Christopher
Don’t tell ESPN, but Josie Richards is the real reason I left the Mississippi Titans after an award-winning season: to come to this small town in Maine to coach a subpar hockey team. I did this not because I was humble or knew my prime was over, which isn’t true. I am a beast driven by my obsession. If I wanted to be in my prime, I could be so for as long as I wanted.
No, it was for Josie Richards, Northbrook University darling with a smart mouth, killer legs and no fucking respect.
I remember watching her when I was at the top of my game last season. She looked like an angel, lost in the flurry of snow. She was Olympic-bound, a future gold medalist, and the icon everyone had their eye on. I mean, how could you not keep your eyes on her?
Her loose, wavy blonde hair with honey highlights looked effortlessly perfect even when tossed into a messy bun on her head. Up close, her tan freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, and her lips were a dusted baby pink. But the best part about being this close to her are those ivy-green eyes that remind me of the trees around my home in Michigan.
She is stunning, but she's still a student, even if she's a senior in college. This doesn't make my attraction to her any less inappropriate or complicated, but she is the reason I took this job below my status.
See, my obsession with the game consumed me daily: the sound of skates scraping against the ice, the roar of the fans, and the grunts of my opponents. But nothing compared to the adrenaline rush I felt when I stepped onto the ice for a game. Or so I thought until I saw her in her proper form. Suddenly, the ice and the game didn't hold the same appeal for me anymore. Hockey felt dull, my contract was up, and Josie was ripe for the taking. It didn't matter that I spent my life dedicated to hockey when there was someone more compelling than hockey ever was.
The moment I laid eyes on Josie Richards, she caught me in her spell. It was during the Northbrook Winter Showcase, where I had been sent for good publicity after my team caused a drunken brawl at a local bar with some students from Northbrook. I attended to show that not all of the Mississippi Titans are assholes, especially not their very own golden boy Christopher Jackson— killer on the ice, sweetheart in the city. I was to smile, wave, take pictures, and congratulate the performers.
I never would have guessed that a girl with blonde hair, wearing a sparkling lavender bodysuit and tutu, could capture my attention for the entire evening. The light from the stadium made her outfit look like a second layer of sparkling skin, hiding not a single curve from my imagination. Her toned legs curved in arches for tricks, making me wonder how many positions I could put her in.
But it wasn't just her physical prowess that held me captive. There was a fire in her eyes, a determination that burned brighter than the spotlight that followed her every move. She was a goddess, and the ice was her altar. I’ve never been big on prayer, but I’ve always believed in devotion and worship. Josie Richards’ tight little body deserved to be worshiped in the most primal and passionate of ways, as a true believer would offer themselves to their goddess.
She was flawless on the ice—graceful, precise, and only making one minor mistake on a spin that no one noticed but me. She seemed perfect, living up to being the Olympic-bound gold medal star everyone had hyped her up to be. If it weren’t for the tightness in her jaw, I’d think she was perfect, just like everyone else, but that’s the thing about goddesses—they’re just as human as us.
Off the ice at the afterparty in the president's house, she was polite, respectable, and stiff, giving everyone a plastered-on smile as she rolled her jaw over and over again. She had changed into a short, body-con, champagne dress that blended so well with her complexion that I had to remind myself over and over again that she had clothes on. When she was mine, and trust me, she would be, I would never allow her to wear that color again.
I watched from across the room at her performance, not knowing if this one or the one on the ice was better.
Every Tom, Dick, and Harry congratulated her, took a picture with her, and touched her. That's what really pissed me off; the number of men that found a reason to touch her, whether it was a hand on the small of her back during a photo, pinching her elbow to get her attention, moving a rogue curl behind her ear while they chatted; every man had tried to steal a piece of my little ice princess.
Lucky for their limbs, she was too cold to let any of that get to her. She excused herself halfway through the night, making an excuse about homework, and steadily exited the house.
After taking one last sip of my drink and flashing a few more polite smiles, I signed an autograph for the son of someone from Human Resources. But let's be honest: from the way she gripped my arm and licked her lips, little Johnny probably doesn’t even exist. I winked in her direction and excused myself to the bathroom, but as soon as I saw my ice princess leave, I snuck out of the presidential house and followed her discreetly to wherever she was going.
I had seen the irritation in her face all night long. She absentmindedly twirled a lock of her golden hair around her finger that she tugged from her bun, the same curl men kept tucking behind her ear. She was too annoyed to notice the romantic gesture. When she felt no eyes on her, she would furrow her brows and chew on the corner of her pinked glossed lips, frankly driving me mad all night. It only made me want to pull her lip between my teeth and bite it properly, kiss her properly.
The crisp air nipped at my cheeks as I entered the ice rink. I could see her slender figure already lacing up her skates, hidden beneath the bleachers. She seemed to be muttering to herself with a sense of urgency.
Gone was the image of the ice princess I had once been fascinated with. Instead, I watched as she angrily yanked her hair out of its perfect bun and marched onto the glistening ice. The blades of her skates cut through the smooth surface, leaving behind deep grooves in their wake. Her movements were powerful and determined, like a warrior preparing for battle on a frozen battlefield.
She glided across the ice with fierce grace, like a predator honing in on its prey. My little hellion drilled her blades into the ice, carving a path with precision and determination. She repeated the same combination relentlessly, her eyes blazing with the intensity of an obsessive athlete on a mission to perfect her craft.
As I watched from the shadows, hidden behind the bleachers, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. Josie wasn’t performing for an audience now and wasn’t giving the polite, rehearsed routine that had the crowd eating out of her hand at the showcase. This was raw, unfiltered. She wasn’t skating to dazzle; she was skating to destroy.
Her anger made her movements sharper and more aggressive. She dug her blades into the ice with purpose, spinning and leaping in a furious ballet that looked more like an attack than an art form.
Before, I had been intrigued. I wanted to see if the ice princess cracked, but now with this fire blazing off of her, fuck, I wanted to feed off of her; if this is the real her, I want all of it.
That guttural howl that only leaves the throat of an athlete that has beaten themselves over the head and came out covered in the blood of their desire to succeed.
The girl everyone saw at the parties, smiling and perfect in her champagne dress, wasn’t the real her. No, this was. The tension in her jaw, the way she slammed down after each jump, the rage radiating from her every movement—that was the Josie Richards I was drawn to. Not the ice princess, but the warrior who fought her battles on the frozen stage. My little hellion.
I stepped closer, the sound of her skates cutting through the ice echoing in the empty rink. She didn't know I was there and didn't need to. I liked that this moment was mine. She was skating for me, and I soaked up every moment, from her face, flushed from exertion, to her loose hair stuck to the sweat on her neck, to the snarl permanently on her face.
She practiced until she screamed. Every time she faltered, she growled in frustration. That guttural howl that only leaves the throat of an athlete who has beaten themselves over the head and came out covered in the blood of their desire to succeed.
And god, I thought I had wanted her before when she was a little princess, but nothing compared to her now. She had a burning fire inside her that matched my obsession, my own relentless need to win. And I have won hundreds of games on the ice, rarely losing one— but her and her fierce, raw, unrelenting passion? I wanted every part of it. I fucking needed it like I needed air to breathe.
But don't worry, she'll be mine. She doesn't have a choice in the matter.
My heart pounded in my chest as I watched her launch into the air, twisting mid-jump before landing with the grace of a predator. She didn’t smile, didn’t revel in the moment.
I leaned against the railing, letting the cold metal bite into my palms as I watched her with hungry eyes. She didn’t stop. She wouldn’t stop. Not until she’d pushed herself past whatever limit she had set for herself tonight. But I could see it—the slight tremor in her legs, the way her breath came in ragged gasps, and all I could imagine was how much better it would be if she trembled under me and if I fucked her so good she couldn’t breathe. I wanted that. I needed all the passion she put on the ice to be reflected in claw marks along my spine.
Pushing away from the railing, I stepped out from the shadows and onto the ice, my boots crunching softly against the cold surface. Josie didn’t notice me at first, too caught up in her own personal battle. But as I approached, she faltered slightly, her eyes flicking up to meet mine.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. She stood there, chest heaving, eyes vast and wild, like a caged animal. I could see the sweat glistening on her brow, the flush in her cheeks. Her body screamed for rest, but her mind wouldn’t let her quit.
"What move are you trying to do?" I said quietly, my voice low and even.
Out of breath, with her hands tightly propped on her hips, she narrowed her eyes on me. "And you are?"
"Answer the question." My voice was firm, eyes hooded.
"Answer mine."
"Christopher."
Her eyes widened, but she quickly schooled her features and bowed her head like the polite little princess she played all evening. "Christopher Jackson?"
"In the flesh," I smirked, my lips slipping to the side, crossing my arms over my chest. "Now, what move are you working on?"
"Mr. Jackson, I can assure you that I—” she stuttered, gliding closer to me, her hands dancing in front of her.
I cut off her rambling, narrowing my eyes on the pinks in her freckled cheeks. "You messed up a spin three minutes into your performance."
She paused, looking over her shoulder and lowering her voice as if we weren’t alone. "You noticed?"
My gaze roamed over her body, taking in every inch. “I'm observant," I shrugged, wanting to mention how much I noticed about her, because a stumble was only the surface. But I restrained myself, knowing that patience is a virtue, even if mine was wearing thin.
She scoffed and bit her lip, her eyes flickering around the empty rink.
"We're alone, Josie. Tell me." My steps echoed throughout the stadium as I made my way closer to Josie. The scent of fresh snow and vanilla invaded my senses, and I had to swallow back the growl trying to escape my throat.
"It's a Biellmann spin. It’s supposed to be simple." She shook her head, looking down at her bare legs, pink from the cold, and her hands shaking from frustration.
I pinched her chin, making her look me in the eye. Her breath caught in her throat. Her pink lips were slightly agape. Her green eyes, which looked like emeralds, glossed over and were wide as she stared at me.
"Explain it to me, princess," I whispered, my breath feathering over her face.
She took another breath, her words coming out slow, deliberate. “You start spinning, just like any other move. Then you reach back, grab your skate, and pull it up over your head... It’s like—like you’re trying to break yourself in half. Your leg is straight, but you have to keep spinning. Faster. Tighter.”
Her voice faltered as I tilted her chin just a little higher, making her look at me, getting a peak of a perfect-like heart right behind her right ear.
"Your back arches so deep it feels like it might snap, but you have to hold it. You can’t slow down. Everything has to stay perfectly balanced, or you fail." Her eyes flashed with frustration, like the memory of every failed attempt was burning through her.
"And where do you fail?"
She swallowed, her eyes darting from me, but I squeezed her chin tighter, pulling her damn near underneath me. Josie is so small I could toss her around with one hand, and her nerves radiate off her onto me in waves that I allow to satiate me until her fury returns.
"Fail?" Her nostrils flare. "I don't fail."
"Don't lie to me, little girl. You wouldn't be on this ice if you weren't failing." I licked my lips, my eyes trained on her face while hers darted to my lips. Naughty girl, turned on by the lips of a man fifteen years her senior.
"It's tighter." She whispered so low I barely heard her.
I watched the fire in her eyes flicker, the blush creeping up her neck as she tried to compose herself, but she was trembling—half with anger, half with something else. I tilted her chin higher, not letting her escape the moment.
“Tighter, huh?” I murmur, my voice low, teasing her, testing how far she’ll let this go.
“Yes, tighter,” she snapped, her breath coming faster. “The moment I pull my leg up, everything has to lock in—my core, back, even my hips. One tiny slip, one muscle out of place, and the spin goes wide. If I’m not tight, I lose control. I can feel it wobble.”
I smirked, inching closer, my thumb brushing over the soft skin of her chin. “So that’s where you’re failing? You’re not tight enough?” The words roll off my tongue slowly, like a challenge.
Her lips parted, the slightest hitch in her breath giving her away, but she kept her gaze locked on mine, refusing to back down. “I’m tight enough,” she whispered, her voice sharp despite how she shivered beneath my touch.
I leaned in closer, my mouth just inches from hers, and I could feel the tension vibrating between us. “Prove it, then,” I whisper against her lips. “Show me you can hold it together, princess.”
In waves, heat danced off her body, and right when she was going to break and tell me to fuck off or show me how she takes command over her body, the man I was going kill for her came into the stadium.
"Why don't I hear your fucking skates?!" A man barked. I turned slowly, looked over my shoulder, and narrowed my eyes at the idiot. He was shorter than me and looked like a clean-cut, all-American skater.
"Because I'm talking to her," I growled, baring my teeth.
"Oh, Mr. Jackson, I am-"
"Who the fuck are you?" I snarled, making the more petite man in a fucking neon turtleneck flinch.
"I am Dylan. Josie's partner, right babe?"
Josie placed a small hand on the center of my back, sending flames rushing through me.
"Right." She whispered, moving around me.
"You let your partner talk to you like that?" I lowered my eyes to hers, ignoring the nervous twitching of the idiot.
"No. Dylan, I will practice when I want."
"Women, am I right, Jackson?! Don't know a hard day’s work."
Heat surged through me, my jaw locking the moment that idiot's voice grated the air. I focused on Dylan, feeling the primal need to protect her spike in my chest. He had a smug grin plastered on his face, clearly trying to play buddy-buddy.
“You think that’s funny?” I growled, my voice dangerously low as I stepped closer, towering over him. Dylan’s smirk wavered.
"Come on man, you know what it takes to be at the top, and she's not putting the work in."
My eyes flicked to Josie—she was stiff, her expression unreadable, but I could see the tension in how she clenched her fists. She was annoyed, maybe even embarrassed by the idiot, but too polite to put him in his place.
“Not putting in the work?” I echoed, my voice low, dangerous.
Dylan chuckled, running a hand through his hair, but his laugh lacked real humor. “She’s great, don’t get me wrong. But you know how it is, man. Sometimes, they need a little...push. Otherwise, they fall behind.”
Josie’s lips parted, but no words came out. I saw her flinch just the tiniest bit, and that was all it took for me to lose the last thread of patience I had.
I stepped forward, closing the distance between Dylan and me, towering over him now. My voice was steady, lethal. “A push?” I said, narrowing my eyes. “That’s what you call it?”
Dylan shifted, his cocky expression faltering for a second, but he still tried to keep up the act. “You don’t get it, Jackson. She’s stubborn. If I don’t keep her in line, she’ll never be ready for the big leagues. You’ve seen it yourself—she’s slipping.”
“Keep her in line?” I repeated slowly, letting the words hang in the air like a threat. My voice dropped, dark and cold. “What the fuck do you mean by that?"
"Stop it." Josie snapped, her body a paling pink and the phantom print of her hand against my spine ringing. "I need silence to practice."
"Josie-" I said, but she shook her head and kept her eyes down.
"Both of you need to leave, please; I need to practice." She spit out the words like venom before skating away to the other side of the stadium.
I took a step closer to Dylan, ready to give the obnoxious punk a warning, when the voice of the PR head of the Titans rang through the stadium. "Jackson! I have been looking all over for you. We need photos!"
A growl rolled through my chest, and Dylan flinched out of the way as I stalked out of the stadium. That would be the last time I would ever leave Josie unprotected.
Josie
Ten Months Later -- Present Day
Right foot slide. Left slide. Turn over your left shoulder. Scrape the right foot across the ice. Tuck and-
"Fuck!" I tumble on the ice again; the flurries of snow scraped up from the blades of my skates soak into my already wet pants. This is the twentieth time I have attempted to do a Mohawk Turn into a jump, a simple move I could have done in my sleep last season, and now, I can barely do anything more than a basic glide.
I rest my elbows on my knees, my right hand scratching at the loose curls from my bun around the nape of my neck. I almost forget I am not alone, but then the slow clapping from the sidelines erupts. My stomach free falls, and the sound of his skates gliding towards me grates across my skin.
"Better than last week." Dylan shrugs; his black thermal-lined pants come into my eye line, but I still don't want to look into his cocky green eyes. Dylan has a way of hurting me more than I can hurt myself, and that's saying something.
"Oh yeah, or are you just saying that?"
Dylan sighs, and I can tell his fingertips are gripping the bridge of his nose by the annoyed sound. "You asked me to be nicer."
"Nicer, not lie." I bark, my head jerks up, and I immediately regret it. Dylan used to be the most gorgeous man I had ever seen in my life. His green eyes have flecks of gold in them. His dark brown hair reminded me of the silkiness of milk chocolate, and his smile used to melt me to the core. Also, it's just not fair how he is lean and toned in all the right ways—that gets my panties wet—or used to, at least.
"Well, how about this, Golden Girl?" I cringe at the nickname from my youth, when everyone thought I was destined to be a gold medalist and my signature blonde, shoulder-length curly hair. "You're not even bronze level anymore."
My eyes widen, and my skin sets a blaze. I press my open palms into the biting ice of the rink, trying to cool down before I say anything I would regret, to the matching accessory of my career. "You wouldn't have hoped to be anywhere near the Olympic Circle if it wasn't for me."
Whoops, so much for not saying anything mean, but fuck him. I was the star. I was the one people came to see, and if it weren’t for him and our old coach pushing me to do the death spiral, then I wouldn't be here. I fling my hand up at Dylan, and he locks his big hand around my freezing fingers, hissing at the sensation. A spark of satisfaction shoots through me at his twisted gaze, but I bite back the impending smile.
Dylan's eyes sharpen onto mine, and his grip tightens to the point I can feel my knuckles crack under his touch.
"Josie, I am the only reason anyone lets your stupid ass near the ice anymore; remember that."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know you had a lineup of women ready to be dropped onto the ice." I snarl, yanking my arm, but Dylan pulls me in closer against his chest.
His hand snakes around my waist, and from the outside looking in, we look like we're in love, doing the tango, and I am just so lost in his eyes. There was a time this was true, and we would be seconds from running into the locker room and warming each other up, but now I wouldn't let him touch me with a ten-foot pole or the five inches in his pants.
"Hockey tryouts are in ten. I need all skates off the ice." A gruff voice bellows from the stands.
Dylan doesn't look up. Instead, he sweeps his eyes to my lips and then back to my eyes as he speaks. "You got it, Coach Chris."
My nostrils twitch, and Dylan smirks at the slight rise he gets out of me before pushing me away, so I have to dig in my skates to stop. My bun loosens, and more strands fall in my face as I watch Dylan skate away and off the ice. My eyes flicker up to the scoreboard, the time beaming bright red at the top.
"Hockey tryouts are not for another two hours," I call up, looking at Coach Christopher Jackson, the best living player in NHL history and the new coach of the Northbrook Tigers, a team who made it to finals last year and bombed so hard the world had bet their ranking was a mistake. If Northbrook was going to play that badly, then no one should have let them in the darn arena; it was a disgrace. It was also the only thing that eclipsed the news of my head splitting and what everyone thinks is a career-ending injury.
Did I mention that Coach Jackson is also the only person in the world who can make my breath hitch and my body quake just by saying my name?
"He was in your face again." Coach says, leaning back in his bleacher seat right next to the left side of the arena. His long limbs stretch over three rows of benches as he watches me.
I turn to practice a trick I learned at six, a scratch spin. It's simple: start by grinding backward on an outside edge, then shift to a spinning position by pulling your free leg and arms inward to increase rotation speed while balancing on the ball of your skating foot. Easy, so when I have to hit the glass to brace myself from falling, I scream. "Shit!"
"Aye, watch your mouth, princess." Coach corrects, leaning forward in the stands.
He wears a gray thermal long-sleeve shirt, Timberland boots, and baby blue jeans. His thick black hair is smoothed back into a slick style, his beard is professionally trimmed, and he looks like the Greek sculptor Phidias sculpted every muscle on his body. If I didn't already know who he was, I'd think he was just a really hot senior and totally would give him my number.
"I'm not a princess," I growl, gliding along the rink’s wall.
"You just threw a tantrum like a spoiled little girl, so princess ." He quips; the sound of amusement rolls over his words, and it takes everything out of me not to growl again.
"I'm frustrated. I can't seem to..." Right in front of him, I pause with only the glass separating our gazes. He has the most amazing deep blue eyes I have ever seen. They look like a stormy ocean, and my core clinches at the thought of me caught in his fury or passion. I bet his opponents on the ice drop to their knees in mercy under his gaze.
"What?" His eyes narrow, and the storm eases through the eclipse of his black eyelashes. He sounds mad, but I can tell by the twitch in the corner of his lip that he is teasing me. "Get tight enough?"
"No, I'm not trying to do the Biellmann spin. I’m doing a scratch turn." I murmured. I haven't been able to be on the ice since the accident last winter, about three weeks after the Winter Showcase, where I first met Coach Jackson. The accident where Dylan dropped me and I crashed into the ice, my head cracked out, twelve stitches, a concussion. I was in my bed back in Minnesota with my mother for six months. She'd kill me if she knew I was back on the ice.
"You're scared of the ice,now?" He shrugs.
"I have never been scared of the ice."
"Okay." He nods, one of his plush pink lips poking out. "So go do your scratch turn."
I roll my eyes. "Oh fuck off."
"Excuse me?" The stern rasp in his voice heightens as he leans so close to the glass he is almost hanging off the seat.
"You just saw me fail, and you're demanding more of me?"
"If you're not afraid of the ice, do it again." He challenges.
I burn so hot my ears feel like they're on fire. Scoffing, I turn on my heels to skate to the other side of the rink.
"Don't skate away from me!" He growls, the creak of metal from the benches ringing through the arena.
"You're not my coach!" I bark back, my skates slicing against the ice, creating an off-beat rhythm from my huffing as I make a b-line to the lockers.
Who the hell does Coach Jackson think he is? I am not on his team of dumb hockey jocks knocking into each other on the ice. I am an Olympic-bound athlete. He's just a washed-up NHL player in fucking Maine, a coach for a D2 school, might I add, not even in the top twenty.
My anger burns away any bite of the cold from my falls. My skates clink against the concrete as I wind down to the locker rooms. My mind is still running wild.
"Coach is wrong, Josie," I whisper, my hands running over the raised scars along my forearms. "You were born to be on the ice. You aren't scared."
I yank at my laces, feeling the rough leather bite into my fingers as I wrestle with the skates. My hands are trembling, and my fingers are numb from the cold and fight. My muscles taunt with failure, another terrible practice where I feel further away from myself.
The skates won’t come off fast enough, making it worse and forcing something resentful to boil inside me. I yank harder, finally wrenching one of them free, and I can’t hold it in anymore. I hurl them across the room, the dull clatter of them hitting the lockers echoing in the space.
There is something satisfying about watching the skates clatter to the ground as if they mean nothing. I slam my other foot to the ground, yanking the second one free, and my breath comes in ragged, angry bursts.
My feet throb as they meet the cold air, raw and stinging, but it’s nothing compared to the fire raging in my chest. The thick and suffocating silence presses down on me as if the whole room is mocking me, reminding me of everything that slipped away.
Alone in the cold, sterile locker room, the skates lay abandoned—useless—just like me. A slow clap echoes through the space, startling me. I spin around, my eyes landing on Coach Christopher Jackson, staring at me with a bored expression.
"You got it out of your system?"
I painfully pull my bottom lip into my mouth. My nostrils flare, and my knuckles curl into numbing a ball of anger. I step forward, eyes narrowed in on his glowing golden eyes. "Didn't I tell you to fuck off?"
He scoffs, rolling his neck on a deep breath. "I heard you; I just didn't think you would say it to my face."
"Why not?" I roll my eyes, placing both hands on my hips, a nasty smile on my face. "Because you're the big bad NHL veteran coach?"
"No, because I am fifteen years your senior."
"Is that supposed to mean something?"
"It means you should respect me." Coach Jackson growls.
The low rumble rolls over my skin like the bite of the ice. I take in a shaky breath, closing my eyes in a slow blink. My eyes lock on his, and the roll of his jaw makes my core clench.
"Respect is earned." I snarl. "You don't know anything about figure skating. You know nothing about me, saying that I am afraid of the ice...do you know how wild that is?"
"I know what I saw." He sighs, scrunching up the sleeves of his gray thermal shirt, showcasing a mirage of colorful ink encased in thick black lines.
There is nothing hotter than a man covered in tattoos with muscles that look like they could crush you into a million pieces. I yank my ponytail out of my head, suddenly feeling suffocated. I need to get out of these wet clothes and away from Coach Jackson's intense dark gaze. I need to breathe somewhere; I can't see my breath with every exhale. I need to be warm for the first time in my life. I need the sun but can't move; instead, I fist my wavy blonde stands and huff.
“You are afraid of the ice.” Coach stretches his neck and arms, straining the veins in his forearms as he approaches me.
I shake my head, taking a step back with each of his steps forward because fuck this! He tackles people and runs after a puck all day. I am flinging my body into the air, hoping that asshole Dylan saves me from cracking my skull open again or that I extend my leg to the right more and catch myself before I fall.
"My life is on the line every time I skate," I whisper.
Coach Jackson stops just inches away, his eyes locked on mine. The air between us grows dense, and I can practically feel the heat radiating from him. I want to be closer, to run my hand along his skin and find where the core of his warmth is. I want his sun to be mine. I avoid his eyes, looking at my bare feet.
"You think hockey is just a game of chasing pucks? Whenever I stepped onto the ice every shift, someone could slam me into the boards hard enough to break bones. Or worse." His voice lowers to a ticklish whisper, crawling across my skin.
"That’s different," I snap back, my voice rising in frustration. "You're wearing layers of padding, and you’re in control. I’m out there in practically nothing, with blades strapped to my feet, hurling myself through the air?—"
"Don’t act like you’ve got it worse because you're spinning in sequins while we get bruises and bloodied."
My breath hitches, my mind racing, the frustration boiling over. "I’m not saying you don’t get hurt, but?—"
"But what? Our risks aren't valid because we wear helmets?" His jaw tightens, his stormy blue eyes blazing. "You want to talk about danger? I’ve seen guys go down and not get back up. I’ve been hit so hard I didn’t know where I was. And guess what? I still get back on the ice."
His voice rings through the locker room, and my head tucks into my chest. I feel like I want to scream. I feel like I am in so much trouble that he has no excuse but to punish me. Punish me? Have I lost my freaking mind?
"You don't look like you want to be on that ice, “ he whispers, his palm flat against the wall above me. His body encases me in a warm cocoon, and his smokey firewood scent invades my nostrils.
I freeze, watching the rise and fall of his chest, holding my breath like it is the only thing that will keep me alive. The ice is my home. The ice is everything to me. I can't be afraid of the one thing that makes me, right?
"Let's say you're right, Coach." I look up at him through my eyelashes, slowly licking my dry lips and watching as his eyes follow the lines of my tongue. "What do I do now?"
"You let me coach you."
I lean back against the wall and click it to the right. "And what makes you qualified?"
His eyes darken, and I gulp, fidgeting when he spreads his lips into a Cheshire smile. “I can make you fear me more than the ice."