5. Bad Bounce
Chapter five
Bad Bounce
Luke
E mma Cole walked out of my apartment five days ago, said “strawberry” like a weapon, and I haven’t had a coherent thought since.
And just like every other day this week (including when we actually won against Westbrook by a fucking miracle on Sunday), Emma pauses at center ice and pulls that goddamn tube from her jersey pocket like she’s not about to give me another heart attack.
It could be worse, Anderson. You could have actually kissed her like you wanted to. Like you might have if she hadn’t chosen to leave when she did.
The cap twists off. She brings it to her mouth, runs it across the bottom lip first. It’s the same motion I’ve watched her do a hundred times and never let myself really think about.
Until last week.
Control.
Keep control.
It’s not just your career that’s on the line. It’s hers, too.
Because Emma has a shot at the PWHL, at the Olympics if she wants it. If I don’t fuck it up by being selfish.
Emma catches my eye as she caps the tube. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t acknowledge it.
But I see the slight quirk at the corner of her mouth. The satisfaction .
Message received: I know what you said. I know what you want. And I’m not making this easy for you.
As if she ever has.
“You’re doing it again,” Addison says from beside me on the bench.
“Doing what?”
“Staring at Cole like she’s a problem you can solve with enough film study.”
“I wasn’t—”
“I know you’re best friends with her brother, so I’m going to let it go. But you totally were.” She taps her tablet. “Also, I wanted to flag something. Watch the Pine Ridge group during the breakout drill.”
Grateful for any distraction that isn’t Emma’s mouth, I focus on the ice.
See what she’s referencing. A disconnect I should have caught sooner.
When I call the breakout formation we’ve been drilling since early September, Becca and Katya default to Thornton’s old system.
Not deliberately. It’s muscle memory. Two years of ingrained patterns don’t disappear because the name on the door changed.
The problem is that Jordan and Sloane are running my system, and the two don’t mesh. The result is a breakout that looks like two different teams sharing ice time.
No wonder we’ve barely won our first two games.
“How long has this been happening?” I ask.
“Since day one, honestly. Didn’t matter last weekend because Cole and Kowalski were dominant enough to cover it. But Ridgemont’s going to punish those gaps.”
She’s right. And I missed it because I was too busy tracking chapstick applications and text photos. Like the one she’d sent Monday night: Heading to dinner with some friends. Hoping they don't think my lips are as edible as you do.
It came with an image of Emma post-shower. Hair down. Make-up on.
Lips puckered, glossy and pink.
Strawberry.
One game.
I’d made it one game before telling her that I wanted to kiss her.
Not just kiss.
I told her I wanted to lick her.
And my reward? A fucking photo tease .
Get your head in the game, Anderson. These women are trusting you with their season.
I blow the whistle. “Bring it in!”
Twenty-three players circle up. Emma drifts to the back, still not looking at me, which somehow feels louder than when she stares.
“We’re running the breakout again. Full speed.
And this time—” I look directly at Becca, who meets my eyes with the steady calm of a captain who knows what’s coming.
“Everyone runs the same system. Mine. Not Thornton’s.
Not whatever you ran at Pine Ridge. The one we’ve been installing since September. ”
Silence.
Katya glances at Becca. Becca gives the smallest nod.
“If it’s not working,” Becca says carefully, “we should talk about why.”
It’s not a challenge. It’s an invitation, and a smart one. I respect the hell out of it.
“Fair. After practice. But right now, I need everyone on the same page. We can’t play two systems and expect to keep winning games.”
They break. The next forty minutes are rough. It’s that kind of practice where you’re building something and it looks worse before it looks better. Becca and Katya struggle with the timing. Jordan over-compensates. Sloane, who has exactly one speed (full throttle), nearly collides with Katya twice.
Emma, to her credit, is locked in. Reading the shifts, adjusting, filling gaps the way she does when her hockey brain takes over and the flirtation drops away. It’s the version of her that makes me believe she could play at the highest level in the world.
It’s also the version that makes me fall harder, which is a problem I’ll address never.
By the end of practice, we’re marginally better. Marginally isn’t good enough for Friday night. Away .
Ridgemont exposes us in the first period .
Their defense reads our breakout like they have the playbook. Every time Becca hesitates—caught between Thornton’s instinct and my design—they jump the lane and turn it into a rush the other way.
Emery stops the first three. Doesn’t stop the fourth.
1-0 Ridgemont, and the arena erupts in cheers. For them .
“Stick to the system!” I call during a timeout, drawing up an adjustment on the whiteboard that I’m sixty percent sure will work. “The hesitation is killing us. Commit to the play. Trust each other.”
Becca nods. Katya nods. But there’s uncertainty between them. They trusted Thornton for two years, and now they’re being asked to trust a twenty-five-year-old who’s been coaching for three months.
Earn it, Anderson. You can’t demand trust. You have to earn it.
Second period, we’re better. The breakout starts clicking. It’s not perfect, but enough. Emma draws a penalty with a drive to the net that’s pure aggression, and our power play converts when Sloane buries a one-timer from the right circle.
1-1. The crowd falls silent. The good kind when you’re in enemies’ territory.
Then everything falls apart.
Emma takes a hit along the boards—clean, legal, but hard enough that I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved. She goes down, gets up slowly, and when she skates to the bench, I can see her favoring her left side. The same hip she’s been compensating for in practice.
“You okay?” I ask, and it comes out too personal.
She doesn’t look at me. “I’m fine. Put me back in.”
I should sit her. The smart coaching move is to rest her, check the hip, protect the asset.
“Next shift,” I say instead, because she’s Emma Cole and I know what it would cost her to be pulled out of a game she’s fighting to win.
She goes back out. Plays hard. But she’s half a step slow, and Ridgemont’s defense isn’t forgiving. A bad turnover in our zone leads to a two-on-one. Then another goal. Then another.
3-1, and that’s how it ends.
The locker room is quiet after. The Pine Ridge players cluster near their stalls. Sloane sits alone, replaying every shift in her head the way perfectionists do. Jordan stares at the ceiling.
I should give a speech. Say something that brings them together.
“Next game is Sunday,” is all I manage. “Get some rest tomorrow. ”
It’s not enough. I know it’s not enough.
But I don’t have the words yet, because I’m still trying to separate what went wrong with the team from what went wrong with me—the part that moved too fast when Emma went down, the part that played her when I shouldn’t have, the part that keeps making decisions with his gut instead of his clipboard.
Addison finds me on the bus twenty minutes later.
“The Pine Ridge thing isn’t resistance,” she says, settling into the seat across from me. “It’s grief. They lost their program, their school, their coach—messy as that was. You’re asking them to trust a new system when the last one got ripped away.”
“So what do I do?”
“Give them a reason to believe this one’s worth trusting.” She pauses. “And maybe stop trying to be perfect. They don’t need perfect. They need authentic.”
Authentic.
What did I find authentic when I was playing for Marner?
Team bonding.
Not just the parties. Not just the celebrations. Doing something for others. Coming together for a greater good beyond just the team.
And maybe, just maybe, it could work.
Addison tosses in ear buds. I sit alone, replaying the game on my laptop, thinking about ways to create something bigger these women can be a part of.
Glance back at Emma who, for once, isn’t looking at me. Isn’t even smiling. Hasn’t texted.
Not even about the chapstick.
That worries me more than the loss.