Chapter 39
It takes a lot of lying in Chase’s bed together and even a quick nap before we manage to get up again. Chase puts a couple of slices of Marnie’s multigrain into the toaster while I shuffle back into my borrowed clothes.
“Can I leave the bright PJs at your house?” I ask when I emerge into the living area. “Either that or I need to borrow a tote bag to make my walk of shame less embarrassing.”
“Leave them,” he says, buttering our toast. “We can work on our choreography again later this week.”
“You mean…‘Wicked Game’?”
He smiles over the butter dish. “Nope. But that too if you want.”
I locate my phone on the way to the kitchen. Then I take one look at the screen and curse. “God damn it! Moreau finally made an appointment with me, and it’s in…” I check the time. “Forty minutes!”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
I groan. “Yes and no. But the timing is a new kind of fuck you. He made this appointment three minutes ago. He’s hoping I’ll stand him up. Hell—I’ve got to get out of here.”
“No, wait,” he says, catching me before I can run for the door and aiming me at a barstool. “Eat your toast. I’m calling a car for my lunch date. We can run you home to change, and then we’ll drop you off at the rink on my way.”
“Are you sure?”
“Totally sure. Has Moreau been giving you a lot of trouble?”
I sit down. “No and yes. He’s been a no-show, which is rude. But so have other players.”
“His skating is abominable,” Chase says, giving me a look that’s comically appalled. “Dude should have been a soccer player instead.”
“Trust me, I’ve noticed. Give me the dirt on Moreau. Is he a dick? Or am I just impatient with bad skaters?”
Chase grins. “A little of both? He came to the Legends at the trade deadline last season. He’s probably been the worst skater on the team his whole life. And every skating coach makes him tense.”
“Hmm.” I need to find a way around that. “What’s he good at?”
Chase refills our juice glasses. “He’s a hard hitter. Willing to sacrifice his body. Above-average stamina. Kinda like me.” He winks. “Don’t take any shit from Moreau, though. And if he does anything weird—like anything—I want to hear about it. We’ve got to figure out who your bully is.”
“Yeah, fine. But it could be anyone, and my gut says that Moreau is just a garden-variety dickhead. More ego than emotional range. I’ll be fine, though. Tolerating assholes is my superpower.”
“But, Zoe…” Chase passes me a plate. “Aren’t you always telling the guys that their superpower is also their greatest weakness? What if tolerating assholes isn’t working for you anymore? Maybe it’s time to swing back.”
I blink up at him. “You make a few good points.” Then I look down at the plate, which contains both pieces of toast and a generous amount of butter. “Where’s your plate?”
“That’s all for you!” he calls as he disappears into the bedroom with his coffee mug. “I gotta change for lunch!”
I consider arguing. But then I eat both pieces of toast instead.
Chase’s chauffeured car gets me home to change and back to the rink in plenty of time.
“You coming to the game tonight?” he asks as we slow to a stop at the curb.
“Of course.” I reach toward the door and swing it open.
He catches my hand before I can exit the car. “Where’s my goodbye kiss?”
“Here?” I gasp. “Nobody can see us together, Chase. Not until they offer me a contract for next year.”
He frowns, and I expect him to argue. To tell me it shouldn’t matter. “Okay. I get it. Close the door again. Just for a second.”
I do it.
He kisses me quickly, but my heart practically detonates anyway. Because the smile I get is warm enough to heat the tristate area. “Now knock ’em dead,” he says. “And call me after.”
“I plan on it.”
Three minutes later I trot into the equipment room. “Hey, Bernie! Were you able to fix my skates?”
“You bet,” he says, looking up from the grinder. “And I haven’t let them out of my sight ever since. I even took them to breakfast with me. Here.” He leans down and picks up a skate bag from the floor, which he unzips to reveal my skates. “I’m so sorry about yesterday.”
“Not your fault,” I insist.
When I reach the practice rink, Moreau is already there. He’s doing laps and scowling. He doesn’t even glance my way, which might annoy me if I didn’t see his attitude for what it really is—fear.
I plaster on a bright smile. “Morning, Jean-Luc,” I call.
He slows down and skates toward me, his expression already sour. “You are late,” he says in his French Canadian accent, his tone dripping with disdain.
“I’m actually three minutes early,” I reply lightly, crouching to pull a cone from my bag. “But I appreciate your enthusiasm.”
His scowl deepens. “What is it you want to fix about me today, Coach?”
That’s the thing about players like Moreau—they assume every coaching session is an insult, as if admitting they have flaws might turn them mortal. I don’t take the bait.
“Well, first of all, what’s already working is impressive. Your stamina? Exceptional. Your power? One of the best on the team.”
His expression doesn’t soften. “But?”
“But your transitions need work,” I say. “It’s not that you can’t move fast—you do. But you could be more efficient. Let’s start with your crossovers.”
Moreau sighs as if I’ve just asked him to handwrite the Declaration of Independence. But then he pushes off and skates a lazy figure eight around me. His power is undeniable, but his edges are sloppy for a player of his caliber, skidding slightly in every turn.
When he’s done, I skate over to meet him. “Okay, here’s the deal. You’re rushing through your transitions, and I think it’s a trust issue.”
His eyebrows lift. “Trust?”
“Yep. Let me guess—coaches have been harping on you about clean edges forever, right? And also your knee bend. Dig in here, shift your weight there, think about every little thing your blades are doing. It’s exhausting.”
He crosses his arms. “It is… not my favorite thing.”
I smirk. “Exactly. So let’s try something simpler.” I grab a hockey stick from the bench area and set up a simple three-cone drill. Then I position myself at center ice and hold my stick out horizontally—like a limbo bar.
“Here’s the deal. Forget about your edges. Think about carrying the puck through this course, skating crossovers. But you need to bend your knees and ankles deeply enough to skate below this stick the whole time.”
He frowns at me like I’ve just proposed juggling flaming swords. “But that is not a skating drill. That’s a stick-handling drill.”
“I don’t care what you call it. Just keep your chest up,” I say with a shrug. “Make yourself short enough using only your lower body. Five times, okay? Down and back.”
He sighs. But then he bends his knees and starts the drill.
“There we go.” I have to skate backward with my limbo bar as he moves. “Stay low! But no dropping your shoulders. Tits up!”
He lets out a snort of laughter at the turnaround.
“Keep it up!” I call, increasing my speed. “Deep knees! Faster.”
At first he’s as awkward as ever. But on the third lap, something shifts. His body gets used to the lower position, and his edges start to carve more deeply into the ice. And the last two laps are fast.
When we stop, he’s breathing hard, his face unreadable.
“You didn’t cheat and think about your edges, did you?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light.
His frown deepens, but there’s something thoughtful behind it. “No… I did not.”
“Good,” I say. “Sometimes you just have to trick your body into doing the right thing. We’re going to do it again, and then we’re going to do it backward. Your only goal is staying low without slumping your upper body forward. And don’t lose that puck.”
He stares at the puck, then at me. “To… trick my body.”
I nod. “Until edging just feels natural. Ready to run it again?”
He shrugs, but his expression is less surly. “Oui. We do it again.”
By the end of our session, Moreau is drenched in sweat. But he’s getting a better grip on the ice, and he isn’t even giving me murder eyes.
I even get a brusque “Merci” as he steps off the ice.
I’ll take it.
After our session, the building is quiet. The players will be headed home to rest for the afternoon before gathering at the arena this evening. Whistling to myself, I tap in the code for my locker.
And when I open the door, I scream.