27. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
27
Two months later…
The muffled echo of the crowd's final cheers still rings in my ears long after the Stanley Cup is hoisted, the champagne sprayed, and the locker room celebration fades into memory. I've got another championship etched into my resume and a mission that's been burning a hole in my pocket for over two months.
And now, I’m standing in Coach Sellers’s kitchen in Montreal, helping him box up the rest of his stuff to his new home in New Brunswick. Coach Sellers leans back against his counter, taking a swig from his beer and being the very picture of nonchalance.
That beer in his hand? It's as much a prop as a nod to my past party days, a silent jab reminding me I've got a grown-up game to play here.
I take a sip of the water he gave me without asking and clear my throat. "Coach," I say, trying to wear my most leisurely smile. "About Rory and me..."
“No.”
My brows clash together. “No, what?”
“Whatever you’re about to add to that sentence, the answer is no.”
Bullshit.
I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.
Hell, I knew it would be one of the hardest things I would do. But I’m not taking no for a fucking answer, am I?
"No?" I echo, trying to keep my voice steady, the muscles in my jaw working to chew back the tidal wave of impatience.
"Yeah, no." Coach's voice is as flat as his sense of humor. As a group, my team loves to fuck around with each other.
He’s not a fan.
However, he also needs to get used to the fact that we’re not a bunch of players who play with a stick up our asses like his previous team.
I lean my elbows on his dining room table, giving myself a full view of the man who's been the iron gate to this all happening.
"Look, I didn't come here to play games," I say, meeting that gaze head-on. "You know I'm serious about her. And here I am, asking for your blessing like a man because that's what Rory deserves."
His brows clash with a look of disapproval. “My permission for what?”
My God, this guy.
It’s like pulling teeth to converse with him, and I’m starting to think it’s just his personality.
And I thought I was all hockey all the time.
“I want to marry—”
"You think winning a shiny piece of metal gives you a free pass?" Coach Sellers's voice has a new hard edge, but it's not shut-down angry—it's challenge-issued.
I can work with this.
"No," I respond, shaking my head with a calm I barely feel. "I think loving your daughter, respecting your rules, and coming here face-to-face gives me, at least, a shot at that pass. I've proved I'm different from the guy who partied too hard.
“By asking me to marry her?” I open my lips, but he beats me with, “I don’t think so.”
Son of a bitch.
“Why?”
Coach cocks his head to the side. “Why? Did you want me to list all the reasons—”
“Yes.”
He stares at me for a moment, then places down his beer. “You’re not good enough for her.”
“Who is?”
“And I don’t know you yet.”
“I’ve had dinner with you every Friday night for over two months. What else do you want to know?”
“I don’t want my daughter to go through marriage alone while you’re on the ice for the next five years of your contract with New Brunswick. It’s hard.”
"And why would I make her go through it alone?" I counter, holding his gaze with a level of sincerity I hope is breaking through the ice. "I'm not asking Rory to do this without knowing the challenges. We've talked about it. She knows what my career entails, and we’re a team, Coach. Just like on the ice, no one wins alone."
He’s silent again and assessing. It's his move, and I've laid out the best play I have to get his approval because, without it, it leaves a bunch of shit in my way.
"Look, Coach," I say, voice firm. "I'm not saying it's going to be easy. But I love her. Enough to ensure we find a way to handle the stress, the travel, everything. Together. And if that means off-season marriage counseling or scheduling every second, I’m off the ice to be with her, then that's what I'll do."
His eyes, still locked with mine, seem to soften just a fraction. "You think you've got all the answers, don't you, Wells?"
“If I don’t have them, I’ll find them. I'm not claiming to be perfect, but I'm ready to be the best for her."
Coach's gaze holds steady on mine a moment longer before drifting away, a tell that maybe my words are getting through. He picks up his beer again but doesn't drink it; he rolls the cold bottle between his hands. It's a silent admission that this battle isn't one he can win by sheer will.
"I suppose it's not up to me, in the end," he finally concedes, and while it's not an out-and-out blessing, there's a truce in his tone that wasn't there before. "But so, help me, Wells, if you let her down…I’m good at making people’s lives a living hell. And your ass is in my hands at all times.”
I don't know how I feel about that analogy, but alright.
"I won't, Coach. You have my word."
For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen is the fridge's hum. Then he nods once, sharply, more to himself than to me.
"All right," he says, setting his beer on the counter with finality. "Go on, then."
“I have your blessing?”
“You have my permission to ask.”
“With your blessing?”
His eyes narrow. “Do I look like the fuckin’ Pope to you, boy?”
With those sharp words, I'm released—not just from the tension of his kitchen and our stalemate over beers, but into a future I've been itching to jump into since the day I knew Rory was the one.
“Thanks, Coach. I look forward—”
“I wouldn’t just yet.” He pushes off the counter and hovers over the dining room table. “I’m not making it easy for you.”
I wouldn’t expect anything different.
“Then I’ll go start my plan then,” I divulge, rising from my chair. “I’ll have her tell you the news before it’s released to the public.”
“How about you keep a secret? Forever.”
I chuckle. I can’t help it. “I can’t give you that, Coach. I plan on making sure the whole world knows she’s mine.”