Chapter 20 Carl
CARL
The buzz of the arena hits me the second Krystal and I step inside.
The air smells like popcorn and ice, like the faint tang of sweat and the sharp edge of cold that seeps up from the rink.
She’s practically skipping beside me, her mittened hands stuffed in her coat pockets, a grin stretched wide across her face.
She’s been to more hockey games than she can count, but tonight feels different. Tonight she’s not just here for the Thunderwolves.
She’s here to sit with Becky and Trisha, to share what she knows, to feel like she’s part of something bigger than just Grandpa’s team.
And god, seeing her this happy, it’s worth every sacrifice I’ve ever made.
We reach the section where Trisha and her daughter are waiting. Becky bounces in her seat, waving frantically when she spots Krystal.
Trisha stands behind her, steadying her daughter with a hand on her shoulder, smiling in that soft, quiet way of hers.
She’s bundled up in a knit hat and a scarf, but even in the heavy winter clothes, she’s beautiful. Too beautiful.
Krystal hugs me quickly before climbing the steps to them.
She plops down beside Becky, already talking a mile a minute about the lineup and who to watch for on the ice.
Becky listens with wide eyes, hanging on every word.
Trisha glances down at me, her cheeks pink from the cold, her eyes crinkling when she smiles. It’s not meant to gut me, but it does.
I give her a small nod, then force myself to turn back and head toward the bench. I’m the coach. I’ve got a game to win.
But the second I look away, I want to look back.
The first period gets underway, and our guys are skating like they mean it. We’re sharp, passing clean, taking shots that actually count. It’s exactly the kind of start I hoped for.
And yet, I keep glancing behind me, stealing glimpses of Trisha. I tell myself I’m just checking on Krystal, making sure she’s settled. That’s the excuse. The truth is, I can’t seem to help myself.
Every time I see Trisha tuck a strand of hair behind her ear or laugh at something Krystal says, I feel that tug in my chest again.
Stronger, heavier.
She’s not just a woman in the stands. She’s not just Becky’s mom. She’s…more.
What is it about her?
I’ve spent years trying to keep my life in check, trying to be steady for Krystal, for the team, for myself.
Women have come and gone, but none of them stuck.
None of them mattered.
Not like this.
Trisha matters, even if she shouldn’t.
She makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of something great. All I have to do is reach out for it. Reach out for Trisha.
The crowd roars when we score our first goal, and I raise my arm in celebration with the rest of the bench.
Still, out of the corner of my eye, I catch Trisha clapping, her face lit with pride. My chest tightens at the sight, and I know I’m in trouble.
By the end of the period, we’re up by two goals. The guys are grinning, slapping each other on the helmets as they skate off the ice. The fans are wild, the arena electric.
Then I notice Jake, the last of the players still on the ice.
Instead of heading straight to the locker room like he normally would, he veers off toward the bleachers. Straight toward Trisha.
My stomach knots. This is what we planned. He needs to show the world he’s not the reckless, arrogant player he’s always been. He’s changing. Evolving.
This is my idea after all. Make everyone believe the playboy has settled down. That he’s found a woman who claims his heart. Still, watching him head toward Trisha knots my gut.
Jake leans over the railing, says something that makes Trisha laugh. She looks nervous, glancing around as if she can feel every eye on her. Then she leans forward and kisses him on the cheek, exactly like we talked about.
That should’ve been the end.
But Jake doesn’t know when to stop. He’s a showman through and through.
He loves having fans’ eyes on him and this is no different. I should have remembered that when I came up with this idea of Jake and Trisha pretending to be exclusive.
Jake pulls her closer and presses a quick but tender kiss to her lips.
My whole body goes rigid, hands gripping the edge of the boards so tight my knuckles ache.
Trisha freezes, shock flashing across her face an instant before she blushes and smiles shyly. Jake just grins like he scored the winning goal.
The fans around them erupt in cheers. Cameras flash. Reporters scribble notes. And me? I’m ready to tear him off the ice and bench him for the rest of the season.
For one insane moment, I imagine doing it. Sitting him down, teaching him a lesson about boundaries, about sticking to the plan. About keeping his damn lips to himself.
But I can’t. The team needs him.
It takes me a minute to dissect what I’m really feeling. It’s not jealousy as much as envy.
I want my lips on Trisha’s sweet mouth.
I want to taste her, feel her body pressed snuggly against mine. As Jake skates off the ice, I give myself a mental shake.
This is ridiculous. I’m twice her age.
My granddaughter is a year older than her child.
I’m a widow and coach of a team that’s sinking under bad press. I have no business desiring her. But I do and I can’t help it.
I take the stairs up the bleachers two at a time to where they are sitting, telling myself it’s just to check on Krystal.
That’s the excuse, anyway.
The real reason is already looking at me from the row where she sits, a knit hat pulled low over her dark hair.
Trisha shifts when she notices me, straightening in her seat.
Krystal and Becky are deep in conversation, their heads bent close, giggling and pointing at the rink. It gives me the perfect opening.
“You gals having fun?” I ask, resting a hand on the railing beside Trisha’s shoulder. My voice is casual, but inside my chest is pounding.
“They’re having the time of their lives.” She tilts her head toward the girls. Her voice is warm, soft enough that I have to lean in to hear it over the crowd. “Krystal knows more about hockey than I do. She’s giving Becky lessons.”
I chuckle, my gaze slipping from her mouth to her eyes. “I’m not surprised. She’s been living and breathing this game since she could walk. Probably earlier.”
Trisha smiles, and the edges of it curl something tight inside me.
There’s no reason for my body to react this way to a simple smile, but it does.
“You’re doing a good job with her,” she says. “She’s confident, kind. That’s not easy.”
The words land heavier than she probably means them to. I swallow, suddenly wanting to tell her more than I should, but I keep it simple. “Thanks. Means a lot coming from you.”
Her cheeks color, and she looks away for a moment, down at her gloved hands in her lap. But I catch it—the spark of desire in her eyes before she turns. She feels this pull between us too.
The girls start whispering again, oblivious to the way the air thickens between us. I lean closer, close enough to smell the faint trace of vanilla on her skin. “You holding up okay with all this?” I nod toward the chaos of the arena, the constant noise, the cameras sweeping the stands.
She laughs under her breath. “It’s loud. But I’m fine. Not my first hockey game, Coach.”
The word Coach on her lips makes my body tense in a way I don’t want to analyze too closely.
I search her face, trying to figure out if she knows what she’s doing to me.
Our eyes lock, and for a heartbeat the rest of the arena fades out. She doesn’t look away.
I confirm it in her then, the same pull, the same want that’s eating me alive.
Maybe not on my hellish level, but it’s there.
Krystal calls my name, breaking the spell. I drag my gaze from Trisha, forcing myself back into safe territory.
“We’re gonna win,” Krystal says with a grin.
“That’s the plan,” I answer, but my eyes flick back to Trisha one last time before I turn away.
She’s watching me, lips parted just slightly, like she’s on the edge of saying something she can’t.
And god help me, I almost stop to let her.
When the second period ends, we’re still in control of the game.
The Zamboni crawls out onto the ice, its steady hum filling the arena.
I’m supposed to be reviewing shifts, thinking about adjustments. Instead, my thoughts are stuck on Trisha.
Of Jake kissing Trisha and me wishing to switch places with my player.
Of the way she’d looked at me, as if she was just waiting for me to kiss her.
My pants grow uncomfortably tight in the crotch, so I shift a little on the bench to ease the tension.
Suddenly, the crowd grows louder, whistles and shouts echoing through the stands. I glance up, confused. Then I see it.
The jumbotron.
Big as life, there it is—Jake kissing Trisha. Over and over, the clip loops.
And splashed across the screen in bold, taunting letters reads: Could this be serious?
The fans go wild. Some cheer, some boo, everyone’s talking.
My jaw locks and my chest burns.
This is what we wanted.
This is what Jake needed.
Trisha played her part.
But as I sit here, staring up at that screen, it doesn’t feel like a win. It feels like I’m losing something I didn’t even know I had a claim to.
The players line up, ready for the third period, and I force myself back into the role of coach. I have to. The game isn’t over. There’s work to do.
But the thought gnaws at me, sharp and relentless.
Did I just make the biggest mistake of my life?