Chapter Twenty-Eight
Clay
When I push through the locker room doors, the post-game chatter and celebration stop. Dozens of eyes turn toward me. Some of them are cautious, the rest of them pretending like they hadn’t already heard about what happened in the post-game presser.
I drop my clipboard on the bench with a smack and let out a long breath, trying to figure out how to start this conversation with the team. “It was a good game out there, guys. They tried to drag us down with some of their dirty play, but we kept our chins up. You kept grinding. I’m proud of you.”
A low murmur ripples through the room. Sticks clack against the floor. Skates scrape over rubber mats.
Ryder, one of the defensemen, shifts forward on the bench, elbows braced on his knees. “Coach, I think it’s fair we ask, right?” He glances around like he’s waiting for backup, then looks back at me. “What that guy said… is it true?”
Every head turns my way.
I nod once. “Yeah. It’s true.”
The silence that follows is heavy, pressing down on the space between us. Someone exhales. Another guy mutters something under his breath.
“I owe you all an apology,” I start, trying to steady my voice.
“My personal life should’ve never been dragged into your locker room.
You’ve worked too damn hard for that.” I glance around the room, meeting as many eyes as I can.
“But since it’s already out there, I’m going to be straight with you. ”
The tension tightens again. They’re waiting.
“I’m seeing someone,” I say. “Yeah, she’s a student at Kolmont, but she’s not just a student. I’ve known her most of my life. We grew up together. Long before I ever wore this jersey, long before I came back here to coach.”
I pause, letting the words settle. “It doesn’t change how I do my job. It doesn’t change how I show up for you. I chose to answer honestly tonight because I’d rather you hear it from me than let them continue to write a story with some twisted headline.”
Ryder nods slowly, jaw tight. “So… what now?”
I shift my weight, my voice thick with the truth of it.
“That’s all. Now, I put my focus back into you and this team.
I keep showing up. Same as before. You’ve got my word that what happens outside this team doesn’t touch what happens in this locker room or out on the ice.
I don’t expect blind trust, but I hope you’ll give me the chance to earn it.
To prove I’m more than whatever story they’re trying to write or any past narrative you may have heard. ”
The room goes quiet again. Then, one by one, a few guys start nodding. Someone claps their hands together. Another mutters, “We got you, Coach.”
The knot in my chest eases, just a little. It’s not gone, but it’s something.
“Good,” I say, clearing my throat. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s talk about you. You played your asses off tonight. You earned that win. Don’t let anyone take that from you.”
That finally breaks the tension. Laughter bubbles up. Someone tosses a towel at Ryder, who ducks too late. The sound of chatter fills the air again, the normal rhythm of a locker room settling back in.
I stand there for another moment, watching them.
When I finally grab my bag from the coach’s room, the laughter fades behind me. My footsteps echo down the hall. I’m near the door when a voice calls out my name.
“Barlowe. Got a minute?”
I look up to see Coach Sanders, the head coach, standing in the doorway with the AD beside him. The whole room goes still again.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “Of course.”
The hallway feels heavier, quieter. Thompson is waiting, arms crossed, eyes locked on me. He’s got that same look I remember from when I played for Kolmont—one that says don’t fucking test me or you won’t like the consequences.
The AD, Thompson, clears his throat first. “Clay, we know tonight probably didn’t go how you expected.”
“No, sir,” I admit.
Sanders nods slowly, the lines around his eyes deepening.
“We’ve both been in this game a long time,” he says.
“We know how reporters work. They twist things to get a rise, grab a headline, move on to the next mess.” His tone softens, and an understanding in it that reminds me why I respected him when I was a player.
“But we also know you. We coached you for four years. We watched you grow up in this program. You were one of the hardest-working players we ever had.”
The words sink in deeper than I expect. That part of me—the player who lived for the grind, who bled for this team and their program—is still in there somewhere. Hearing him say it pulls something tight in my chest.
Thompson steps forward, slipping his hands into his pockets.
The man’s never been one for small talk, and the weight in his voice proves it.
“Clay, what we need to know now is how you plan to handle this moving forward? Because fair or not, perception matters. It matters for recruiting, donors, and alumni. People are watching.”
I nod, shoulders squaring as I meet his gaze.
“I understand,” I say quietly. “And I want to be clear, I’m sorry for how this reflected on the program tonight.
None of this was planned. I’ve been dealing with rumors and half-truths, reporters twisting the story however they want.
I’ve hit a point where I couldn’t just sit there and let them keep doing this.
I couldn’t let them hurt someone I care about in the process either. ”
Sanders crosses his arms, studying me, but he doesn’t interrupt. Neither does Thompson. Their silence gives me the space to keep going.
“I’m not hiding anything,” I continue. “Yeah, I have a relationship with someone who is a student at Kolmont. But it’s not how it sounds.
She’s someone I’ve known my whole life. Someone who’s been a part of my world long before I ever came back to coach here.
” I take a breath, the lump in my throat tightening as I hold their eyes.
“It doesn’t interfere with my job, and it won’t.
I’m all in—on this team, on this position, on doing right by the guys who look up to me.
I just want the chance to prove that. To show you I’m more than whatever headline people are trying to write. ”
Sanders doesn’t speak right away. He studies me like he’s weighing every word, then he gives one slow nod. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
Thompson exhales, tension finally bleeding from his shoulders. “Good,” he says, voice even. “We’ll monitor how it plays out in the media. We’ve got your back. Just keep your head down. Win games. Let your work do the talking.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, relief finally setting in.
Sanders steps forward and claps a hand on my shoulder, solid and reassuring. “We’ve always believed in you, Clay. Don’t give them a reason to doubt it.”
That one sticks. Because it’s more than approval, it’s trust. Their trust in me, when so many people have formed their own opinions without giving me a chance, means everything to me. I’ll fight to keep it.
Their footsteps fade into the distance. I rub a hand over my chest, forcing out a breath. The adrenaline and frustration drain away, leaving that familiar weight right where it always settles.
The hallway feels colder now, but under all the noise in my head—rumors, pressure, the mess I’ve made—there’s still a spark left to chase.
They gave me a shot. Now it’s on me to prove they were right to.
By the time I make it back to the locker room, most of the guys are already packing up, voices echoing off the tile as they load the bus for Kolmont. I pull my phone from my pocket, and the screen lights up with several unread messages, but I zero in on the ones from Tessa.
Tessa: It’s all out there now. I’m proud of you, Clay, for how you handled that.
Tessa: I’m back in Kolmont now. I’ll see you soon.
The sight of her name knocks something loose in me—relief, guilt, maybe both. She’s already home, and still, she’s thinking about me.
I stare at the message a second longer, feeling the edge in my chest start to ease. Then I type back before I can overthink it.
Me: Thank you, baby. On my way out now. See you soon. x
By the time I pull into campus, the lot outside the arena is mostly empty. The guys are exhausted, so they unload the bus and take off in no time. The night air hits sharp as I step out, cold enough to bite through my jacket.
Tessa’s standing by the door to the athletic building, arms hugged around herself against the cold, snow gathering in her hair. She shouldn’t even be here this late, but somehow I’m not surprised.
I start toward her, boots crunching against the frozen pavement. Our eyes meet, and the noise in my head finally shuts off.
“Tess,” I say, voice coming out hoarse. “You didn’t have to wait.”
She shrugs, a small, tired smile pulling at her mouth. “I figured you’d be a little bit. Coach stuff.” She smiles. Her breath fogs in the cold, her eyes scanning my face. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine. A hell of a lot better now,” I tell her, even though I’m running on fumes.
“I talked with Coach Sanders and Thompson. They just wanted to hear it from me. I told them the same thing I told my players—I wasn’t going to hide that we’re together, or that you’re a student at Kolmont.
But it’s not going to touch what I’m here to do or my commitment to this team. ”
Her shoulders drop a little, tension easing out. “I hate that they blindsided you like that.”
“Comes with the job,” I say quietly. “But it’s handled.”
Snow falls between us, catching in her hair. I step closer and brush a flake from her cheek before I can stop myself. Her breath stumbles, and that familiar spark flares, cutting through the cold.
“You ready to head home?” she asks, her voice soft against the wind.
I shake my head. “Not yet. I’m starving. Thought maybe we could grab something to eat, celebrate a little.”
Her mouth curves. “Your first win as head coach?”
I grin. “Nah. I was thinking more along the lines of finally getting a girlfriend.”
Her eyebrows lift, teasing. “Oh? You sure about that?”
“Pretty sure,” I say, stepping closer until there’s barely an inch between us. “Unless she’s planning to break up with me before dinner.”
She laughs, the sound warm and light in the cold. “Depends where you’re taking me.”
“Somewhere with food,” I murmur, leaning in just enough for her breath to brush my cheek. “And if I play my cards right, I’m hoping for some dessert. I love me some sugar.”
Her laugh catches, softer this time. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” I say, my smile fading into something slower. “But I’m yours.”
Before she can reply, I close the space between us and press my lips against hers. She relaxes against me, and I sweep my tongue over her lips, and she opens for me.
Her soft moan escapes, and I find myself rocking against her, forgetting where we are or who could see us.
When we finally pull apart, she’s still smiling, cheeks flushed pink.
“So,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Dinner?”
She shakes her head. “Yeah. Dinner.”
She laughs again, and I decide I could live off that sound instead.