22. Shay #3
Slowly, he turns around to face me, eyes bloodshot and sweat pouring down his face, his hair soaked with exhaustion.
He’s looking anywhere but at me, and I get it.
He wants to avoid the emotion he’s feeling, and for some goalies, that works—blocking the rest of the world out.
But clearly, from what happened last time, that strategy isn’t in his favor.
“Matt,” I murmur, and his intense stare finds mine before I finish saying his name. “Talk to me.”
His nostrils flare, and he chuckles, his head tilting to the side.
“I—” His voice cracks, and he shakes his head in disgust. “Shay, what do you want me to say?” His voice grows louder, but I know he’s not shouting at me.
He’s yelling at himself. His eyes slam shut, giving him enough confidence to deliver every word with clarity, and he smacks his chest with each beat.
“I’m going to cost us this game. I’m going to be the reason we fail. ”
He sucks in a heavy breath, his face distorting with emotion as he exhales quickly. I can see him try to catch his breath, but he can’t. The panic attack is already rooting deep into his psyche. His bottom lip, hands, and body shake, his breathing loud and piercing.
I can see him mentally trying to put Scotch tape over cavernous wounds, taping together shards of glass and fear. They’re not going to last, and he’s going to explode. But when he does, I’ll be right here.
When I take a step toward him, he sniffles, and I watch the shift happen in his eyes, the walls crumbling to nothing and exposing the terrified little boy who just wanted to play hockey because it was fun.
Somehow, his breathing quickens even more, his head and shoulders bobbing with the gasps. I don’t know if this will work, but I saw it in a show once, and if anything, maybe it’ll comfort him just enough.
I reach him in two steps, my hands finding his jaw and pulling him down enough to crash my lips to his. He’s frozen for a second, his breath caught in his lungs. But then his hands find my waist, yanking me to him, and his tongue parts my lips, deepening our kiss.
We’re a mess of emotion, sweat, and desperation. He’s kissing me like he’ll die without it, and from his intensity, I’m starting to believe it. A deep groan vibrates against my lips—no, not a groan, but a sob.
With my hands on his cheeks, I pull back and find tears streaming down his face. “Hey, hey, hey. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. It’s you and me through this, remember? Until the end.”
He tucks his tongue between his teeth. “Shay, what if … what if I can’t do this? What if I can’t pull it together and play at my best? What if everything they’ve said about me is true?”
“It’s not,” I shout, cutting him off before he finishes his last word. “It’s not.”
Something comes over me, from deep inside my chest, in a place I locked and threw away the key.
“Was the only reason I became a goalie to hide my face because I was so hideous? Am I a worthless excuse for a professional athlete?”
His face morphs with disgust as he processes what I’m saying.
“Am I a whore, only coaching a men’s team to get close to the guys so I can sleep around? Am I the worst decision this franchise has ever made? Would it have been better off had I died on the ice the day of my accident?”
I drop my hands from his face as both of our spines straighten—his because he realizes the point I’m making and mine because I truly and finally believe that nothing I just said was accurate. I didn’t spiral or question my worth because I finally know who I am.
“Seriously, Matt, do you believe all of those things to be true?”
He scoffs, “What?! No, of course not! But—” He stops himself this time. “I get it. I get it.”
He sighs, and I can see some of the tension in his body releasing. Gradually, his shoulders start to lighten, the weight falling by the wayside.
“Don’t believe their lies, Matt. They don’t know you, and if they did”—I pause, knowing the fastest way to yank him out of his head right now is to make him smile—“they would mock you far harder for your warm-up playlist than your abilities on the ice,” I tease him with a smirk, jabbing my finger into his chest.
Amusement twinkles in his gaze, and the straight line of his mouth breaks, tipping up. He laughs, once, and I might have to start doing cartwheels to get this energy out.
“Don’t talk about Britney like that. It’s a killer playlist.”
Holding my hands up in defeat, I chuckle. “Hey, I’m not hating on it.”
“Yeah.” His confidence starts to climb again, and he teases me right back. “I remember the first time we met here, when you were aggressively crying and shout-singing ‘Hollaback Girl.’ ”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I take a step forward and rise up onto the balls of my stilettos. “This pep talk is about you, mister.”
He leans his head back, just enough to get a good look at me, and, boy, does he look.
It’s like he’s staring at me for the first time, taking every blemish and inch of my face in, committing it to memory before moving on to the next.
He sees me so deeply, not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually.
“You know what?” he murmurs, his hands tugging at my waist and pulling me against him.
A giggle slips free as I stare up at him, and I imagine what he’s going to say.
The three words I’ve been floating around for a while?
But if there’s any advice I should take, it’s the one I give.
While I’m trying to figure out what he’ll say next, he mutters something that takes me by complete surprise as his lips lower to mine.
“You’re a damn good coach, Rooney.” He kisses me fiercely and deeply, self-assurance rolling off of him in waves.
I melt against him, giving him as much of me as he wants.
But someone clears their throat behind us, and I fly backward, spinning to find a very stern looking Coach Carrington.
Whoopsies … I feel like I just got caught by a parent. I stifle my laugh at the thought.
“What’s going on here exactly?” he growls.
“Coach Carring—”
Matt cuts me off, stepping beside me, his shoulders strong and proud.
“I’ll explain,” he says firmly, and seeing him like this gives me complete faith in everything that follows.
“Look, I fucked up the first period, okay? I own that. I made mistakes because I was in my own head. But if you put me back out there”—he walks over to Carrington and looks him straight in the eyes—“I will win us the Cup.”
Something passes between them, something I don’t understand, but then Carrington does something that surprises me.
He nods sharply and steps to the side. “Okay. The net’s yours, Mac.”
“Thank you.” Matt lets out a quick breath before turning back to me, where I’m reaching down and grabbing his helmet. “And thank you, Coach.”
Matt picks up his gloves and blocker, catching the helmet I toss at him.
“Anytime.”
He strides past Carrington and turns back down the tunnel, leaving me alone with Coach Grump, but honestly, I’m thankful for it. Let’s address the elephant in the room and get it over with.
Sighing, he scratches his forehead, then meets my eye. “What were you guys doing in here?”
I mean … I think he can figure that one out on his own, but if he wants me to spell it out for him …
He doesn’t even blink as I say, “I was coaching him … sir.”
He wets his bottom lip in thought. “Look, I don’t know what you said to him or how you got him out of that, but …” He pauses, and I can tell the words are almost painful for him. “Thank you. Good job.”
Nodding sharply, I suddenly feel like I could run a marathon. “Thank you.”
He relaxes his shoulders, and the slightest smirk flutters across his face. “Do you coach all of your goalies like that? Because we may have to have a more serious conversation if that’s the case.”
This time, I can’t contain the laughter, but I quickly calm it down. “No, sir, just that one.”
I swear he sighs more than a single person should.
“All right.” He glances to the side, and I can see the wheels burning behind his eyes. “We’ll need to inform HR right away about your relationship, especially since you’re a faculty member and he’s a player. But we can worry about that after tonight.”
Oh … wow, I did expect him to be a bit more upset, especially given his grumpy demeanor most of the time. But he’s actually rather accepting.
He pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters, mostly to himself, “I swear to God, this is the last time I can have this conversation with HR.”
“Thank you,” Unexpected emotion peppers my eyes, and he meets my stare, his hand falling to his side. “Thank you for letting me join this team and be a part of this.”
A genuine grin ghosts across his lips. “You’ve proven your worth, Coach Rooney. We’re lucky to have you.” He pushes the door open further. “Now please get back to your post.”
“Yes, sir.” I can’t hide my smile as I stride forward and slip past him, my heart and happiness somehow finding a new high.