Chapter 6
Finley
I drop my grocery bags and my black backpack to the ground outside my door, digging into the pocket with the Yeti mascot on it to find the key to my door.
“Hey, Coach,” a low voice says behind me. I quickly pop up, key in hand, to see Kane moving down the hallway, followed by a petite blonde woman. His six-foot-three frame looks giant in comparison.
My stomach tightens, just slightly, as I glance between the two of them. I’m… annoyed. I just had a major conversation with Kane about how we need a leader on this team, and what? He immediately went to the bar next door to the arena and picked someone up?
Of course he did. He’s Beckett Kane.
Just because he isn’t one of those players constantly making the news thanks to his evening activities doesn’t mean he isn’t like that.
It just means he’s smart enough to be discreet.
Which doesn’t surprise me. After spending over an hour in my office with him today, it’s clear he is intelligent—and not only about hockey.
Honestly, it felt more like a strategy session with one of my coaches than it did talking with a player…
which I will not be digging into any further at this time.
“Evening, Kane.” I meet his eyes. Something hot and irritated crackles up my spine. I move my gaze to the woman—beautiful, bright smile, two inches shorter than me, despite the heels she’s wearing. “Well, I’ll leave you two to—”
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open, revealing Larsen and Li, looking like the human version of puppies as they tumble out, wearing matching Yeti joggers and T-shirts.
“No way! You invited Coach?”
I look between the three of them, suddenly very sure I do not want to know what’s about to happen in that room.
Not my business. Not my business. Not my—
“What are you boys up to tonight?” I ask, deciding it is my business. Because a good coach cares. Not because I’ll wonder about this forever if I don’t find out.
Kane slowly lifts one eyebrow as if to say, “Boys?” Luckily, Larsen is here, and he’s always ready to talk.
“Dinner. Kane is trying out private chefs, and he invited us along.”
I blink once, digesting what I heard. Is this Kane’s usual MO, or is he taking my request to become a leader on and off the ice seriously?
“Did he not invite you?” Larsen continues. “I’m sure there’s enough room.” He looks at Kane. “Right?”
Kane pauses a beat too long, so Larsen changes his focus to the woman I’m now realizing must be the chef. “Right?”
There’s slight panic in her eyes, and I can only assume she’s trying to mentally calculate how she’s going to add another plate of food from the cooler bag slung over her arm, which probably should’ve been a sign earlier that this wasn’t a date.
“Unfortunately, I have plans tonight, but thanks for the offer… Larsen.” I add the last part with a slight smirk toward Kane.
My players certainly don’t need to know those plans consist of a steak salad for dinner, prepared by yours truly from a salad-in-a-bag kit and my leftover filet from last night’s dinner, and three to five hours of watching film.
“Oo, big date, Coach?” Larsen asks, and the way Kane’s shoulders bunch makes me want to laugh. Clearly regretting inviting the rookie over for dinner. As psychotic as he makes me, I secretly love the chaos energy Larsen brings.
“Dude.” Li punches his friend in the arm.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “Larsen, what makes you think that’s an appropriate question?”
“Thought it was worth a try,” the large man says. “I got Grumpy McGrumperson over here”—he points at a scowling Kane with his thumb—“to invite me to his place for dinner, so I thought maybe it was my lucky day or something. And I’m a nosy fucker who happens to know nothing about you.”
“It’s going to stay that way, too,” I reply before unlocking my door. “Good luck, Chef.”
I shut the door to the sound of another player exiting the elevator and joining the fray.
I really should’ve considered the fact that I live across the hall before telling Kane to step up his leadership game.
A clear miscalculation on my part. I just hope he doesn’t start parading women around every night.
I rest my forehead against the closed door, annoyed that I care.
Annoyed that it even crossed my mind. And slightly annoyed that Kane doesn’t remember the fifteen minutes he spent helping me with my slap shot.
It has lived rent-free in my head since I was sixteen, but apparently holds less than zero mental space for him.
Which is fair. And not at all something I should be annoyed by. Which I recognize.
Shoving the irritation down, I move through my evening routine, the occasional sounds from across the hall reminding me of how isolated I’ve become.
It grates. Especially when I hear the high-pitched laugh of a woman. The chef.
Because she can laugh and flirt with random men. She didn’t have to sacrifice everything to achieve her dreams. She doesn’t have the world waiting for her to make one mistake and take it all away.
After a quick dinner in front of my laptop, I change into the shorts and T-shirt I prefer to sleep in and pull the Falcons’ film up on my TV. With my notes folder open on my screen, I get to work, preparing for our next game.
I’m through the first period, almost no notes written, when I pause and rewind the play, forcing myself to focus as their forward scores the first goal of the game. He’s fast, but not unstoppable.
Voices drift through the door, and I tiptoe to the peephole, not at all proud of myself for my curiosity. The chef is saying goodbye, and Kane steps out into the hall with her.
I watch, like a complete stalker, as he shakes her hand, thanking her for her time.
His hand looks large compared to hers, and I imagine what it must feel like to have its strong warmth wrapped around—oh, for crying out loud.
I clearly have let my personal life go stagnant for too long if I’m suddenly envisioning Beckett Kane’s hand wrapped around mine in a way that is certainly not suitable for a player and their coach.
“All right, boys, fifteen minutes until option two is here,” Kane announces as he walks into his apartment.
Oh, hell. Of course they’re trying out multiple chefs. Why can’t they just go home so I can get back to my usual routine?
I debate emailing Paige to see if she can get Kane assigned to another unit, but decide against it.
These are still early days. Asking for a player to be moved, or even for me to move out of the building, would cause a level of gossip that I neither need nor want in the middle of the season.
A season that’s already decided to be a huge fucking pain in my ass.
Instead, I silently move back to the couch, grabbing my headphones from my backpack as I pass. Deciding I need a distraction, I make a call to the only person likely to answer at this time.
“Hey, Dad,” I say once the video connects.
“Finley, is everything okay? Shouldn’t you be watching film?” he asks, clearly confused about why I’m calling him now, rather than waiting for our usual check-in.
“I’m making my way through the Falcons’ last game as we speak,” I reply.
“That Lancaster is fast. Shows off too much with his stickwork, though.”
“Indeed.”
We sit in silence for a beat, and I question why calling my dad felt like a good option. He has always been there for me, but we don’t do feelings. We don’t do easy conversations or banter. We don’t do—well, anything that isn’t hockey.
He finally offers, “And you got Beckett Kane.”
“I did.”
“He’ll be a strong addition for your team. White clearly knows what he’s about over there.”
“He does,” I agree. Even I can see that I might’ve been a bit dramatic in cutting Kane from my original list.
“Plus, they can probably do some fluff piece about two kids from a few miles away ending up on the same team—one as the coach, one as the star player.” Dad laughs. “Did you know he’s from Superior?”
“Read it in the packet the team put together,” I answer, with no intention of mentioning to my dad that I met Kane once before. Or that he hasn’t left my mind since he showed up outside my front door, disrupting the modicum of equilibrium I’ve tried so hard to achieve.
I mean, just look at tonight. It should’ve been one of the most productive evenings of my week. Home early from the arena, a good dinner, and a few hours’ worth of film watched with actionable notes to discuss with the coaches tomorrow. Instead, I’ve been distracted by the party across the hall.
And whose fault is it? The same man I clearly didn’t choose to be on my ice, and yet, somehow, is. Beckett fucking Kane.
That’s who.
“… why it’s so important that you let Rob handle him. He’s older than you, Finley. He’s not going to take a woman telling him what to do well,” my dad says, still talking about Kane, though, apparently, now he’s moved on from fun biographical facts to reasons why I’m not fit to coach him.
All my players are younger than me, but besides Sutton, none of my assistant coaches are, so I’ve moved on from the fact that I’m in charge of men many years my senior. It never crossed my mind that I should worry about Kane being three years older than me.
“I understand, Dad.”
Rob is the defensive coach, so he will work most directly with Kane, but at the same time, my dad’s worry doesn’t reflect my experience today.
“I do think he respects me, though,” I continue. “We had a long conversation about what I expect from him, moving forward, and he seemed receptive.”
“Of course he did. Kane’s a smart man. He didn’t make it this long by making an enemy of the coach on day one. Trust me when I say, he’s not happy to be on your team.”
Some people might think it’s harsh coming from the man who had me in skates before I could walk, but not me.
Sure, my dad may have always been my harshest critic, but it’s only because he holds me to the highest levels of perfection.
And if anyone is interested in arguing that it’s an “unhealthy parenting dynamic,” like my one and only long-term boyfriend, Travis, did, well, the results speak for themselves.
Literally no other fathers ever will be able to say their daughter was the first female head coach in professional hockey.
And just wait until I’m holding the championship trophy over my head—then he really will be proud of me.
“I’ll talk to Rob,” I concede, though my stomach turns at the thought. I’m the head coach. I shouldn’t need to ask Rob to handle a player for me. A player who, so far, seems to have no issues with me. And even if he does, well, he can do what veteran players do: retire.
But my dad knows this sport better than anyone else. Even if he’s not been coaching for over a decade now, he’s still one of the most respected minds in hockey. So, if he thinks I need to be worried about whether Kane respects me or not, I will.