Chapter 8
NOAH
Turns out the Raptors wrapped up their morning skate an hour ago to clear the facility before the event. The main rink sits empty, Zamboni marks still fresh on the ice.
I set up in the auxiliary rink when my phone buzzes with a text from the rink manager.
I respond with a thumbs up and go back to organizing.
I shouldn't have responded to his texts last night. Now I'm paying for it.
Masterson shows up at 9:50. Early, like always. He's wearing Raptors practice gear and has his bag flung over his shoulder. He looks relaxed in a way that makes my job so much harder.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning." I don't look up from my clipboard. "Kids arrive in five minutes. Same structure as last week. Defensive positioning, teamwork basics, age-appropriate drills."
“Got it.” He drops his bag by the bench, sits down, and laces up his skates. “This facility will be great for the kids. They’ll have more space than at the downtown rink.”
“It is an NHL practice facility,” I say drily. “It should be better.”
Masterson laughs. “Yup. Makes sense.”
Then silence creeps in. He’s looking at me, I can feel it. And no doubt, he’s waiting for me to say something else to keep the conversation going.
I don’t.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Fine. Just focused on the schedule.”
“Right. The schedule.”
He finishes lacing his skates and heads onto the ice to warm up. I watch him…professionally and objectively, of course…as he skates a few laps, testing the ice and getting comfortable.
He moves well. With confidence. Like the ice is where he’s meant to be.
I force myself to look back at my clipboard.
The kids start arriving promptly at ten. Parents drop them off, and the space is quickly filled with excited chatter and equipment bags dragging on the floor. I check them in, hand out name tags, and make sure everyone’s got their waivers signed.
By 10:05, we’re ready to start.
Masterson gathers the kids at center ice. He’s good at this kind of thing, making eye contact, learning names, cracking jokes that get the kids laughing. Within five minutes, they’re eating out of his hand.
“Alright, we’re gonna work on defensive positioning today,” he says. “Who knows what that means?”
A few hands go up. He calls on a kid wearing a Jack Larson jersey.
“It means stopping the other team from scoring,” the kid says.
“Exactly. And how do we do that?”
“Block them?”
“Close. We position ourselves so they can’t get where they want to go.” Masterson demonstrates, skating backward, showing them how to angle an opponent toward the boards. “It’s not about being the biggest or the fastest. It’s about being smart.”
He’s patient. Encouraging. When a smaller kid struggles with the footwork, Masterson slows down, demonstrates again, and skates with him until he gets it.
And fuck me, my heart does a little dance in my chest.
I grit my teeth and scribble notes on my iPad to document the clinic for the league’s community service requirements. That’s my job. That’s all this is.
Halfway through, Masterson calls for a water break. The kids skate off the ice, grabbing water bottles set up on a table while they talk about what they’ve learned. Masterson skates over to where I’m standing at the boards.
“How’s it going?” he asks.
“Fine. You’re doing well with them.”
“Just well? Come on, Noah. I’m killing it.”
He grins, and I hate how it affects me. Hate that my first instinct is to smile back instead of maintaining professional distance.
“You’re adequately meeting the requirements of your community service,” I say instead.
His grin fades slightly. “Adequately. That’s what we’re going with?”
“That’s accurate.”
He studies me for a long minute, clearly trying to figure out how to chip away at the wall I’ve thrown up between us.
“You’ve been quiet today,” he says.
“I’m always quiet during clinics. I’m here to observe and document.”
“Right.” He leans against the boards, close enough that I can smell the fresh, clean scent of his deodorant and the ice-cold air that clings to his gear. “You know, most people would at least crack a smile when thirty kids are having the time of their lives.”
“I’m not here to smile. I’m here to supervise your community service.”
“Yeah, I get that. But would it kill you to lighten up a little?”
“This is a professional obligation, Masterson. Not a social event.”
“Got it. Professional.” He lifts an eyebrow. “”Does it ever get lonely behind that wall?
I recoil. “What wall?”
“The one that keeps everyone out.”
“It’s not a wall. I have professional boundaries. There’s a difference.”
Dammit, he’s too perceptive. I need to end this conversation before I say something I can’t take back.
“The clinic runs for another forty-five minutes,” I say, looking at my tablet instead of at him. “I suggest you get back to it.”
He doesn’t move. Just stands there, watching me with those green-gray eyes that see too much.
“Anyone ever scale those ‘boundaries?’”
“That’s not an appropriate question.”
“Why not?” He shrugs. “We’re just talking.”
“We’re not ‘just talking.’ You’re a player under my supervision. I’m your PR director. That’s the extent of our relationship. It doesn’t entail personal conversations.”
“Relationship.” He repeats the word like it means something. “Interesting choice.”
“Professional relationship. Don’t twist my words.”
“I’m not twisting anything. I’m just trying to figure you out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out. I’m doing my job.” I nod toward the kids. “Just like you need to start doing.”
He pushes off from the boards with a snort then skates backward a few feet. “If you say so.”
“I do say so.”
He glances at the kids, who are starting to gather back on the ice. “Guess I should get back to work.”
“Yes. You should.”
He leaves, kicking up snow on the ice, and I’m left alone at the boards with my tablet and my carefully constructed walls…or boundaries.
They’re whatever the hell I need them to be when he’s around.
The rest of the clinic goes smoothly. The kids love Masterson. I take my notes, and we don’t speak beyond what’s necessary. When the last kid leaves, he gathers his equipment without a word.
I’m packing up my things when he shows up in front of me.
“Same time next week?” he asks.
“Yes. I’ll send a confirmation email.”
“Confirmation email. Very professional.”
“That’s the goal.”
“Is it?” He shifts his bag to his other shoulder. “Or is the goal to keep everyone at arm’s length so you never have to risk anything?”
“I’m not here to take risks. I’m here to manage your probation period. And to ensure you don’t take any risks.”
“Right. Got it.” He sweeps a hand through his damp hair and I bite the inside of my mouth because he looks sexier now than I’ve ever seen him. “Must get lonely, though. All those walls.”
I square my shoulders. “I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”
“If you say so.”
He walks away with a knowing smirk and I suddenly feel way too exposed. Because he’s not wrong.
I just can’t afford to acknowledge it.
In my car, I sit with the engine running, staring out the front windshield, images of Masterson goofing off with those kids, how bright his smile is, how the dimples in his cheeks make my pulse tick harder, how his eyes can sear my skin from a rink’s length away.
A couple of weeks ago, Danny Masterson was a PR problem. A reckless player who needed damage control and media training.
And I keep shutting him down.
Because that’s what I have to do.
The more I let him in, the more dangerous this becomes. The more I acknowledge what I’m feeling, the harder it will be to maintain the boundaries that keep both our careers intact.
So I’ll keep being cold. Keep being professional. Keep pretending that his attempts to connect don’t affect me.
Even though they do. More than I dare to admit.
Like he knows.
Like he can see exactly what I’m doing and why.
And maybe he can.