11. Shay
SHAY
Matt has done a flawless job of implementing my correction and keeping his body tucked tight to the bar, making me feel like I might possibly make a difference for this team, for the goalies.
I didn’t realize how much I would enjoy this, but, God, it’s like I can finally feel the high of a win again, like I’m a part of a team.
More than anything, I didn’t realize how much I would miss the sense of family on the ice, even if I’m standing a few feet into the tunnel.
Slowly but surely, I’m working my way closer to the ice. One of these days, I’ll be planted right beside Andy. This team may never give me back my place on the ice, but they’ve given me hope that I can get better.
I can tell Matt’s in his head as the team skates off for the first intermission.
His gaze is down, jaw set tighter than normal.
He’s blaming himself for the goal that the Penguins scored, but that wasn't entirely on him.
Our own guy was blocking his sight line of the puck, and the smart Penguins player used that to his advantage. It happens.
He’s not Superman; he doesn’t have X-ray vision.
But that doesn’t mean he’s not beating himself up any less.
I know Andy said that we don’t talk to Matt between periods unless he really needs it, but I can’t help but want to.
He needs to get out of his head, or it’s going to drag him down into next period.
Andy’s talking to Huang as I linger back, falling into step beside Matt. The other players pass beside us, ignoring us, aside from a couple shoulder taps to Matt, showing support.
Reaching out to my side ever so slightly, I tug at his jersey, and he immediately slows his pace, letting the rest of the players pass by before turning to me, lips tight and eyes cold.
There’s a game-day version of Matt that exists, one that blocks everything else in the world out. It’s like a wall goes up in front of his eyes, impenetrable and solid. It’s there now, keeping out the warmth I’m used to seeing in his gaze.
If he’s sensitive to input between periods, I don’t want to say anything that might send him spiraling any more or trigger it to begin with.
Checking if anyone is near us, I glance side to side even though we’re not doing anything wrong. I’m his coach. Speaking with him right now is very appropriate. But that doesn’t mean I can shake the feeling that being alone with him is very inappropriate.
My voice is soft, like a feather gently floating down into his hands. “That goal wasn’t your fault, and you know it.”
He rolls his eyes, his jaw ticcing as he huffs, the broadness of his shoulders shrinking with his exhale.
“Shay.” He says my name with an exhale, rough and tired.
Oh no.
A flutter roars deep inside of me, a tingle shimmying down my spine from how my name just sounded, coming from his lips. Like ecstasy and danger, all in one. Like I want to hear it again, but next time, not standing in a hallway in an arena, but in private, in breathy gasps.
Oh my God, please stop. Am I ovulating or something? I must be.
That’s the only logical explanation for my body’s reaction to a simple utterance right now.
“You know that wasn’t your fault. Your sight line was completely blocked, and there wasn’t anything you could’ve done about it. Your defender cost you that goal. Simple.” I pause, making sure he's paying the most attention to my next line. “You know that.”
With his jaw tight, he licks his lips, and even though he’s not saying it, I can tell he’s annoyed. But I don’t care. He needs to hear it even if he refuses to accept it.
I half expect him to tell me off and leave him be, but instead, he opens his mouth, voice low. “It doesn’t matter. I need to adjust, pivot. I need to read that move faster so I can be in the right place at the right time. There’s no room for placing blame right now—”
“Unless it’s only on yourself?” I cut him off, crossing my arms, my eyebrows twitching.
He matches my stance, and for the first time during this conversation, I see a sliver of amusement show as a twinkle in his eye. “Exactly. Now you’re getting it.”
I scoff. “Taking the weight of the team on your shoulders isn’t going to make the stress of your personal life weigh any less. You’ll just drown beneath it all.”
His eyebrows furrow, like I said something too far and over the line. And then my heart breaks because there’s a new gleam in his eye, a wetness illuminating from the lights overhead.
“I-I’m just trying to help, get you out of your head,” I murmur softly, guilt crushing my chest.
He sniffles, anger beginning to bubble beneath the surface. I know he’s not mad at me—his eyes tell me so—but he feels it all the same. “Sometimes, the only place I like to be is lost inside my own mind.”
“I get it, trust me.”
His eyes soften at my words, his nostrils twitching.
He chews on his bottom lip before whispering, “I know you do. But I’ve gotten through this all on my own so far.
I can’t change my routine just because you’re here.
I need to be mad at myself. I need to be disappointed.
I deserve it.” He stops himself, guilt echoing in his words, and I want to press further, to lift the next layer that he’s peeling back.
But I don’t because now is definitely not the time and here is certainly not the place.
“All right.” I nod, conceding.
His gaze bounces between my eyes rapidly. “Thank you.”
“I’m here to help. That’s all I want to do.” I pause, fighting the smirk about to form on my lips. “And to secretly take over your hiding space at the arena because that room is only big enough for one of us.”
His brows turn up ever so slightly, and gradually, the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen stretches across his face, lighting up every inch. “That’s my room, Shay. You can’t have it.”
Tipping my head back, I cackle. “Ha! Watch me! You’re going down.”
A genuine laugh bubbles out of him, and he shakes his head, his eyes glued on mine, something deep swirling inside.
Something indiscernible. As he comes down from the high of his laughter, a seriousness drifts over his face, and with a gentle nod, he sighs once more, but this one lightens his shoulders instead of tightening them.
Reaching out, he rests his hand on my arm, squeezing gently. “Thanks, Shay.”
Crossing my arms, I click my tongue and straighten my features. “That’s Coach to you.”
With a two-finger salute, he steps back and smirks, a twinkle in his gaze that steals the air from my lungs. “Yes, Coach!”
He turns and strides down the hallway, and I watch the number on his back until he turns, disappearing from view.
An unsettling ache forms in my throat, sinking lower until it finds a home in my stomach. I want to poke and prod at it, figure out why I’m feeling it at all. But I think if it has anything to do with the way I felt, being so close to Matt just now, I don’t want to know.
It’s so confusing and so wrong. I’m here for my own healing journey and to help the team, not develop feelings for one of the players.
My eyes drift closed, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Oh God.”
I was totally professional. I even made him call me Coach in a perfectly respectable manner. I didn’t flirt at all. Not with my eyes or the touch of his arm. I was a good coach.
But … next time, I need to keep more feet between us because he certainly made it harder to keep the distance.
Before Andy has a chance to find me and yap my ear off about him and his partner’s drama or ask probing questions about why I stopped Matt, I take off to find the bathroom. I’ll hide out there for a few minutes before I have to return to my post.
Thankfully, the bathroom I find has many stalls so I don’t feel guilty, taking up unnecessary time. I use the next few minutes to check messages, having received a few from my parents and friends during the first period.
Mom: We just saw you on TV! You look so beautiful!
I’m wearing her favorite color on me—green—but it’s a specific sage, almost mint, suit with matching straight-legged pants and black pointy-toed heels. My parents always said it was easy to find me in a crowd because my hair always stood out.
While I love my red hair, it has also become an easily recognized feature for hockey gossip blogs and social media. My thumbs are already betraying me before I can stop them, opening up Instagram and checking my tags.
This is the most reckless thing I can do to myself, but it’s like opening a can of worms or driving through yellow lights. I’ve reached a point of no return.
The first post I find is from a hockey account that posts about the men’s league. They’re often a bit misogynistic, so this should go swimmingly.
The caption reads: Shay Rooney joins Nighthawks staff roster as new goalie coach.
You know what they say—if you can’t do, teach.
Not to be rude. We’re a big fan of the Nighthawks here, and we're interested to see how this plays out for the organization.
Shay had a bright future and found a new path as a coach. Good luck!
Oh, yeah, that wasn’t condescending at all.
A phrase glows red in my mind, like a bright neon light. If you can’t do, teach.
Do they think that if I could fucking play again, I wouldn’t? That I’m just coaching because I decided I’m not good enough anymore? What kind of fuckery is that?
I’ve gone through hell and back and back to hell again.
I’m probably scheduled for a million round trips to that horrible destination for the rest of my life because my arm will never be fully healed.
It will never be the same. The healing game is forever.
To get faster, to deal with the pain, it’s forever. Not something I can just wish away.
I’m fuming as I glance up at the time and realize I have to head back. I quickly finger-brush my hair out in the mirror and make sure it looks all right before throwing the door open and striding through.
It’s one article—no, not even an article because it’s just some dumb man on social media running his unfiltered and uneducated mouth. I practically black out, and before I know it, I’m in the tunnel to the bench, closer to the ice than I’ve ever been, still seeing red.
Players approach, strolling down the hallway in a formed line with Matt front and center. His eyes are already on me when I look up, concern pinched between his brows.
He slows near me, stopping the line behind me, which he definitely shouldn’t be doing right now.
Turning to me, he blocks the few players at his back from overhearing as he says, “Shay—” He catches himself far too late. “You good?”
My eyes start to widen as I feel onlooking stares burn into me, and I nod sharply, the only response he‘s getting about my mental state. I hold myself higher, strong and powerful as I avoid answering his question and instead say, “MacArthur, good luck.”
He doesn’t believe my nod, not completely at least, but slight humor glimmers in his gaze, and he winks, clearly leaving the page of being professional that we already established. “Thanks, Coach.”
There’s something about the way he says it, something that pulls deep within my core. I’m trying not to focus on it. Shay was hard enough to ignore. Coach was supposed to be neutral, unromantic territory. But when he says it … it feels anything but.
I don’t smile or react to his wink. Instead, I slightly scowl, turning my attention away from him altogether to an approaching Andy. If Matt won’t stay on the page we established, then I’ll staple his ass to it.
I know that he was just trying to make me smile or chuckle because he could clearly tell something was wrong. But it doesn’t matter. I’m loving this job, and I’m not going to risk losing it. Which is exactly what I’m going to tell him—again—when this game is over.
Thankfully, we win, ending the series against the Penguins and advancing to the next round. Our opponent isn’t set yet. We’re still waiting for the winner of that round to be crowned. In the meantime, we’ll recover, practice, and prepare.
There’s no smooth time to steal Matt away for a conversation without drawing the attention of other players or coaches. So, instead, when we get on the bus to take us to the team hotel tonight, I open Instagram and send him a message.
Good game. On to the next.
I can’t see him with how far back he’s sitting, but I’m not left pondering long because he answers almost immediately.
Matt: Horrible flirting skills, Rooney.
I’m not flirting. I’m your coach. You’re my player. That’s all we can be.
For now.
The thought appears out of nowhere, but I ignore it.
Matt: Tell me I’m your player again. I liked it.
What has gotten into him? He said he was fine being friends, but clearly, he wants more.
Matt, I’m serious. You and I do not have time for anything other than a professional relationship. Especially going into the next round. Please.
We put the team first.
Typing bubbles appear and disappear a thousand times before his next message comes through.
Matt: You don’t have to tell me twice, Shay. I’ll keep it professional. I promise. I’m sorry I pushed it too far. I never want you to be uncomfortable.
He doesn’t make me uncomfortable or uneasy. Honestly, I’ve never felt safer around someone than I do him. But that’s part of the problem.
So, instead of assuring him that I love his worries, I send a quick formal message, trying to ignore the sensation of a thousand pounds in my gut.
Thank you. See you next practice, Mr. MacArthur.
He types again, the bubbles appearing and disappearing, just like last time. But this time, he doesn’t send a message. So, I lock my phone and tuck it in my purse, trying to convince myself that this is the right decision.
The hard part is that I feel like I’m on two missions right now. One, win the Stanley Cup with the Nighthawks. Two, explore my feelings for Matt. The problem is that one can’t happen with the other, not without jeopardizing everything.