21. The Grind
Chapter twenty-one
The Grind
Luke
E mma Cole is the best actress I’ve ever seen.
Not because she’s convincing. She’s not, actually. She’s a terrible liar about most things. Can’t hide frustration, can’t fake enthusiasm, can’t pretend a bad call was fair or a weak practice was acceptable. Her face is a billboard. Her emotions operate at volume eleven.
But this? Us? The performance of not us ?
She’s disturbingly good at that.
“Close the door,” I tell Sloane and Emma the morning after the phone call. My office. 9 AM. Addison and Calloway are present, making the space between my desk and the two chairs across from it, extremely terrifying.
Emma sits with her legs crossed, notebook open, pen poised.
The picture of a player receiving information for the first time.
Zero tells. Zero giveaways. The same woman who showed up at my apartment less than twelve hours ago and kissed me against a wall with enough force to leave a mark I’m currently hiding under my collar, is now sitting in front of me looking mildly curious, attentive, and completely unaffected.
It’s Oscar-worthy. I’m proud as hell.
“I received a phone call yesterday,” I begin. “From the U.S. Olympic Women’s Hockey Committee. ”
Sloane achieves complete stillness. I didn’t know her body was capable of it.
Emma’s eyes widen. Just the right amount.
I tell them both about the opportunity. About the scouts and the visit and the potential interview. Calloway fills in the additional details about a potential gap year, or online classes they’d have access to if ( when ) they make the team.
Sloane stops being shocked about two minutes in, pulling Emma into a hug. Tells her (with a confidence that defines Sloane Kowalski) that they’re going to the Olympics. Together.
When Calloway and Addison eventually leave, Sloane faces me.
“What do we need to do? How do we make sure it goes well?”
I love her for cutting through the magnitude to the actionable.
“Addison’s building custom plans,” I tell her.
“We’re going to build the team while harnessing your individual strengths the same way we’ve done all season, only at a much higher level.
We’ll add some additional film sessions for the two of you, as well as a second practice that focuses on position-specific development. ”
“So more ice time?”
“More purposeful ice time.”
Sloane grabs Emma’s arm. “We’re going to be Olympians, Em.”
They are.
Over Sloane’s shoulder, Emma’s eyes find mine. Stay there too long for an office with an open door and a freshman between us.
I look down at my clipboard. Tap my pen three times.
“We’ve got nineteen days. 6 AM sessions start tomorrow. I suggest you both get some sleep tonight.”
Sloane’s face falls. “Six AM? That’s barely human.”
“You want to make the Olympic team or sleep in?”
“Both feels like the correct answer.”
“It’s not.”
“Fine. 6 AM.”
Sloane levitates out of my office, pulling out her phone to text what I assume is every person she’s ever met. Emma lingers.
“Looking forward to working even closer together, Coach.”
Me too baby, me too.
Even if it means forcing composure I can barely hold together anymore.
Three weeks. I can make it three more weeks. I have to. For her.
Day 3. 6:12 AM. Practice rink.
Sloane is late.
Sloane Kowalski has never been early for a 6 AM session in her life and isn’t about to start now just because the Olympic committee is watching. I’ve accepted this about her the way you accept gravity or taxes or the fact that Emma will never fix her stance without being physically adjusted.
Which brings me to my current situation.
Emma’s running breakout drills solo, and her weight distribution is wrong. Same problem from September. Same left-side compensation that she’s probably doing just to mess with my head.
“Cole.” I skate over. All business. Or at least, attempting it. “Your weight’s drifting left again. Which it didn’t seem to do at the game last night.”
“Oh, really?”
I stop beside her. The rink is empty except for us. Given the time, the place is still mostly dark creating that blue-white glow again. The one that makes Emma look like she belongs in a painting I’d stare at until museum security escorted me out. “We playing this game again, babe?”
She lifts a shoulder. “I respond well to hands on correction.”
After three days of not touching, I’m sure I will too. Which is the problem.
My hand finds her hip. The same correction I’ve made a hundred times.
Except my thumb lands directly on the tattoo.
I feel it through the jersey. Can’t actually feel the ink, obviously—that’s not how tattoos or fabric or physics work.
But my hand knows what’s there. Knows the Roman numerals that sit beneath my palm.
Knows the Chinese characters. Knows that this piece of skin has carried my number longer than I’ve carried hers.
“Miss me that much, Em?” Whispered for only her to hear.
Those chocolate eyes tick up to mine. “What are you going to—”
The door bangs open.
“Sorry I’m late!” Addison’s voice echoes across the rink, followed by the sound of her sneakers on the rubber mat and the unmistakable aroma of the two coffees she’s carrying like sacred offerings. “Saw Sloane in the lot. She’ll be in—”
My hand vanishes. Emma skates to the far boards with a speed that suggests jet propulsion.
Addison stops at the bench. Looks at me. Looks across the rink at Emma, who is now very interested in adjusting her skate laces. Looks back at me.
Sips her coffee.
The silence is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.
“Kowalski’s working on breakaways today?” she asks, setting my coffee on the boards.
“Yeah. And Cole’s running neutral zone transitions.”
She pulls up her tablet. Scrolls. Doesn’t look at me. “Looked solid against Brown last night.”
“ They did.”
Another sip. Still not looking at me. “You know she needs you as her coach, right? She doesn’t trust me the same way she does you.”
The verbal equivalent of a warning shot fired three feet to the left of your head so you know exactly how good her aim is.
“Good thing that's what I am then,” I respond, pretending I have no clue what she means.
She smiles. It’s pleasant and absolutely terrifying. “Okay, then. Let’s get these women ready for the committee.”
She knows .
She’s choosing not to know.
She’s also reminding me what’s at stake if I fuck this up.
Day 7. 8:43 PM. Film room.
“Run it back.”
I rewind the footage. Oakmont’s defensive alignment from their game against Crescent Valley last weekend. The scheme the committee will want to see Emma dissect .
“There.” She points at the screen. “Their weak-side defenseman cheats toward the slot when the puck goes behind the net. Creates a lane along the boards.”
I pause the frame.
“If Sloane drives wide,” Emma continues, leaning forward, “she pulls the strong-side D with her. Jordan cycles low. And I—”
“Cut backdoor through that lane.” I finish it because I see it too now. The play materializing like a photograph developing. “But the timing has to be—”
“Exact. I know. Sloane can’t go too early or the weak-side D recovers.”
“And you can’t hesitate at the blue line or—”
“I don’t hesitate.”
I look at her. She looks at me. And the film room disappears. No tactical screens. No whiteboard covered in my handwriting. No scattered notebooks. Just two people who love hockey talking about hockey with the kind of intensity that other people reserve for religion or sex.
This is what I fell for. Before the chapstick. Before the wall. Before any of it. This . Emma’s hockey brain operating at full speed, making connections that take me twice as long, looking at a frozen frame and seeing a future in it.
“The entry point matters,” I comment, focusing on drawing the diagram on the whiteboard. “If you cheat too far inside, their center reads it.”
“So I sell the outside rush first. One stride toward the boards, then cut.”
“Correct.”
“Like the goal against Hightower. Opening night.”
I cap the marker. Return to my seat. “Similar concept. Better execution now.”
Under the table, her foot finds my ankle.
The contact is light. The arch of her sneaker pressing against the bone of my ankle through my sock.
I don’t move.
“Run the Crescent Valley shift again,” she requests. Eyes on the screen.
I click play.
“Watch the center’s positioning on the faceoff.”
Her foot hooks around my ankle. Settles there. Stays.
We watch twelve more minutes of film with our ankles locked together beneath the table, voices professional, discussing neutral zone entries and defensive gap control and the specific timing of a play we just designed while maintaining the kind of sustained physical contact that would look completely innocent to anyone walking in and might be close to the equivalent of bending her over this table.
Okay, it’s not even close.
And now I really want to bend her over this table.
Want her any way I can get her.
But I’m supposed to meet Marner later tonight to discuss tips on handling the interview process.
“Good session, Coach,” she tells me as she slides her notebook into her bag and stands.
“Good work, Cole.”
I adjust myself. She notices. Smiles.
Same dance, different day.
“Text me later,” she calls on her way out the door.
“Facetime?”
“Even better.”
It’s a lot better.
Day 10.
I start sending Emma practice notes by text. Structured. Bulleted.
Nothing inappropriate.
Except…
She sends a screen shot of my text with certain letters circled.
Emma
Subtle, Coach
I have no idea what you're talking about
Emma
The first letter of each bullet point? Really?
Coincidence
Emma
Liar
I don’t deny it.
I do it again the next night.
She sends back a single emoji. The fire one.
It’s reckless behavior for a man whose career depends on discretion. I’m aware of this. I’m also aware that Emma smiles when she reads my practice notes now. That our late-night Facetime calls have gotten a lot more… creative.
I’m a fucking genius.
Day 16. Pre-game. Equipment room.