14. Proximity
Chapter fourteen
Proximity
Luke
I ’m in a suite at Madison Square Garden. Watching Emma eat a pretzel.
I mean, I’m here for Grayson. To watch the Grizzlies play against Colorado four days before Christmas because we don’t have another game until January. I just so happen to be watching with Jeanette, Sienna, and Emma .
Close enough to Emma to notice how she eats a soft pretzel. It’s the same way she’s always done it. Tears off pieces clockwise from the top, outer crust first, saving the soft center for last. Focused like she’s defusing explosives or performing surgery.
I shouldn’t find it this attractive. A woman eating a pretzel. In a hockey arena. While her brother plays professional hockey fifty feet away.
But here I am. Fifteen days since the corridor at BC.
Fifteen days since I held her face in my hands and almost kissed her and made a silent promise that I’ve been simultaneously desperate to keep and terrified of keeping.
Fifteen days of practices and games and film sessions where we’re coach and player, not something that doesn’t have a name yet but is rapidly running out of reasons not to.
The team finished the first half of the season 15-2-3.
Best record in the conference. Best inaugural season in NCAA women’ s hockey history, according to a stat Addison found.
We beat Crescent Valley last night 3-1 in our final game before winter break.
Emma had a goal and two assists and played the kind of complete game that makes me want to call every scout in the country and say are you watching this?
Which, as it happens, I’ve already done. But she doesn’t know that yet.
“He’s favoring his left side again,” Emma says, eyes on the ice now, pretzel temporarily abandoned. “See how he’s cheating on that pivot? His hip’s bothering him.”
I swear the Cole siblings share a hockey IQ that borders on telepathic.
“He’s compensating well,” I offer. “Most people wouldn’t notice.”
“I’m not most people.”
No. She is decidedly not.
Jeanette leans over. “Is he hurt? Should I be worried?”
“He’s fine, Mom.” Emma tears another piece of pretzel. Clockwise. Outer crust. “Just being stubborn about stretching. I’ve told him a thousand times—”
“You’ve told your NHL brother how to take care of his body?” Sienna asks, amused.
“Someone has to. He still thinks ice baths are optional.”
“To be fair,” I say, “Gray once told me that sports science was ‘just vibes with a budget.’”
Emma snorts. Actually snorts. The sound is so unguarded, so different from the calculated provocations she deploys during practice, that something in my chest cracks open a little wider.
If that’s even possible.
On the ice, Grayson wins a faceoff clean, cycles the puck low, and fires a wrist shot that beats Colorado’s goalie. Jeanette’s on her feet immediately, screaming.
“THAT’S MY BOY!”
Emma and I exchange a look. A look that used to be simple. One that’s now layered with two weeks of something unresolved. A look I have to break because seeing Emma in the golden light of MSG with eyes full of joy is a form of self-harm I can’t afford in public.
I turn back to the ice. Watch Grayson celebrate with his linemates. Watch the replay on the jumbotron. Watch anything that isn’t the woman I keep wanting to grab and kiss and damn all the consequences.
Emma drops onto a couch of the family waiting area after the game like someone who hasn’t sat on something comfortable in twelve hours. Which, given that she played a game last night, took a final exam this morning and then drove an hour with her mom to get here, she’s probably exhausted.
“If I fall asleep, don’t wake me,” she announces to no one in particular. “Just cover me with a blanket and tell Grayson I’m dead.”
“Finals that bad?” Jeanette settles beside her, smoothing Emma’s hair in that automatic mother-gesture.
“Organic chemistry can bite me.”
“Emma.”
“Sorry. Organic chemistry can respectfully bite me.”
Sienna laughs, which is rarer than people think. “You’re the one who had to pick an impossible major.”
“Yeah, well, I also keep hoping I can finish next year with tutors while playing in the PWHL.”
“Is that what you want?” Sienna asks, glancing down at her phone and smiling. “Because I had lunch with Rebecca Okafor last week and she asked about you.”
Rebecca Okafor.
The owner of New York’s PWHL team.
“And?” Emma presses, voice suggesting she doesn’t want to jinx anything.
Sienna looks up from her phone, eyes warm. “She’s been watching your tape with their GM.”
“My tape?”
“Your highlight package.” Sienna’s gaze shifts to me, and there’s something like acknowledgment it.
“She’s probably not the only one. Someone has been sending your film to every scout with a functioning email address.
Very thorough packages, apparently. Game footage, practice clips, statistical breakdowns.
Rebecca said it was the most comprehensive scouting package she’s received from a first-year program. ”
The lounge suddenly feels much smaller.
Emma turns to me. Slowly. The way someone turns toward a sound they weren’t expecting. Careful. Alert. Recalibrating.
“You sent my film to PWHL scouts?”
“Not just PWHL. Olympic scouts, too.” I take a sip of water, buying two seconds of time. “It’s part of the job. Coaches advocate for their players.”
This is true. All of it is true. It’s also a masterful act of deflection, because what I’m not saying is that I spent approximately forty hours over the past four months compiling Emma’s package specifically.
That I included clips from BC games I had no professional reason to possess.
That I wrote a scouting report so detailed it could double as a love letter to her hockey IQ, her competitive fire, her ability to elevate every player on her line.
That I may have called Rebecca Okafor personally. Twice.
“Part of the job,” Emma repeats.
“It’s what any coach would do for players with your ceiling.”
“Any coach.”
“Emma.”
“No, you’re right. Very coach-like.”
“It’s dedication to the program.”
“Mmhm.”
The conversation is interrupted by Grayson’s arrival.
He hugs Jeanette first, lifts Emma off the couch despite her protests, claps my shoulder hard enough to realign vertebrae, and pulls Sienna into a kiss that makes his mother cover her eyes.
“Two points!” He drops onto the arm of Sienna’s chair, beaming. “Did you see that second assist? Backhand sauce through two defenders—”
“We saw,” Sienna says fondly, like she has this conversation daily. “We were there.”
“But did you see it from the good angle? Because the arena camera doesn’t do it justice—”
“Gray.” Emma’s smiling now. “It was a great pass. We’re very proud. Now can we talk about food? I’ve consumed a soft pretzel and caffeine in the last eight hours and I’m about to eat this throw pillow.”
Jeanette mentions something about an early shift tomorrow and I realize Grayson’s money still hasn’t fully convinced her to abandon her job the way he thought. Probably because Jeanette Cole’s work ethic is genetic and non-negotiable.
Then Sienna says she has a 7 AM call. Reminds Gray he needs to ice his hip tonight. And any thoughts about food and restaurants and an after-game celebration is put on hold with the promise of seeing each other on Christmas Eve.
Jeanette turns to me. “Luke, you wouldn’t mind giving Emma a ride home, would you? With Sunday night traffic, it would probably add an hour to my drive.”
Mind? Having Emma in my truck?
“Yeah, no problem,” I answer, because what else can I say? Tell Emma to take the subway? Call an Uber? When I’m heading to the exact same place.
“You sure?” Grayson presses. “She can stay with us tonight. We can take her back—”
“I’m five minutes from her, Gray. It’s not an issue.”
“Cool. Thanks, man.” He hugs me again. Holds it. “See you on Christmas Eve, then.”
“Of course.”
I watch the three of them (Grayson’s arm around Sienna, Jeanette beside them) disappear into the MSG corridor like a portrait of the family I’ve been borrowing for seven years.
Emma appears at my elbow.
“So,” she starts. “Shall we?”
Just the two of us in my truck. For at least an hour.
My control will absolutely not last that long.