19. Alterations
Chapter nineteen
Alterations
Luke
Two Weeks Later, January
T he tailor’s measuring tape feels like a noose around my neck.
“Arms out, please,” the guy (I’m pretty sure he said his name was Gerald) tells me. I comply because that’s what you do when you’re standing in a tuxedo shop getting fitted to be someone’s best man.
Someone who’s your best friend.
And brother to the person you’re actively sleeping with. Have been since she showed up at your front door with champagne in her hand and determination in her eyes.
“Looking good, man.” Grayson’s already in his tux, examining himself in the three-way mirror with the satisfaction of a man about to marry the love of his life. “Sienna’s going to lose her mind when she sees us all cleaned up.”
“Yeah,” I scrape out. “It’s a good fit.”
Meanwhile my three-way mirror shows me from three angles.
Front: Luke Anderson, twenty-five, reasonably put together, wearing the expression of a man who is fine.
Left: same man, slightly different angle, jaw set in a way that suggests he is perhaps less fine than advertised.
Right: same man again, and from this angle, if you knew what to look for, you might notice the fading mark just below his collar line where Emma bit him two nights ago during a particularly athletic encounter on his kitchen counter that started when she hopped up to steal his coffee and ended with her legs around his waist and his dick inside her.
Three months. That’s all that separates this moment from me standing next to him at the altar, lying through my teeth about honor and loyalty while Emma watches from the bridesmaids’ side.
I adjust my collar. Subtly.
Two weeks. That’s how long we’ve been secretly hooking up, though I’d never call anything with Emma just hooking up. No. Somehow, improbably, two weeks has been enough to build something that feels permanent.
Or maybe me and Emma were always meant to be permanent. It just took longer for me to catch up.
“So.” Grayson steps off his platform. Adjusts his cuffs in the mirror. “Season update. You’re 19-2-3 and first in the conference. That’s insane.”
“The team’s been solid.”
“The team’s been dominant.” He drops onto the leather bench near the window, stretching out like he owns the building. He might, actually. With his contract, he could probably buy the whole block. “Emma’s having the season of her life. Her numbers are… I mean, I look at her stats and I’m jealous.”
“She’s on another level this semester.” True. Since coming back from break, Emma’s playing with a freedom I haven’t seen before. The overthinking is gone. The compensating stance is mostly corrected. She’s skating like someone who finally believes she belongs at the top.
I know why.
She's playing like she doesn't have anything to prove. To fans. To herself. To me . And that certainty has unlocked something coaching alone never could.
Which makes me simultaneously the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to her career.
“And Kowalski?” Grayson continues. “That kid’s unreal. She plays like she’s got a rocket strapped to her back.”
“Sloane’s special.” Also true. My freshman phenom has evolved from raw talent into something more refined.
Her skating is still full-throttle chaos, but the decision-making underneath has matured.
She’s reading plays instead of just reacting to them.
“She’s got the highest ceiling of anyone I’ve coached. ”
“Higher than Emma?”
“Different,” I explain. “Emma’s more complete. Better hockey IQ, better leadership, more consistent. But Sloane’s top speed and raw ability? In terms of pure physical talent, she might be the best I’ve seen.”
“Damn.” Grayson shakes his head. “You’re building something special out there.”
“We’ll see.”
“No, Luke. I mean it.” He catches my eye in the mirror. “What you’ve done with that program in one season? It’s remarkable. I’m proud of you, man.”
The guilt now has a heartbeat. And teeth. Especially when Grayson Cole looks at me with uncomplicated pride and says he’s proud of me. Those teeth sink deep.
“Thanks, Gray.”
Gerald returns. More measuring. I stand on the platform and let him pin fabric along my shoulders while Grayson scrolls through his phone, probably texting Sienna about seating arrangements or cake flavors or whatever logistical element of an April wedding requires attention in January.
“Can I ask you something?” Grayson says, not looking up from his phone.
“Shoot.”
“You seem... different lately.”
My pulse does something medically inadvisable. “Different how?”
“I don’t know. Lighter, maybe?” He pockets his phone. Looks at me. “Less of the doom-and-gloom, weight-of-the-world thing you’ve had going since the injury. You’re actually smiling now. At things that aren’t hockey.”
“I smile.”
“You smirk. You do that dry, self-deprecating half-grin that makes women think you’re brooding and mysterious. But lately you’ve been actually smiling. Like, with your whole face. It’s kind of unsettling.”
“I wasn’t aware my facial expressions were being monitored.”
“They’re not. It’s just noticeable when your best friend goes from functioning at, like, a sixty percent happiness baseline to suddenly operating at ninety.” He stretches his legs out. “So what’s her name? ”
I stop breathing at the exact moment Gerald tells me to “hold still” while adding a pin near my shoulder.
I don’t move. Externally.
Internally, I’m running calculations at a speed that would impress MIT. What does he know? What has he seen? Did someone say something? Did Emma slip? Did Sienna—
No. Stop . He’s fishing. This is Grayson being Grayson.
“There’s no ‘her,’” I manage, and the lie tastes like garbage.
“Bullshit.” He’s a golden retriever who’s found the tennis ball.
“Luke, I’ve known you for seven years. I’ve seen you in every emotional state from ‘my knee is destroyed and my life is over’ to ‘Emma scored the first goal in program history and I might actually cry.’ You are currently exhibiting all the signs of a man who is getting laid regularly. ”
“That’s—I’m not—”
“The smiling. The general aura of reduced tension. The fact that you just involuntarily touched your neck, which you do when you’re self-conscious.” He ticks these off on his fingers like he’s presenting evidence. “Also, you’re humming.”
“I’m not humming.”
“You were humming when you were changing. Some song I didn’t recognize. Luke Anderson does not hum.”
I was humming? Christ . Was it the song Emma played in my kitchen the other day when she made breakfast wearing nothing but my boxers and a sports bra?
The one she insists is “perfect morning music” that I pretended to hate while secretly adding it to the playlist I’ve titled “Em” on my phone like an absolute lovesick teenager?
Probably. Kill me .
“It’s been—” I reach for something true enough to survive scrutiny. “A good stretch. The team’s winning. The job’s going well. I feel settled here. That’s all.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
He leans forward, elbows on knees, features less teasing and more genuine. Warmer. “Whatever it is, you deserve it. Deserve someone. It’s been—what, two years since you’ve actually dated anyone? That girl from the MBA program?”
“Vanessa. And it was eighteen months ago.”
“Right. Vanessa. Who you took on three dates and then ghosted because you ‘didn’t feel a connection.’ ”
He’s not wrong about what he thinks. He’s wrong about the reason.
The reason was sitting in a dorm room at Boston College, sending me texts about her game, while I took another woman to dinner and couldn’t stop comparing everything she said to the voice I actually wanted to hear.
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
Tell him. Right now. Tell him that you love Emma. That she loves you back so absolutely that she put your number on her body before you’d fully figured out what she meant to you. Tell him and accept whatever comes next.
My phone rings.
Connecticut area code. Says: Might be USA Hockey.
And any other thought other than holy shit evaporates.
“It’s…”
I don’t even get the words out when Grayson offers, “Take it.”
I step toward the window alcove, turning slightly away.
“Luke Anderson.”
“Coach Anderson, this is Jennifer Walsh, VP for the U.S. Olympic Hockey Organization. I’m handling the scouting for this summer’s development camp. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Just me almost telling my best friend that I’m in love with his sister. Hopefully the hockey player you’re calling about.
“Not at all, Ms. Walsh. What can I do for you?”
Grayson’s watching me now, curious but not concerned.
“I’ll be direct, Coach. We’ve been reviewing material on your program over the last several weeks, and I owe you an apology.
Frankly, Silver Pine’s inaugural season should have been on our radar sooner.
The scouting packages you provided were exceptionally thorough, and the game tape has confirmed what your data suggested. ”
“I appreciate that,” I tell her, praying this is heading the direction I think it is. “The players have worked incredibly hard.”
“I can see that.” A pause—the organized kind, the kind that precedes a prepared statement. “We have two players we’d like to spend more time with. Emma Cole and Sloane Kowalski.”
Fuck, yes.
Someone noticed everything I’ve seen.
“Both are exceptional,” I say, because even now, even with my pulse thundering, the coach in me knows to advocate. “Cole’s the most complete forward in the conference. Hockey IQ, leadership, clutch production. And Kowalski’s raw ability is—”
“We’ve seen the numbers. And the film.” Jennifer’s voice warms slightly.
“Which is why I’m calling. Our calendars were already booked, but we were able to squeeze in a trip for your final game against Oakmont on February seventh.
Evaluate both players in a live setting.
And afterward, if what we see matches what your material suggests, we’d like to learn more about them.
Ensure they have the qualities to represent our country. ”
Qualities that don’t include scandals like sleeping with your coach.
I swallow that thought down. We’ve been careful. Extremely careful.
“If that goes well?” I prompt, needing the complete picture.
“Then they’d be invited to the Summer development camp in Lake Placid this June.”
Summer development camp. The pipeline to the Olympic team. The dream Emma admitted she was terrified to chase, sitting in my truck on a dark highway, saying I want to see how good I actually am when I stop being afraid of finding out.
We spend another five minutes discussing logistics. And when we finally end the call, I lower the phone, stare at it like I can’t believe what I just heard.
“Dude.” Grayson’s voice from behind me. Closer than expected. “Was that…? Did I hear that right?”
“Team USA,” I confirm.
His expression is the one I’ve seen exactly twice before: the night he got drafted to the NHL, and the day Sienna said yes.
Pure, uncomplicated, radiant joy.
“They want to evaluate Em. And Sloane. At our final game in February.”
“THE OLYMPICS, LUKE.” He grabs my shoulders and shakes me, which Gerald protests loudly given the pins currently in my suit jacket. “My sister might make the Olympic team. And you—” His grip tightens. “Sienna told me you sent them her tape. You made this happen.”
“The players made it happen. I just—”
“No.” His eyes are shining, and six-three, two-twenty, NHL center, Grayson Cole, looks like he might cry in a tailor shop on a Tuesday afternoon.
“This is you, Luke. This is what you do. You see what people are capable of. Help them achieve it. You did it for me in college. And now you’re doing it for Emma. ”
Each word is a nail in the coffin of the confession I was about to make.
Three weeks until the Olympic scouts come.
Three weeks until our regular season ends.
If anyone finds out about us before then? If the information travels? If someone connects the dots and every goal Emma’s scored gets filtered through “she was sleeping with her coach”…
I can’t tell Grayson. Not now. Not before the most important game of Emma’s career, maybe her life. Not when the dream she whispered to me in the dark is finally, impossibly, within reach.
The realization settles into my chest with the specific gravity of a decision I know I’ll regret but can’t see an alternative to. Another lie. Another layer. Another day of looking my best friend in the face and choosing Emma’s future over his trust.
Compartmentalization.
“She’s going to be excited,” is what I go with instead.
Grayson hugs me. Right there in the tailor shop, pins and all, with Gerald sighing audibly.
He hugs me and I hug him back. The embrace contains everything he thinks it does: friendship, gratitude, the bond between two men who’ve been brothers since freshman year, and everything he doesn’t know it does.
Guilt. Love. The terrible, corrosive math of protecting one person I love at the cost of lying to another.
“Thank you,” he mumbles into my shoulder. Rough. Emotional. “For taking care of her.”
The words hit like a crosscheck to the sternum. Because taking care of Emma is exactly what I’m doing. And it’s also exactly what I need forgiveness for.
“Always,” I say back.
Same word I’ve been using for months.
It just means that much more now.