Chapter 10
Beckett
“Did you see the email from Sabrina that just came through?” Li asks from the locker next to mine.
“No.” I keep my attention wholly on the stick I’m retaping.
“It’s a reminder about The Great Yeti Challenge. The second event is coming up.”
“What are you and Coach going to do for your talent?” Larsen asks from a few lockers over, a slightly evil tug to his smile.
“Do you think arguing about who the greatest defenseman of all time is will do the trick?” I ask, remembering the conversation Coach Blake and I had after the Vancouver game a few days ago.
It hadn’t started as anything. Just the two open seats in the team dining area, celebrating a win against a good Stormriders team.
We were deep into a discussion about the best players.
She’d been halfway through a bite when I’d said Stevens was the greatest. She’d stopped chewing and set her fork down like I’d just insulted her grandma.
“Absolutely not,” she’d said, arguing that he was aggressive, not elite.
“Sacrifice doesn’t win games. Decision-making does. Positioning. Discipline.”
“I’m fucked, then,” I’d joked, thinking about the way I’d sacrificed my body over and over again during that game to make sure we walked away with the victory.
She’d laughed, and so had I. Then there’d been this pause, just a beat too long, and it hit me that I liked the way she got animated when she cared.
It was fun, and I was relaxed in a way that I hadn’t been in a very long time.
But then, when the staff stopped by and asked whether we needed anything before they left, the room around us now empty, the feeling had, thankfully, vanished.
There are two quick raps on the locker room door and a long pause—the signal Queenie uses to let us know she’s about to come in, so we should throw whatever we can over any exposed penises.
Or at least that’s how Larsen explained it to me when it happened on my first day, when I’d looked with confusion at the door.
According to Larsen, she “doesn’t need her eyes burned by the sight of our flaccid dicks. ”
“Ah, hey, Coach,” Larsen greets when she opens the door, and I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I don’t have a shirt on. And, inexplicably, of the fact that Larsen is only in compression shorts.
Damn it. No. She’s just another coach. Coaches walk into locker rooms all the time. She has seen all the things. And just like every coach I’ve had before her, she has zero interest in seeing anyone here naked.
“Larsen.” Coach nods at the rookie. “How’s the rib?”
The rookie took a nasty hit during our game against the Seattle Tempest and almost had to sit out the Vancouver game. Luckily, he has the recovery benefits of essentially being a child, so he was cleared to play.
“Looking real pretty these days.” He shows her his left side, where the bruise is starting to yellow.
“Well, I’m glad there’s finally something pretty about you.”
Larsen laughs before saying, “We were just talking about what talent you and Kane are going to do. My guess is singing.”
Queenie’s eyebrows pull together in a way that makes it very clear that she will not be singing.
“It’s so hard to pick just one talent when you’re amazing at everything,” she deadpans, causing Li and Larsen to both let out chuckles.
“Unfortunately, we have to filter out the things Kane can’t do, so we’re quite limited in our options. ”
Now, the two dumbasses are practically rolling around on the floor, and Coach is looking quite pleased with herself. I’m apparently suffering from a minor heart attack because it seems to be beating about four times its normal speed.
“I have to go to a community event this afternoon, Kane. Do you want to stop by my place once you finish up here?”
I nod. “Sure, it’ll be around—”
“Six fifteen.”
“Are you stalking me, Coach?” I ask, feeling pleasantly surprised that she knows my routine.
“In the sense that I know what each and every one of my players is doing at almost any given moment when they’re in the barn, yes.”
“Yessss,” Larsen whispers. “I knew she was obsessed with me.”
“Dude,” I bark at him.
“What?” he asks, holding his hands up. “My farm team coach was obsessed with me, too, and he was even bigger than you are, Kane.”
“Sounds good,” I respond to Queenie, completely ignoring the rookie. “Though, let’s meet at my place. I can have my chef leave meals for two. I’ve seen firsthand what your culinary skills are.”
“I wasn’t offering to feed you, Kane,” she clarifies. I swear Larsen and Li look like they’re in a movie theater with a bowl of popcorn. “And even if I was, I assure you I can cook steak and broccoli just fine.”
“Um, if you’re offering, Coach—”
“Certainly not, Larsen.”
“We’re better chefs, anyway.” Li is slightly less confident than Larsen but still willing to jump in on the chirping. “Three unbiased judges said so.”
I catch the slight smirk at the corner of his lips and let out a laugh. “I think you two might have paid off the judges.”
“Never!” Larsen boasts, chest puffed and ready to defend his honor.
“Mm ’kay, boys. Well, this has been fun,” Queenie says, turning her attention to our captain, who has been quietly gearing up by his locker. “J.D., when you get a chance, can you come to my office? I’m worried idiot-itis might be contagious, and I can’t risk catching it in here.”
She leaves, and for the next five hours, all I can think about is having dinner with her.
During drills with Rob, I push myself and Li hard to make sure we don’t have to stay late.
I practically run to the first available physical therapist, not caring that I had to shove Dom out of the way. He’s the backup goalie, anyway.
Finally, I’m showered and changed, and following my chef’s directions to heat up the miso-cod-and-asparagus meal for us.
At exactly six fifteen, there is a knock, and with one last glance around the apartment, I pull the door open.
Fuck. Queenie—she would hate it if she knew how often I refer to her as that in my head—has changed out of the pantsuit she was in earlier today and is now in joggers and a long-sleeved Yeti tee. Her hair is pulled on top of her head in a messy bun. It’s the least put together I’ve ever seen her.
“Kane,” she says, stepping in. Her tone is professional—almost cold—and I miss the banter from the locker room.
She takes in the room around me, and I do the same, suddenly realizing just how cookie-cutter the place is.
Besides my gym bag taking up a corner of the living room, I haven’t changed a single thing since I moved in.
No pictures on the walls. No blankets thrown over the couch. No game console hooked up to the TV.
“It’s the flipped version of mine,” she observes.
I pull on the back of my neck. “I’m sure yours has a few more touches of home,” I offer, not sure why I’m embarrassed. It’s been over a month since I was traded to Denver, and we’ve had seven away games since then. Though I never got around to decorating my place in Florida, either.
She considers it. “I don’t really think so. I guess I have a picture of my dad and me on that little table between the couch and the window, but otherwise…” She squints. “No. I think they’re exactly the same.”
“Do you want it to feel more like… home?” I ask before I can stop myself. I know I shouldn’t, but there’s a part of me that wants to learn every detail about Finley.
Her gaze flicks to mine, quick and guarded. “I’m not even sure what that means at this point.”
It’s the way her jaw clenches that tells me she wishes she hadn’t answered at all. “I didn’t mean to pry,” I mutter. “Just… curious, I guess.”
“It’s fine.”
“Plus, the apartments are nice as they are,” I state, wondering where the funny woman who argued that Stevens wasn’t the best defenseman of all time at dinner the other night went to. The one who poked fun at Larsen today.
The timer beeps, and I pull the food from the oven, plating a piece of cod and a healthy scoop of asparagus for each of us.
“You didn’t have to feed me,” she says.
“Might as well. We both have to eat.”
“Well, thank you.”
We eat in a silence that isn’t quite uncomfortable, but it’s not natural, either.
I just… don’t know what to say. She’s in full coach mode, and for some reason, all I want is for her to be able to be herself around me.
To not wear the fake smile she puts on when she’s trying to be the perfect version of herself that people expect.
The one that makes it impossible to get to know the real her.
“I’ve been working on that whole leadership thing we talked about the other day,” I offer when I can’t handle the silence any longer. Wanting to offer up something more, I continue, “Seeing it from your point of view, I understand why I’ve been overlooked as captain for so long.”
“I’m glad I could help.” Her shoulders lower just slightly.
“So, since you’re clearly all-knowing.” I send a grin her way. “Any thoughts on what you want to do for the talent show?”
She lets out a small groan, and fuck—I feel that a little too deeply.
“Look, I know that after meeting Lilly, you and I are both totally in on winning the Challenge, but can we please acknowledge how ridiculous it is to have a talent show? You are literally professional athletes. Playing hockey is your talent. People watch you do it multiple times a week.”
“I don’t think you coaching me while I play hockey is going to win us this one,” I say.
She lets out a soft chuckle, and I catch myself staring at her lips for a fraction too long.
“I can still do a few hockey tricks,” she replies, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and pulling my gaze back to hers. “We could put up one of our opponents’ mascots and break it. Show off the slap shots.”
She’s out on the ice with us regularly, so I know she’s not just volunteering me. I have no doubt her slap shot is worthy of the talent show.