Chapter 7 #2
That quickly, my morning felt lighter. Small human, big impact.
The rest of the day blurred in film reviews, coach briefings, and the usual game-day routine. The evening arrived with all the stakes that came with it as lights dimmed, and projectors lit up.
Players shuffled through their warm-ups, trainers double-checked gear, and the low thud of pucks echoed off the boards in a heartbeat. My pulse was doing a drum solo, and I was trying my best not to overload.
I’d done a decent job keeping the panic locked away since the loss on Wednesday. I focused on keeping the team on a positive note and said the right things. But the nerves were creeping to the surface, the type that tightened behind the ribs, making breathing hard.
I had my call with Ben.
That was our ritual. Before big games, we called each other and talked ourselves out of the rabbit hole. Minutes of nothing and everything with trash talk, playoff memories, or favorite meals from away games ten years back. It usually helped the nerves, but tonight, not so much.
My gaze drifted, looking for distractions.
Cassy and Abby came to mind. They were probably curled up on the couch, Cassy wearing her “Uncle Sean is a Big Deal” shirt that Abby had custom-made for her, their faces lit by the glow of the screen as they waited for the game (my personal cheerleading squad from afar). That image helped.
So did the flash of movement behind the bench. Mel.
She was here, but not here. Her stride had been measured, clipped in a way I hadn’t seen before.
She adjusted her jacket, smiled thinly at the equipment manager, then eyes on her iPad again.
Even though it was game day, when each team member felt some degree of nerves, I could tell something was off.
The Mel I’d traveled with had been all charged forward motion. Quick to ask, quick to act, quick to engage with the staff. Now her shoulders stayed tight, the air gone out of her. She did the task, hit her marks…but the fire was gone, the beam of a lighthouse cut mid-rotation.
Her parents.
The thought landed out of nowhere. I hadn’t spoken to her the last three days, but the shift happened after she told me they’d arrived. I couldn’t guess what happened, but I knew the look of someone holding it together. I’d worn it too often not to recognize it in someone else.
“Coach,” Sergei called, skating by.
I snapped back. “Let’s go, boys.”
The game was a blur.
Physical, fast, one of those tight matches that left no room for thinking.
We scored first, Colorado answered, then we went up again.
A slow-motion trading of blows between two heavyweights.
Brent took a hit that had me gripping the boards hard enough to turn my knuckles white.
Colton banged in the go-ahead goal halfway through the third. I didn’t sit down the entire period.
And then the horn came.
Final score: 3–2. We won.
The arena erupted, sticks clattered, gloves flew. Asher and Logan collided in a bump of adrenaline, and the team surged into a pile of arms and shouts.
My body went still. I couldn’t quite catch up to reality. Did that really happen? My eyes almost sweated—the salty, blurry type of sweat when something hits you straight in the heart.
Second round. We were still in this playoff.
I turned toward where Mel was. Her shoulders had relaxed a little, a looseness you get when the pressure finally lets go, like a perfectly uncorked bottle of champagne. Our gazes met, and I let myself walk toward her.
“We’re heading out to celebrate,” I said. “You should come.”
Her smile was small but sure, her shoulders unhitched as if she’d been waiting for the invite.
“I’d like that, ” she said.
I didn’t bother to explain. It was a team thing, and she’d been part of this win as much as anyone. I hoped this outing brightened her a little.
The celebration usually happened at a chain sports grill that hadn’t updated its decor in decades, but it retained a certain charm. Posters of old games lined the walls, neon beer signs shone overhead, and a jukebox glowed in the corner—a relic of someone refusing to retire.
The team took the usual semiprivate area. Booths shoved together, tables crowded with fries, sliders, and pitchers of soda and wings. The postwin energy radiated from everyone. Even the kitchen staff peeked out, chasing a hit of the high.
Mel sat at the far end of the table, wedged between Sadie, the team captain Asher’s girlfriend, and Reena, Porter’s fiancée.
She leaned in with a small smile as Sadie razzed Brent on his failed celebration, then took a sip of her cocktail before tossing her own soft jab that made the whole end of the table laugh.
After that, she listened again, letting the others run with it.
She slid into the celebration as if she’d been part of it all season, silently making a statement that she wasn’t some temp passing through. And hell, that was attractive.
At a nudge to my side, I turned to see Dane grinning, his wife perched on his lap. His grin said you’re staring. I caught myself and focused on Colton recapping his goal. But my focus kept drifting to Mel.
She’d accepted a second drink earlier…maybe a third. She didn’t seem the type to unwind with alcohol, but my alarm bell—courtesy of my dad—was doing a little jig.
Her laughter had gotten easier. She tilted her head as she listened, actually giving a crap about what people were saying. When her eyes landed on me from across the table, I locked gazes with her, and it seemed as if she’d figured me out. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
There was a freeze in the air, the half second before a puck drop, and suddenly that gut-deep feeling you get when you know you’re about to be knocked sideways.
As the celebration thinned and people filtered out in pairs and threes, I caught up with Mel near the door.
“Heading home?” I asked casually.
She let out a dry snort. “Where else would I be headed?”
We walked together toward the parking lot.
“Maybe a twenty-four-hour bar to keep the party going,” I joked, but heard the edge of my voice too late.
She stopped walking, and so did I. The air between us held its breath. Her silence wasn’t simply an answer—it was a shift, making me wonder if I’d stumbled into something raw.
“Are you okay to drive?” I asked. She didn’t answer. I nodded toward the back of the lot. “There’s one way to find out.”
She blinked, confused. I offered my hand, and she let me guide her to a less crowded strip of the parking lot. Physical contact, not that I was counting, but damn, the feel of her skin—soft, warm—was a new thing.
“Alright,” I said, “straight line. One foot in front of the other.”
This was going to be either a sobriety test or an impromptu dance lesson.
Her face went still. Her eyes shone in the parking lot light; she was trying to blink something back.
Her chest lifted once, sharply, then again, smaller, tighter.
A tear slipped, and then another, and she was suddenly shaking, shoulders curling in as if she could hide from it.
No sound at first, then an uneven hitch of her breath broke through.
Crap.
“Mel,” I said, hands half lifted. “I wasn’t trying to accuse you of anything. I didn’t know if you’d had too much—”
She was already nodding, face wet, breath catching.
“So…you did drink too much?”
Another slow nod, and the admission seemed to cost her.
“Coach.” A voice behind me.
Before I could react, Mel buried her face in my chest, trying to vanish there. My arms instinctively wrapped around her. I turned and watched Asher walking off with Sadie.
Damn it. Of all the people to witness my impromptu hug…it had to be the team’s captain. Not the worst guy to witness it, but still. Mel had clearly panicked, trying to hide her tears, maybe her entire existence, in that moment. Still holding her, I rubbed my other hand down my face.
“Let’s go sit in my car,” I murmured.
She climbed in without argument. I handed her the glove box tissues; she blew her nose and stared straight ahead.
“I wasn’t going to drive,” she said eventually. “I was gonna sit in my car, wait till everyone left, then call a cab.”
That wasn’t what I expected. Partial crisis averted—she wasn’t driving drunk.
“You didn’t want anyone to see you leave in a taxi?” She gave a small nod. “Didn’t want them thinking you have trouble handling alcohol? I don’t know… maybe a drinking problem?”
Her head whipped toward me. “Excuse me?”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said quickly. “I happened to notice things. If you’re dealing with—”
“WHAT?” She let out a watery, startled, joyless laugh. “Coach Murphy—”
“Sean,” I cut in. “Call me Sean.”
“I’m not dealing with anything. I had two drinks, and I didn’t want to look like the wild card who can’t handle her night out. That’s it.”
She no longer resembled her usual polished self. The composure, once tailored to fit, was now slipping at the seams. Eyes puffy, nose red, shoulders curled in. She’d been holding it together all night, and now it was unraveling.
“If appearances mattered that much,” I said gently, “why not skip the drinks altogether?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Because you don’t get to pick my choices outside the rink.”
“This isn’t about being the boss. If you have a problem with alcohol–”
“A problem?” she snapped. “You think I’m hiding some kind of dependence? Go ahead Coach, diagnose me while you’re at it.”
She yanked the door handle and climbed out, slamming it behind her.
“Mel…” I scrambled after her.
She didn’t stop. I caught up, falling into step beside her as she marched toward the bar.
“Where are you going?”
“Not your business.”
Damn it. The words had come out too fast, too raw. I’d seen what alcohol could do—what it had done—and I got carried away.
I stepped in front of her. “Mel, I’m sorry. Please hear me out.”
“No. You hear me out.” Her voice shook. “My parents lost their entire retirement. Their condo, everything. How is that an alcohol problem?”
That shut me up—game, set, and match.
She swiped at her eyes, a few tears clinging to her lashes. Her gaze drifted toward the nearly empty parking lot, blank and distant.
Guilt surged up my throat. I shouldn’t have said those words. That wasn’t her—it was my own damn baggage. My dad had circled the drain again. He was back in rehab, I’d lost count of how many times. Not that it mattered.
Tonight, Mel wasn’t avoiding reality; she was holding it, barely letting anyone see the weight. My coaching instincts scrambled, my playbook didn’t have pages for women crying in parking lots or family losing everything. Right now, she didn’t need a coach, that much was clear.
I cleared my throat. “Mel…I’m sorry.”
She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers toyed with the corner of a tissue, eyes fixed somewhere past me. Then she took a deep breath. “Also… sorry about earlier.”
“Earlier?”
“When I—uh—face-planted into your shirt. That wasn’t planned.”
Ah. That. Hard to forget the emotional sucker punch that followed. “You were upset.”
“Still.” She winced. “Not exactly textbook professionalism.”
“We’re not in a textbook moment.”
She gave a soft, tired laugh. Then, without another word, she turned and walked back toward my car. I followed and opened the door for her. We climbed in, the silence settling around us—less tense now, more fragile.
We sat there for a bit.
“You don’t have to be okay,” I said quietly. “Not when it comes to me.”
The quiet stretched, a minute where no one expected anything, where it was okay not to be okay. That, I could give her.
Her parents had lost everything. That kind of gut-punch changed people. I felt for them and for her, having to carry that weight, trying to stay composed in front of the whole team. Maybe that explained why she lived at home. That one detail told me more than any résumé ever could.
I started the car and pulled into the drive, glancing at her every so often. I’d seen women cry—girlfriends; my sister; Cassy; Evie, my ex-wife. Mel breaking down against me was different. She hadn’t masked it or tried to soften the blow; she let me see the raw center of it all.
And it wasn’t only the tears. That burst of mismatched-colored panties from her bag had already cracked the polished assistant facade.
What spilled wasn’t just fabric, it was her—funny, bright, flustered, unexpectedly vulnerable.
I hadn’t expected to know her like this. And now I couldn’t unknow it.
Her wet cheeks had left a damp patch on my shirt that still hadn’t dried, the faint warmth messing with my head. It felt as if she had handed me a piece of herself no one else got to see, and for some reason, she’d chosen me.