Chapter 13
KNOX
I pull into Coach’s driveway fifteen minutes late, but it couldn’t be helped. Crosstown traffic was a bitch, and I was late getting out of the training center today because I refused to let Ava reschedule my one-on-one session again.
She’s been avoiding me, but I’m not about to let our personal situation interfere with work—for either of us. She has a job to do, and so do I. Truthfully, I needed someone to talk to, and it turns out she’s a great listener.
Not that I had any doubt.
We kept it strictly professional, but it was nice to open up about the pressure I’m feeling as captain of a losing team. She showed me some advanced visualization techniques, and before I left, she gave me an assignment—actual freaking homework—for our next session.
It was your own damn fault.
Yeah, it probably wasn’t the smartest move to tell her my only goal was to win games.
In retrospect, I can see how it might’ve come off a bit shortsighted.
She was right. I need to be more intentional about my role as captain and how I can leverage my strengths for the benefit of the team. Just being a hard worker and a good example isn’t enough.
Not by half.
I shut off the engine and grab the keys from the center console.
Ava’s SUV is already in the drive, and judging by the sweet scent of applewood wafting through the open windows of the truck, Coach has already fired up the grill.
I turn to Taylor, who’s sitting in the passenger seat. “Are you ready to do this?”
Taylor fidgets, messing with the seatbelt. I’m about to offer to help when it finally clicks open. “I don’t want to make a bad impression.”
The nerves are understandable. Coach can be intimidating as fuck, but the man has a heart of gold underneath the broad chest and icy stare.
“Trust me, you have nothing to worry about. Coach is pretty chill, and he’s looking forward to meeting you.”
Taylor straightens. “You told him about me?”
“Of course. You should have seen the way his face lit up when I said I was bringing a special guest to dinner.” Taylor shoots me the side-eye, and I throw up my hands in self-defense. “I’m serious. He’s like family to me, so when someone is important to me, they’re important to him.”
“Okay.” Taylor nods decisively. “Let’s do this.”
We skip the front door and walk around the side of the house.
Coach is at the patio bar, mixing drinks and regaling Ava and a guy I don’t know with tales of his days in the NHL.
“Finally!” Coach calls, sliding two drinks across the bar. “I was starting to think you were going to stand us up.”
I duck my head as we approach the bar. “Sorry, Coach. It couldn’t be helped.”
He waves a hand, brushing off the apology. “I’m just messing with you.” His gaze sharpens as he turns to Taylor. “And who is this?”
“Coach Carlyle, this is my friend Taylor.”
Taylor puffs out his chest and offers Coach his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
Coach shakes his hand, giving it a solid pump. “Good to meet you too, son.”
“Taylor skates for the Junior Gliders,” I say, clapping him on the back, “and he’s got one heck of a slap shot.”
Coach looks him over, brows flat. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
Taylor’s slender, but that doesn’t stop him on the ice. There was a time when a kid with his build wouldn’t get a second look from a scout, but a lot of the younger guys coming up in the NHL are lighter, using their speed and agility to their advantage.
Hell, McGinnis is the perfect example.
The difference is, Ginny doesn’t have a humble bone in his body, while Taylor is one of the humblest players I’ve ever met.
“I need to check on dinner,” Coach says, wiping his hands on a towel. “But why don’t you join me at the grill? I want to hear more about the Junior Gliders. What position do you play?”
Taylor lopes after Coach, and I have no doubt the kid will yap his ear off until it’s time to eat. It’s what I would’ve done at his age.
I turn my attention to Ava and the stranger sitting at the bar, sipping their cocktails.
The team polo she wore earlier is gone, replaced by a flowing pink blouse that shows just a hint of cleavage. Her hair is pulled back in an intricate braid, and she looks like a goddess.
What I wouldn’t give to worship at her feet.
“Ava, you look stunning as always.” I turn to Coach’s other guest and extend my hand. “Knox St. James.”
A lazy grin stretches across his smug face, but he makes no move to shake my hand. “I know who you are.”
Fuck this asshole.
I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans, matching his smirk. “I’m sorry I can’t say the same.”
Ava shifts uncomfortably, her smile faltering. “Knox, this is Arlo. He’s an artist.”
Of course he is.
“He’s also my date tonight.” She spits the last bit out in a rush, like she’s ripping off a band-aid. “We met at the gym.”
What. The. Fuck. She brought a date? I thought she was avoiding me because it was easier than facing her feelings, not because she’d met someone else.
I give her “date” a slow once-over. There’s no way this douche canoe has spent any time in a gym. He looks like a skinny ass vampire, with dark hair and pasty skin that probably sparkles in sunlight.
In short, he’s my polar opposite.
Which only makes it hurt more.
I circle the bar and get myself a bottle of water from the fridge, taking my sweet-ass time. I twist the top off and take a long pull, studying the happy couple as the cool liquid slides down my throat.
I could go for a beer right now, but I’ve got Taylor to think about, and even one drink would be too many.
“So, Arlo, tell me about your art. What medium do you work in?”
“I’m a sculptor.” He arches a slender brow, doing his damndest to look down his nose at me. “I work with a variety of materials to reclaim treasures that have been discarded in frivolity and give new life to that which has been desiccated by the whims of man.”
That’s a whole lot of words to say a whole lot of nothing, but I’m not just a dumb hockey player.
“So you’re a trash artist?”
The corner of his mouth tightens. “I prefer the term junk artist.”
Potayto, potahto.
“Were any of your pieces exhibited at Piedmont Park last summer? Maybe I’ve seen your work.”
He shakes his head begrudgingly.
I turn to Ava. “It was a pretty cool exhibition. Very thought provoking. You would’ve enjoyed it.”
She grins. “I didn’t know you were into art.”
“There are a lot of things you still don’t know about me.”
Things I’d happily share, if only she’d give me the chance.
She turns to the grill, where Coach and Taylor are locked in animated conversation. “How do you know Taylor?”
“I met Taylor through my volunteer work with the Junior Gliders. I’ve been mentoring him for the last couple of months.
He’s a good kid. He’s got a lot of potential, and a great heart.
” I chuckle and nod to where he stands, demonstrating his slap shot.
“He’s a huge fan of your dad. The kid knows all his stats, and believe me, I’ve tried to trip him up. ”
She throws her head back and laughs, and damn, I’ve missed that sound.
Coach calls us to the table, and Arlo helps Ava down from her chair, his arm slipping casually around her waist. It’s far too familiar for my liking.
What the hell does she even see in a guy like that? I’ve only known him for ten minutes, and I can already tell he’s an elitist prick.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and Coach will break his fingers.
A grin splits my face as I make my way to the table.
Coach has gone all out tonight. There are chicken, shrimp, and steak kabobs with grilled vegetables, a green salad, and a decadent-looking fruit tart for dessert.
The dinner conversation flows easily thanks to Taylor and Coach, but when dessert is served, things take a turn for the interesting.
Taylor’s on his second slice of the tart when Coach zeroes in on Arlo.
“What are your intentions toward my daughter?” he asks, eyes narrowed.
Ava gasps, clearly appalled at the directness of her father’s question. “You don’t have to answer that.”
“It’s alright,” Arlo assures her, resting his corpse-like hand atop hers on the table. “Your father is just looking out for you.”
“Exactly.” Coach crosses his arms as he stares down Ava’s date. “You’re my daughter, and it’s my job to protect you.” He narrows his eyes. “I should know who you’re dating and make sure they’re treating you right.”
To his credit, Arlo remains cool and collected, though I’ve seen better men wilt under Coach’s intimidating glower.
“Ava is a lovely woman,” Arlo says smoothly. “Right now, we’re just getting to know one another. We’ll take it slow and see where things go.”
Coach nods slowly, as if in approval.
Are you fucking kidding me? No way Coach is falling for his bullshit.
“And you’re an artist?” Coach smiles wryly. “Back in my day, all the artists were starving. I can’t imagine things have changed much. Not in this economy.”
Arlo laughs, the sound silky-smooth. “I do alright for myself.”
He must. He’s dressed head-to-toe in designer labels.
“I’m just glad she’s not dating an athlete,” Coach says, leaning back in his chair. “I know firsthand how too much time on the road can take its toll. I don’t ever want that for my baby girl.”
Ava’s eyes meet mine across the table, and I stiffen. Coach has been single as long as I’ve known him, so his position shouldn’t come as a shock, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
“Have you ever been married?” Coach asks, oblivious to the impact of his words.
“I was close once,” Arlo admits, “but it didn’t work out.
Probably for the best, because when I marry, it will be for life.
” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. It’s fake as hell and I see right through it, but does Coach?
“I’m a bit old-fashioned.” He turns to Ava, staring at her lovingly. “I believe in honoring my commitments.”
For Christ’s sake. This guy couldn’t lay it on any thicker if he tried.