Chapter 4 #2
"Let's go. Forwards are sloppy today. Need your brand of motivation."
Translation: Someone needed to get yelled at, and I was better at delivering cold discipline than anyone else on staff.
I nodded once and followed him down the corridor, leaving everything else behind.
The cold hit the moment I stepped onto the ice—sharp, clean, real. My breath misted in the air as I laced up my skates and pushed off, blade edges biting into the fresh surface with that familiar hiss that settled something deep in my chest.
This, I understood. This made sense.
The roster filtered onto the ice in their usual chaotic rhythm, voices echoing off the rafters as they stretched and circled. I kept my distance, skating lazy laps along the boards while Barrett barked instructions from the bench.
Nicholas Maddox hit the ice first, all explosive energy and barely contained aggression.
The kid was a goddamn supernova—volatile, talented, dangerous when he wanted to be.
He snapped a puck at the net hard enough to rattle the crossbar, already working out whatever anger fueled him today.
Probably another argument with management.
Maybe a bad interview. Didn't matter. Maddox channeled rage better than anyone I'd ever coached, but finesse? Strategy beyond "hit it harder"?
Not his strong suit.
I respected the hell out of his skill. Didn't trust him not to blow up a play because his temper got triggered.
Sam Harding glided past with that trademark grin plastered across his face, waving at someone in the stands—probably media, maybe fans who'd shown up early.
Golden boy. Hero energy. The kind of player who did charity work between games and got interviewed about his workout routine like it mattered. Everyone loved Sam.
Too much sunshine for my taste. Too performative. I'd seen enough fake smiles in my career to recognize when someone wore their image like armor.
Still, he was solid. Reliable. Just exhausting to be around for more than five minutes.
Wyatt Hudson moved like death personified—silent, efficient, every motion stripped down to brutal necessity. He took his position on the defensive line without speaking, eyes flat and focused, already reading the ice like a strategist mapping enemy territory.
I saw too much of myself in Wyatt. The way he shut everyone out. The precision that came from years of refusing to let emotion interfere with execution. The dead-eyed stare that said he'd stopped caring about anything except the work.
It made him one of our best defenders. Also made him someone I avoided having actual conversations with.
Andrew Crown drifted onto the ice last, looking half-asleep despite the early hour. Lazy posture, easy smile, that deceptive slouch that fooled everyone who didn't know better. He wasn't fooling me. I'd watched him play enough to recognize genius instincts hiding behind calculated indifference.
Drew saw plays three steps ahead and pretended he'd stumbled into them by accident. Smart. Effective. Annoying as hell when you were trying to coach him into taking things seriously.
He caught my eye and offered a two-fingered salute, smirking like he knew exactly what I was thinking.
Probably did.
Dominic Castellan skated hard circles at center ice, already pushing himself through drills no one had assigned yet. All intensity. All pressure. The kind of player who wanted greatness and demanded it from everyone around him with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Talented, sure. Also exhausting.
I didn't have the patience for Dominic today. Maybe not any day.
Everett Parker hung back near the blue line, watching everything with that unnervingly calm expression that made me feel studied.
Analyzed. Like he was cataloging weaknesses I hadn't admitted to myself yet.
Brilliant player. Unreadable personality.
The kind of presence that made me hyper-aware of my own reactions because I knew he was tracking them.
I avoided looking directly at him and focused on my warmup.
Blade over blade, smooth crossovers, the rhythm that cleared my head better than meditation ever could. The ice stretched clean and perfect beneath me. No complications. No messy emotions. Just physics and muscle memory and the cold air burning through my lungs.
My mind drifted anyway.
Back to the café. Back to wide eyes and trembling hands and the way her voice had cracked when she'd apologized.
I need this job.
Four words that told me everything about her current situation and nothing I actually wanted to know. Because knowing meant caring, and caring meant getting involved, and getting involved meant crossing lines I'd already identified as dangerous.
I pushed harder, skating faster, trying to outrun the image of her face when she'd looked at me and dropped that cup.
Recognition. Fear. Something else underneath I couldn't name.
The same thing I'd felt looking back at her.
Wrong. Complicated. Inevitable.
I carved a sharp turn at the far end of the rink, ice spray catching the overhead lights. Barrett's whistle cut through my thoughts—sharp, insistent, dragging me back to the present.
"Ackerman! You planning to join us or just show off?"
I straightened, letting momentum carry me toward center ice where the team had gathered.
Work. Focus. The only thing that mattered right now.
Everything else could wait.
Had to wait.
Barrett ran a power play drill—standard rotation, nothing complicated. I should've been able to call corrections in my sleep.
Instead, I lost track of Maddox's positioning for three full seconds. Watched Hudson set up a pass that went nowhere because I'd missed the coverage breakdown that created the opening.
Sloppy. Unacceptable.
"Ackerman."
Barrett's voice cut sharp across the ice. I blinked, refocusing on the play in front of me instead of the phantom memory of green eyes and an apology I hadn't deserved.
"Yeah."
"You with us?"
"Yeah."
He held my gaze longer than necessary, skepticism written all over his face, but didn't push. Just blew the whistle and reset the drill.
I forced my attention back where it belonged. Called out adjustments. Tracked player movement with the precision I'd built my entire coaching career on.
It lasted maybe four minutes before her voice threaded through my thoughts again.
I need this job.
The desperation underneath those words. The way she'd stood in my office trying not to shake. The gratitude that had flooded her expression when I'd told her she wasn't fired—as if I'd granted some enormous mercy instead of basic human decency.
What the hell was wrong with me?
"Yo, Coach." Sam skated past during a water break, concern bleeding through his trademark smile. "You good? You look dead, man."
"Fine."
"You sure? Because you've been staring at the same spot on the ice for like?—"
"I'm fine."
He raised both hands in surrender and glided away.
I gripped the boards harder than necessary, jaw clenched against the truth I didn't want to admit.
Even here—the one place I controlled everything—I couldn't stop thinking about her.
Worse than that?
Part of me wanted to go back to that café. Wanted to hear her voice again.