Chapter 13
DREW
Present Day
Infinity Arena is empty, and that’s exactly how I want it.
I’ve been here for two hours, working through my usual shooting drills until my arms burn and sweat drips down my back despite the rink’s chill.
Each slap shot is harder than the last, each wrist shot more vicious.
The pucks slam into the net with satisfying thuds that do absolutely nothing to quiet the noise in my head.
Two days. Two fucking days since that blog post, and people are still talking about Jackson and me as though we’re star-crossed lovers in a Nicholas Sparks novel. I wind up for another slap shot, imagining the puck is every gossiping asshole on campus.
“Larney!”
Coach Donovan’s voice booms across the ice, making me whiff the shot completely. The puck skitters harmlessly into the boards.
“Shit,” I mutter, turning to see him standing at the bench in his usual track pants and BSU hockey windbreaker. I’ve known the man long enough to understand that he’s pissed.
“My office. Now.”
It’s not a request. I gather the scattered pucks into the bucket and skate over, my legs protesting after the punishment I’ve put them through. Coach waits with his arms crossed, those hazel eyes boring into me, trying to read every thought in my head. Which, knowing him, he probably can.
I follow him through the tunnel and up the stairs to his office. As soon as I step inside, I’m hit with the trifecta I’ve come to associate with this space. Dark roast coffee, worn-in leather, and that cozy aroma of cedar and spice that had freshman-year me practically tripping over my skates.
“Sit,” he orders, closing the door behind us with his foot.
I drop into the chair across from his desk, trying not to fidget under his scrutiny.
I scan the wall of team photos, my eyes lingering on the one from freshman year—me with that ridiculous haircut, standing awkwardly at the edge.
His collection of trophies catches the afternoon light from the window.
My gaze drifts to that faded blue poster with the rowing team all pulling in sync: “TEAMWORK: Together Everyone Achieves More.” God, I’d memorized every pixel of that thing, having stared at it whenever I needed somewhere safe to look.
Freshman me was such a disaster. Walking into that first team meeting and seeing Coach Jack Donovan—six foot two of pure muscle with those piercing eyes and that commanding presence—I wanted to come on the spot.
For months, I convinced myself it was hero worship.
He was everything I wanted to be: confident, respected, in control.
But then came the nights I’d jerk off thinking about his fingers pressing into my hip bones, voice dropping low as he murmured technical corrections I could barely process through the thundering in my chest.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Coach leans back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin.
I blink rapidly, remembering where I am. “Nothing’s going on.”
“Bullshit.” The word cracks like a whip. “I’ve been coaching you for three years, Drew. I know when something—or someone—is in your head.”
Three years. Has it really been that long since I stumbled into his office as a cocky freshman with a chip on my shoulder and a desperate need to prove myself? He’d seen right through my bravado then.
“It’s just this stupid campus gossip,” I finally admit, slumping in my chair. “Everyone thinks Jackson and I are together because we shared a fucking blanket at the Polar Bear Plunge.”
“And that’s affecting your game how?”
“It’s not—” The denial dies in my throat when his eyebrow arches into that familiar don’t even try it position.
“You’ve been here alone for two hours, hitting pucks like they personally offended you. That’s not nothing.”
He’s right. He’s always fucking right. It’s one of the things I love and hate about him.
Loved, I correct myself. Because somewhere along the way, that desperate crush morphed into something else entirely.
Respect. Admiration. The kind of bone-deep trust you have for someone who’s seen you at your worst and still believes in you.
“I can’t concentrate,” I admit. “Every time I walk across campus, people are whispering. Taking pictures. Making up stories about us that aren’t true.”
“Since when do you care what people think?”
“I don’t.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. “It’s just…Jackson doesn’t deserve this. He’s straight, and now everyone thinks we’re some epic love story.”
“Drew.” Coach leans forward, the leather of his chair creaking as his shoulders drop an inch, the hard lines around his mouth easing like ice giving way to spring thaw.
The furrow between his eyebrows smooths, and for a moment, those hazel eyes lose their drill-sergeant intensity.
“You came in here as this arrogant kid who thought he could charm his way through anything—”
“I was not that bad,” I protest weakly.
“You spent half of freshman year flirting with me.”
Heat floods my face. “I did not.”
“Drew.”
“Okay, maybe a little.” I can’t meet his eyes, embarrassment and shame warring inside of me. “You were intimidating. In a good way. I didn’t know how else to deal with it.”
He chuckles, and it’s warm, affectionate even. “I know. And I’m glad you grew out of it.”
Did I, though? Even now, staring at him from across the desk, I appreciate the way his shoulders fill out that windbreaker.
If he asked—if he showed even the slightest interest—I’d probably still throw his legs over my shoulders.
But that’s biology talking. What I feel for him now runs deeper than that old crush.
He’s become the father figure I never had, the one person who calls me on my bullshit and pushes me to be better.
“The point is,” he continues, “you’ve grown into one of the best players I’ve ever coached. You’re a leader on this team. The guys look up to you.”
“Coach, I—”
“I’m not finished.” His voice takes on that tone that makes everyone shut up and listen. “But right now, you’re letting outside noise get in your head. You’re worried about what people are saying instead of focusing on what matters.”
“Hockey,” I say automatically.
“Your happiness,” he corrects, and I blink in surprise. “Hockey’s important, sure. But Drew, I’ve watched you make your way through half the campus—”
“Not half,” I mutter.
“—and you’ve never looked at any of them the way you do at Jackson Monroe.”
“I don’t…”
“Stop.” He holds up a hand. “I’m not saying the gossip is true.
I’m not saying you have to do anything about it.
What I am saying is that you need to get your head straight.
Whatever’s going on between you two—friendship, more than friendship, whatever—you need to figure it out.
Because this?” He gestures at me. “This isn’t sustainable.
You can’t keep running to the rink every time shit gets complicated. ”
“Since when did you become a therapist?” I try for humor, but it falls flat.
“I’ve been where you are, believe it or not.”
I snort. “Right. When have you ever dealt with campus gossip about your love life?”
He exhales slowly, the kind of breath that carries weight.
His chair creaks as he pushes back from the desk.
He rises and crosses to the window in three measured steps, hands clasped behind his back.
Through the glass, the empty rink gleams under the fluorescent lights, white and pristine where I’d left it scarred with blade marks and puck dents.
“You know, Drew, this isn’t the first time BSU has dealt with this kind of thing. ”
“What do you mean?”
“Back when I played here in the early nineties, we had our own version of the Ice Queen.” He turns back to me with a wry smile on his face. “Only back then, it wasn’t online. It was in the Berkeley Shore Gazette. Some anonymous writer who called themself ‘Skater Boy.’”
I sit up straighter. Coach never talks much about his college days. I know he was captain, and that they won championships, but he’s always been tight-lipped about the details.
“They followed the team around, reported on everything, including personal things. Relationships. Who was hooking up with whom.” He runs a hand through his hair, and for a second, I see a flash of the player he must have been.
Young, cocky, probably devastating in his own right.
“Senior year, they went after Gavin Gunnarson and me.”
My brain short-circuits. “Wait. Gavin Gunnarson? As in—”
“Gerard’s father, yes.”
Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. My mind races as I try to process this information. “You and Gerard’s dad were…”
“Together.” He says it matter-of-factly, like he didn’t just drop a nuclear bomb of information on me. “Skater Boy had a field day with it. Every week, there was some new article about us. They got creative with the descriptions too.”
He walks back to his desk and pulls out a yellowed newspaper clipping from a drawer. “Here. I’ve kept a few, though only the Lord knows why.”
I take it with shaking hands. The headline reads Hockey’s Hottest Couple Heats the Ice. My eyes scan the article, and—Jesus Christ. “‘Donovan’s dick-tugging fingers?’” I read aloud, voice cracking. “‘Gunnarson’s cock-swallowing massive ass.’ Oh my God.”
“Yeah.” Coach laughs, and it’s like seeing a unicorn in the middle of a field of flowers. “They weren’t subtle. Every practice, every game, every time we were seen together, it ended up in print. Complete with colorful commentary about our physical attributes and what we supposedly did with them.”
I’m still staring at the article, trying to reconcile it with the Coach Donovan I know. The man who commands respect with a single glare and is never rattled. “How did you deal with it?”
“At first? Badly. It got in my head, made me second-guess everything. I started avoiding Gavin in public, which only made things worse.” He takes the clipping back, studying it with an expression I can’t quite read.
“But then I realized something. People were going to talk whether we gave them something to talk about or not.”
“What did you do?”
“Stopped giving a fuck.” He grins, and it’s sharp, wolfish. “We decided to focus on what mattered. Each other. The team. Hockey. That year, we took BSU to their fourth consecutive Frozen Four and won.”
“With everyone talking about your…dick-tugging fingers?”
“Especially with everyone talking about them. It was true, after all. I did a lot of dick-tugging in my college days. And Gavin’s ass was exceptionally…
” He shakes his head and leans against his desk.
“Here’s the thing, Drew. People will always have opinions.
They’re going to create narratives about your life, whether they’re true or not.
You can either let it control you, or you can control what matters—your performance, your relationships, your happiness. ”
I slump back in my chair, mind reeling. Coach and Gerard’s dad. The parallels to my situation. The fact that Gerard apparently comes from a legacy of hockey players with celebrated asses.
“Did you love him?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
The hard lines around his mouth relax, and something warm flickers in his eyes. “Very much. Still do, in a way. First loves always leave a mark.”
“What happened?”
“Life. Different career paths. He met Gerard’s mother near the end of our final semester, and I met Alex’s mom around the same time too.” He shrugs. “I have no regrets. Well, maybe one.”
“What’s that?”
“I wish I hadn’t wasted my time worrying about what other people thought. Could have enjoyed that last year more if I’d accepted that.”
The weight of his words settles over me. He’s right, of course. I’ve been focused on controlling the narrative and making myself miserable in the process.
Coach moves back around his desk, settling into his chair. “I’m not saying you have to do anything. But Drew, you’re one of the smartest players I’ve coached. You read the ice better than anyone. So why aren’t you reading this situation?”
Because I’m scared. “Can I ask you something?” I fidget with the hem of my practice jersey. “When did you know? With Gavin?”
Coach’s eyes go distant, remembering. “First practice sophomore year. He showed up late, still drunk from the night before, and puked in a trash can. Should have been disgusted. Instead, I helped him to the locker room and realized I’d do anything for that idiot.”
“That’s weirdly romantic.”
“Love’s weird, Drew. It doesn’t follow rules or make sense. Sometimes it’s watching your friend throw up, other times, it’s sharing a blanket after freezing your asses off for charity.”
I groan, covering my face. “You saw the blog post.”
“Alex showed it to me. I’ve seen all the others too.
Even the ones from last semester.” He stands, signaling the end of our talk.
“Drew, you’ve got two choices. Let this gossip consume you until it affects your game and your relationships.
Or face it head-on, figure out what you want, and go after it the same way you go after the puck.
” He opens his office door. “Now, get out of here. And Drew? Maybe shower first. You smell like a gym sock fucked a hockey bag.”
“Charming, Coach.”
“I try.” He pauses, expression serious again. “Whatever you choose to do, the team and I have your back. Just don’t let fear decide for you.”
I nod, throat tight with an emotion I don’t know how to name. “Thanks, Coach.”
Leaving his office, I’m more confused than when I entered. Coach and Gerard’s dad. Skater Boy. Dick-tugging fingers.
The idea that Coach went through something similar, finding love with a teammate despite the gossip and speculation, makes me wonder. What if I’ve been looking at this all wrong? What if the universe isn’t playing a cruel joke but trying to show me something I’ve been too scared to see?
I strip off my gear, each piece hitting the bench with a wet thud. Tomorrow, I’ll have to face the campus again. Face Jackson. Face whatever this is between us.
My phone buzzes in my gear bag.
Gerard
Movie night at the house. You better be there or I’m sending out a search party.
Also Kyle made brownies and if you don’t come Nathan will eat them all.
Also also we’re not watching The Notebook again no matter how much you beg.
I snort despite myself. I didn’t beg to watch The Notebook. I simply suggested it as a classic piece of cinema that everyone should appreciate. The fact that it made me bawl my eyes out is completely irrelevant.
Me
I’ll be there. Save me a brownie.
Gerard
Get here fast. Nathan’s already drooling.
I pocket my phone and head for the showers. Coach is right. It’s time to stop running and figure shit out.