past me, and I don’t have to turn to know Emma’s there. Can feel it. Sense the way the air shifts when she’s close. “You should be proud.”
I should be. Right now I’m mostly aware that Emma’s close enough that I can smell ice and sweat and that damn seaside shampoo, and I’m picturing what she’d look like lathering it in her hair.
Christ.
“Coach.”
I turn. She’s still in full gear, helmet off, loose hair from her braid now plastered to her forehead, smiling in a way that makes everything in my body go tight. Everything.
“Cole.” My voice definitely cracks. “Good game.”
“Good coaching,” she counters, and there’s challenge in that too.
Grayson wraps an arm around his sister’s shoulders. “First goal in program history! That’s going in the record books, Em.”
“Sloane set it up perfectly.” Emma’s still looking at me, not at her brother. “We’ve been running it all week.”
We. Like it’s something we built together. Like those hours of practice aren’t just me trying to maintain space while she systematically destroys every boundary I attempt to establish.
“You executed it,” I respond, then realize I need to look somewhere that isn’t Emma’s face.
Grayson saves me by pulling the blue hair tie from his wrist. “Blue’s always been a better color on you, Em.”
Blue. Because she’s wearing blue now, too.
Emma’s cheeks go pink as she wraps the blue scrunchy around the bottom of her braid. Their tradition since before I came into the picture. In high school it had been blue for home, white for away. The last two years, the blue was replaced by maroon.
“Like coming home,” I echo Addison's words. Out loud. On accident .
Both Grayson and Emma look at me. Then Gray grins, punching my bicep. “Couldn’t have said it better, man.”
Jeanette clears her throat. “First game, first win. All my kids together. This calls for a celebration.”
All her kids .
“Luke, you’re coming,” Jeanette continues, linking her arm through mine. “You just coached your first win. You’re not disappearing into some office to overanalyze film for six hours.”
How does she know ?
That was exactly my plan.
“Mom’s right,” Emma begins, voice edged with amusement like she knows I was planning to bail. “You earned this, Coach.”
“Giuseppe’s?” Grayson suggests. “Like old times?”
“Too crowded,” Sienna points out. “Half the student body’s heading there.”
“Our place then?” Grayson pauses. “Actually, Luke, you’re closer. You mind hosting? We’ll grab food and drinks on the way.”
Every head swivels toward me.
My place. Emma Cole. In my apartment. This is the worst idea in the history of bad ideas.
“It’s really small,” I hedge. “And I haven’t—”
“We know it’s clean,” Grayson says, already deciding. “Don’t need big or fancy. Just somewhere to toast Emma’s first goal. Your first win.”
Emma’s watching me, and I can’t quite read her expression. Entertainment? Sympathy? Something else?
“Yeah. Of course,” I hear myself say, because what else can I do? Tell Jeanette no? Disappoint Grayson? Admit the real reason I don’t want Emma in my apartment is because having her in my personal space feels dangerous in ways I can’t articulate?
“Great!” Jeanette beams. “We’ll wait for Emma then be on our way.”
As they all scatter to talk with Coach Marner, Emma lingers.
“You good with this?” she asks, quiet enough that no one else can hear.
I adjust my clipboard, which I’m still holding for some reason. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“Because you’re starting to sweat.”
“We just finished a game.”
“You weren’t sweating after the game.”
“It’s warm in here.” Such a fucking lie.
She grins. Knows she caught me. “We’re on ice, Coach.”
“Emma—”
“It’s okay.” Her voice softens. “If you really don’t want me there, just say so. I’ll make an excuse.”
But that’s not it. Not really. Because the truth is, some stupid part of me wants her there. Wants her in my space in ways I shouldn’t.
“No, come.” I search for words that won’t reveal too much. “We’re literally celebrating you.”
Her smirk hits me in the gut. “Okay, then. Twenty minutes. Try not to spiral too hard. ”
She walks away, and I’m left standing there trying to figure out how I went from coaching my first win to agreeing to host the Cole family in my personal space in the span of ten minutes.
I pull out my phone, already composing a mental inventory of everything in my apartment that might be embarrassing or revealing or otherwise problematic…and come up empty. My OCD about order wouldn’t allow it. There’s nothing out of place. Nothing that screams I’m obsessed with my left winger .
Except maybe that photo from Grayson and Sienna’s engagement party. The four of us. Two years ago.
But that’s not weird, right?
Right?
Guess I’m about to find out.