Chapter 29 #3
“Now,” Matteo announces, brightly, in the small unrepentant register of a winger executing the small comedic transition of the room, “that is OUR Omega. Coach Declan, you are not, on the public record of this room, going to punish her. She is a fucking BLACK BELT.” He winks at me.
“Pinky. The small twister-nonsense Sankukai hold you ran on Petrov. You and me. Bed. Tonight. Live demo. I have been a good winger for two months and I am, in fact, in the market for the small physical reward.”
I groan. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Santori.”
“Yes, Pinky.”
“Go. Away.”
“Okay,” Matteo says, agreeably, and laughs.
He kisses the top of my head, light. Rémi follows with a precise small kiss to the crown of my hair.
Jude, on his way past, lays the small careful pressure of his palm against the small bracket of my shoulder for one beat, presses a small soft kiss to my temple, and follows the other two out into the small ambient locker-room pandemonium across the hall.
The door closes behind them.
The small smoked-glass panel goes still.
The small assistant-coaching change room, on my side of the small smoked-glass panel, is, in the small precise unhurried way the universe occasionally does this, suddenly and without warning, only me.
And Coach Declan O’Rourke.
He is standing in the centre of the small floor.
His arms are crossed against his coaching jacket.
His grey-green eyes are on me with the precise small low captain-coach steadiness of a man who has, in the past seven minutes, watched his goalie execute an unauthorized assault in his locker room and is, in the present tense, holding very, very still.
He sighs.
“Okay, O’Shea.”
“Okay, Coach.”
“Mm.”
“If,” I say, lifting my chin, the small storm-grey of my eyes meeting the small grey-green of his with the precise dom register I have, structurally, only ever used with this exact man in this exact pose, “you want to scold me. You can. I am, on the bench. I am, structurally, available. Go ahead.”
Coach Declan O’Rourke does not, in fact, scold me.
He walks across the small bench-length of the small assistant-coaching change room toward me with the precise unhurried captain-coach stride of a man who has, in the past two seconds, in fact made a small private inner decision he has, for five winters, been refusing to allow himself to make.
He stops in front of me.
And he, against every visible captain-coach professional instinct he has nurtured in front of me in the past forty-five days, drops, slow and unhurried, onto one knee in front of the bench.
Oh.
Oh, oh, oh.
My mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.
“Coach,” I say, very fast, in the precise small panicked deflective register I have, in the past sixty seconds, used as my only psychological coping mechanism, “if this is, in any way, a proposal, I want it noted on the public record that I do, in fact, require a small promise ring as the small preliminary commitment item, three actual proper dates, and at least one weekend at a small cozy cabin with a small private lake before the small private noun marriage is even, structurally, on the table. We are not, on this exact post-game OT-loss day, with my hand wraps still soaking with Petrov’s nose blood, prepared to be making any small large life decisions. ”
Coach Declan rolls his eyes.
“O’Shea.”
“Coach.”
“Do you, in fact, always jump to small wild conclusions.”
“Like how I stop pucks for a living, Coach? Yes. Constantly. Twenty-four-seven. Round the clock.”
Coach Declan’s mouth, against every visible professional restraint of a senior-tier coach with a thirty-six-year career, smirks.
Properly.
The small unguarded mouth-corner I have, in the past five years, never, on any honest accounting of my own private archive, seen on the man.
Then he lifts one hand. Slow. Unhurried. The small unmistakable careful hand of a man who has, in the past two seconds, decided to put a small piece of his own physical self in contact with mine in a way he has, in five years, professionally refused to allow himself.
His hand settles, light, against the small bracket of my left knee.
My breath catches.
“Iris,” he says, very quietly, the small dry register of his voice the precise unhurried half-pitch lower than he uses on the ice. “I am sorry.”
Oh.
“Coach.”
“Mm.”
“You are. Apologizing.”
“I am, in fact, apologizing.”
“For what, Coach.”
His grey-green eyes do not move from mine.
The small unhurried captain-coach steadiness is, in this exact small moment, gone.
What is in his face, in its place, is the small unguarded vulnerability of a thirty-six-year-old man who has, in the past five years, been the precise King of Avoidance on a small bench in an empty assistant-coaching change room across the hall from the small ambient pandemonium of his own roster, in front of a small pink-haired Omega goalie he has, on the small inner accounting of his own private archive, in fact been failing for half a decade.
“For the small private decision,” Coach Declan says, soft, “that I, on a Tuesday morning five years ago, in the rink office behind the small corner shop in Yorkshire, made on your behalf, with respect to the small large opportunity Marcus Vance offered you. I am sorry, Iris.”
My breath, on the small storm-grey of my own ribs, in the small assistant-coaching change room, the small fluorescent overhead lamp humming above us, stops. Properly.
Coach Declan O’Rourke does not, in fact, stop watching my face.
And his hand, against the small bracket of my left knee, lifts the small unhurried thumb and rubs, exactly once, slow, against the small fabric of my joggers.
“Can I have a second,” he asks, quiet, “to explain?”