Amelia
FORTY-THREE
“Afternoon, Coach.” Jude pokes his head in my office and smiles. “Do you have those line adjustments for me?”
“Right here. The good news is we’re going to be okay in the two weeks Peterson is out with his injury.
” I stand and bring him the notes I’ve been working on for the better part of two hours.
“I moved McDonald from the third line to second and bumped Castle up to first. Felt like he worked better with Ultzman to cover the ice.”
“I like that change. Did DC list any injuries for tonight?”
“Nope. They have their full lineup, which includes Ryan Seymour as Riley Mitchell’s replacement on the first line this season.”
“I still can’t believe what happened to that poor kid.” Jude sighs. “At least Saunders got the league to offer him an exemption to be a non-uniformed player. He still has hockey in his life.”
“That was incredibly kind of Brody,” I agree. “And the Stars are honoring Mitchell’s contract.”
“We’d do the same here. No one should be punished for an accident that was out of their control.” He leans against the doorframe. “Speaking of contracts, I heard a rumor that Baltimore’s head coach is in hot water after their ten-game losing streak stretched to eleven.”
“It’s been that many? Brutal.”
“Not good for team morale. It got me wondering about when you’re going to spread your wings and leave Denver for a head coaching gig. You’re a better candidate than that idiot working for the Sea Crabs.”
“Jude.” I roll my eyes. “We have a game in forty-five minutes. Why are we talking about head coaching gigs?”
“We’re just having a conversation.” His lips twitch. “And I’m gauging your curiosity in becoming a head coach.”
“Are you that interested in getting rid of me?”
“Not at all. I’m interested in watching you grow as a leader. That means taking the next logical step, which is a head coaching spot.”
“I like what we’re building here. We’ve had four solid years in a row, and this one might be the one where we bring the Cup back to Denver. I want to see that through.”
“I respect that, and I’m glad for your loyalty. But I don’t want you to feel like you’re tied to me forever.” Jude smiles. “You deserve to find your own success, Amelia, and to cement yourself in this league as a powerhouse. It doesn’t have to be with me.”
“Well.” I shift on my feet and fix my blazer. His faith in me is nothing new, but this feels more tangible. A gentle push in the direction I should move next. “Something to think about, I guess.”
“I guess,” he teases. “Wanted to pass that along, that’s all.”
I head back to my desk and weigh his words.
Becoming a head coach in this league would be a dream.
The thing I’ve worked toward since I started at Wisconsin, and I don’t know why I haven’t made the leap.
Change doesn’t scare me; the possibility of failure does.
I have a safety net here, but I wonder if it’s time for me to stop being cautious. In life, in my career.
Jude’s right.
I do deserve the chance to find my own success, to solidify my name as its own entity. That means accepting the nudge toward something more, and I vow to be more open to taking risks.
What’s the harm in trying?
“That’s what I’m talking about, Ultzman.” I put a hand on his shoulder and give him a shake after his second goal of the night. “And great assist, Castle.”
The two guys knock their sticks together and grin on the bench. Ultzman has given us a one-goal lead on DC, and it’s pumped life into the team.
Sharp offense, great goaltending by Baystrong, and crowd enthusiasm has fueled the boys on every possession. It’s the same chemistry that’s helped us compile a league-best record through the first two months of the season, and we’re proving why we’re the favorites to win the Cup.
Hockey is always fun, but it’s even more fun when you’re winning and the team is clicking.
“Dude is on fire,” Jude says as Baystrong blocks another shot with an outstretched glove. “If he doesn’t win the Vezina, I’m complaining to the league.”
“Settle down there, overzealous. He’s been damn good all year, but we have six months to go,” I say.
We make another line change, and Ultzman scoops up the puck again. He heads toward Sullivan on the other end, but he’s intercepted by Hudson Hayes who kicks it over to Ryan Seymour. Seymour keeps possession for a beat before passing the puck to Grant.
I can’t deny how well Grant has played tonight.
His ability to read the ice has progressed drastically since his rookie season.
He’s more confident in his shot-taking abilities.
Quicker and more efficient with his movements.
Biased opinions because of our friendship aside, I’d easily put him in the top thirty players in the league.
He demonstrates that developed talent by moving forward. Eyes up, his stick in his left hand. He’s played all season on that side, and I suck in a breath as he advances out of the neutral zone.
I’ve watched him play enough times to know what comes next.
Grant skates to the right, only to cut over to the left and send a perfect backhand shot into the corner of the net before Baystrong has the chance to register what’s happening.
Our fans boo, and the Stars players surround him.
They pat his head and give his shoulder a shake.
He moves toward his bench and knocks his knuckles against his teammates’ gloves before cutting over to Sullivan to give him a high five.
After accepting a congratulatory stick tap from his goalie, Grant heads for our bench. He skates past, purposeful as he looks my way, grins, and fucking winks.
The goddamn audacity.
A blush creeps up my neck. I dip my chin and study the whiteboard I’m holding instead of giving any attention to the blatant cockiness of number thirty-six.
I hate when people showboat, but I really liked that.
“I spoke too soon,” Jude grumbles.
“You jinxed Baystrong. You know the second you talked about how well he was playing, it stopped being true.” I hand him the whiteboard that has the face-off play I drew up. “We still have two minutes on the clock. That’s plenty of time to even the score.”
Except, it’s not. Prescott, our center, misses a pass that results in a turnover, and the Stars race back down the ice. A frustrated groan works its way up my throat at the exact moment Connor McKenzie dekes out Bradshaw and Reynolds, our star defenders, and sets up a perfect drop pass for Grant.
Grant carries the puck into the open space in front of our goal. Without any hesitation, he scores for the second time in less than a minute, sending Baystrong onto his back with a failed save.
“Fuck.” Jude hangs his head and sighs. “I’m never talking about awards again.”
“Glad you learned your lesson there, J.” I rub my temples, relieved when Everett doesn’t do another victory lap by our bench. I’m not sure I’d be able to get through that without a visceral reaction. “I’m going to be happy if the next sixty seconds don’t turn into a blood bath.”
Fate is merciful and allows us to end the game in humble defeat. Our players make quick work of heading to the locker room. The taunts from a group of fans who thought we had the game in the bag follow them down the tunnel, and I sigh.
I’ve never liked to lose.
“Do you want to talk to them about what went wrong, or should I?” Jude asks.
“They pay you the big bucks so you can be the bad guy.” I pat his shoulder. “Have at it, boss.”
“It’s the worst part of this gig.” He rolls his eyes. “I’ll let you play the good parent after I’m finished. You can talk about camaraderie and comebacks.”
I laugh. “This is why being an associate coach is so damn fun.”
“Rub it in, why don’t you? I’ll see you in a few.”
“Sounds good.”
I grab my notepad and step out of the box, careful as I walk toward the locker room. I wave to a group of girls sitting along the glass who are wearing my old college jersey, and they jump up and down with recognition.
“Coach Green.”
That voice has become a fixture in my life. Deep but tinged with humor. The husk of a laugh curling at the end of my name. I hear it over FaceTime while I watch him make dinner. It’s there again when he calls me to say good night after a loss, a hurried goodbye I hold close every time.
I turn my head. My eyes meet Grant’s, and they’re twinkling with glee.
“Hello, Everett.” I toss my ponytail over my shoulder. Unbothered and unaffected by his close proximity. “Did you come over here so I could tell you that you played well tonight?”
“No, but I’d love to hear it.” He leans forward and rests his chin on the top of his stick. He tosses an easy smile my way, the dimple on his sweaty cheek popping effortlessly. “I respond very well to praise and positive reinforcement.”
I stop in my tracks and face him. His grin picks up as I step toward him with a hand on my hip. I follow the slow bob of his throat when he swallows and stands up straight.
“You were a very good boy out there, Everett,” I croon, considering it payback for that goddamn wink. Blatant flirting is new for him. I want to call him on it, but I liked it too much to chastise him. “I’m going to give you a gold star.”
I grab his right hand and yank off his glove. I uncap the permanent marker I keep in my pocket with my teeth and bend his wrist. On the side of his hand, above his thumb, I draw a big, obnoxious star. Feeling bold, I add a heart at one of the bottom points.
“Holy shit,” he whispers. A choked sound follows, and the rumblings of a whimper fill the space between us.
The noise is magnified with no one else around, both teams long gone and no coaching staff left on the ice, and I wonder what it would sound like muffled in the crook of my neck. “I’m going to turn this into a tattoo.”
“Please.” I snort. “You would never.”
“Guess you’ll have to wait and find out the next time we see each other.” Grant takes his hand back and stares at the marking. “Damn. I score the game-winning goal and you touched me? I won twice tonight.”
My skin heats. My heart soars to my throat. He’s acting even bolder than I am, fast and loose with his affection when he used to be so much more cautious. It’s intoxicating. An adrenaline rush that hits like a two-finger pour of the richest liquor, and I’m so far past the danger zone.
“You can’t say those things to me,” I murmur, trying to get a handle on this conversation. “Not where anyone could hear you and misinterpret what’s going on.”
“Yeah?” He steps closer. I can smell the sweat clinging to his jersey. I can see the flicker of lust behind his eyes as he maps out the necklace I’m wearing and the buttons on my shirt. “Tell me to stop, Lia, and I will.”
My mouth opens, but no protest comes out. I can’t argue when asking him to stop would make me a damn liar. Acting this recklessly could become an addiction if I’m not careful, and that’s not a high I can chase.
We’ve crossed every line I’ve ever laid out. Boundaries blur. Should and could have become obsolete.
Still, my mouth shuts. I don’t put up a fight when Grant’s low hum dances down my body.
“Thought so. Good to see you, Coach Green,” he murmurs. “And thanks for the tattoo.”
He skates away, and I refuse to watch him leave. I nearly sprint to my office, shutting the door—and the idea of us together—behind me.
I need to break myself out of this cycle with him, but happens I don’t want to be saved?