4. Off the Ice #2
“Don’t stay out too late,” Grayson tells me, nodding toward my phone lighting up with texts from Sloane. “But thanks for skipping the team party to hang with us old people.”
“You’re twenty-five, Gray. Hardly ancient.”
“And I usually go to bed at nine, now.” He hugs me, squeezing too tight. “Proud of you, brat.”
“I know. ”
Mom hugs me next, then pulls Luke into one of those embraces that last too long and mean too much. I watch his expression soften, watch him transform into the boy who needed this family more than they probably realized.
“You were wonderful tonight,” she tells him. “So proud of you, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, Jeanette.”
“None of that. You call me what you’ve always called me.”
A pause. Then, quieter: “Thanks, Mom.”
Sienna kisses my cheek, whispers, “You played beautifully.” Gives Luke a look I can’t quite interpret. A warning, maybe. Or permission.
Then they’re gone.
The door clicks shut.
Silence.
I should leave. Follow them out. Go find Sloane at whatever party. Maintain the lines we’re supposed to have.
Instead, I start gathering empty plates.
“You don’t have to do that,” Luke says from the entryway.
“I know.”
“Emma—”
“I’m helping clean up, Coach. Don’t argue with me.”
I head to the kitchen without waiting for a response. Behind me, I hear him sigh. A sound that contains both resignation and frustration.
A sound he makes a lot. Around me.
I smile when I hear his footsteps drawing closer.
The kitchen is tiny. Galley-style, barely enough room for two people. There’s a small window over the sink that probably has a decent view during the day, but right now just reflects the two of us back in dark glass.
I start loading the dishwasher. Luke appears with more dishes, and when he hands me a glass, our fingers graze.
He doesn’t pull away this time.
“Good game tonight,” he utters finally, setting plates on the counter.
“You already said that.” I rinse a fork. “At the rink. In front of two hundred people.”
“I meant it.”
“I know you did.” I glance at him. “You’re a terrible liar, Luke.”
His mouth quirks. Almost a smile. “Yeah, well. You make it hard to lie. ”
“Do I?” I turn to face him fully, leaning against the counter. Say the thing I’ve wanted to say for ten months. “Because you seemed pretty good at it last Christmas.”
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
“Em—”
“Let me guess, you’re going to remind me how we’re friends.” I cross my arms. “That it’s why you’re afraid to touch me. Why you act like I’ll bite if you get too close.”
He drags a hand through his hair, and I hate how good he looks doing it. “Emma, you know why.”
“Your jaw clenched eight times during dinner.” I take a step closer. “I counted. Want to know what caused each one?”
His back hits the counter. “Emma.”
“When I put my hand on your shoulder.” Another step. “When my leg touched you.” Another. “When I leaned forward to grab my beer.”
We’re inches apart now. Close enough that I can see his pulse hammering in his throat. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.
We’re doing this.
Finally.
Or at least I am.
“You notice everything I do,” I whisper. “Every. Single. Thing.”
His hands grip the counter edge behind him, knuckles white. “You’re my player. I’m supposed to notice.”
“Really? Do you notice when Sloane adjusts her ponytail? When Jordan retapes her stick?” I’m close enough now that if I leaned in just a few inches, I could press my lips to that pulse point. “Or is it just me, Coach?”
Comments I’ve wanted to say for weeks pouring out. Zero filter.
“Don’t.” Luke’s voice is strained. “Don’t call me that when we’re alone.”
“Why? Does it make you think about all the things you could tell me to do?” I tilt my head up, holding his gaze. “All the ways you could make me listen?”
He makes a sound low in his throat—half warning, half surrender. “You can’t say stuff like that.”
Maybe it’s the game. Maybe it’s being here. In his private space. Alone.
Whatever it is, it makes me bold. Relentless.
“I can. I’ve just avoided it. Until now.” I reach up, not quite touching him, my hand hovering near his jaw. “Tell me you don’t think about it, Luke. Tell me you don’t lie awake wondering what would’ve happened if you hadn’t pushed me away last Christmas.”
“Fuck.” He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, they’re different. Open. Honest. Blazing.
“You want the truth, Emma? Fine.” This time when he speaks his voice is firm. Assertive. Like a man uncaged. “I regret it every day. I think about what could have happened. What I should have said. What I should have done.”
Finally.
He finally admitted it.
“I think about kissing you,” he continues and my body liquifies. “Think about it constantly. Think about what you’d taste like. How you’d sound. Whether you’d pull me closer or push me away.”
“Luke—”
“I think about your fucking chapstick, Emma.” The confession sounds like it’s being ripped out of him. “About finding out what flavor it is by licking it off your goddamn lips.”
The air between us crackles. Electric. Dangerous.
For one heartbeat, I think he’s going to close the distance. Think he’s going to finally do what we both want.
He takes a deliberate step sideways, putting space between us.
Classic Luke .
“But I can’t,” he offers, tone pained. “Not then. Not now.”
Rejected.
Once again he chooses duty over desire.
But he won’t get the upper hand. Not now.
“Strawberry,” I murmur, mirroring his retreat.
“What?”
I grab my jacket from where I left it on the chair, letting the information settle between us like a loaded gun. “My chapstick. It’s strawberry flavored. Tastes amazing, too.”
I’m at the door when I hear him mutter, “Jesus Christ, Emma.”
I don’t look back.
But I’m smiling as I close the door behind me, because Luke Anderson just admitted he thinks about kissing me constantly.
And he can deal with knowing exactly what he’s missing.
I look down at my phone as I reach my car. Eight messages. All from Sloane.
Sloane
Where are you?? This party is insane
Just did a keg stand with Matthews from the men’s team
Wait are you still with Coach Anderson
EMMA
Did something happen
I’m gonna assume something happened
Or you’re dead
You better not be dead
Not dead. Ping me your location. I’m on my way.
DETAILS. I NEED DETAILS.
I glance back at Luke’s apartment. The lights are still on. I imagine him standing in that kitchen, gripping the counter, trying to convince himself he made the right choice.
He didn’t.
But he’ll eventually figure that out.
Afterall, we’ve still got four more months to go.