Chapter 3 #2
Then there was Andrew… After our third date, I gave him the classic we’re-turning-into-friends speech.
He’d said, “That’s how real things start.
” He wasn’t wrong; I knew couples who started out as friends.
But I was always chasing that elusive spark, and with Andrew, it felt more like a polite flicker than a bonfire.
It’d been a dating-free zone since my failed engagement, focusing on advancing my career. Then came Mom’s pokes about my age (twenty-eight, as if I were ancient) and future kids, as subtle as a brick to the head. Definitely annoying, but I put myself out there again.
Andrew was handsome and perfectly reasonable on paper, and I’d already learned the hard way that boxes checked didn’t mean it felt right.
Eventually, though, the truth was impossible to ignore. Nice, safe, and easy only carried you so far. By the time we talked, we both knew it: There wasn’t a spark. We ended it as friends.
“Imagine being stuck in that. A relationship so flatlined, even a heart monitor wouldn’t call it.” I laughed when Sam said that.
Soon-to-be Dr. Samantha Boyd was annoyingly accurate with the diagnoses.
I exhaled, smiling to myself. Yesterday’s job offer opened doors, gave me wings to fly, and nudged all the spark chasing (and my slightly dusty dating apps) to the back shelf.
I’d wanted a life that moved me, and now I was literally getting paid to be on the move with the team. A whole new thrilling chapter.
The front door swung open, and Sam breezed in, dropped her bag, and beelined for the kitchen.
“Mel, a traveling sports logistics job? That is amazing!” she said, grabbing a glass from the cabinet.
“I know! Sometimes I pinch myself to believe it,” I said, shaking my head. “And my favorite part of today was Maria handing me what I now consider my armor against high-speed muscles and locker-room flirts: a DevPad.”
“Do tell.” Sam slid into a chair at the kitchen table.
“It’s short for Development Pad. Basically an iPad loaded with built-in spreadsheets and tracking tools for player progress—Player Notes Log, Spray Chart Tool, Drill Library.”
She nodded over the rim of her glass.
“Every entry auto-generates a graph, so you can track trends and goals in real time,” I added.
“Nice! And your big plan is to use this high-tech stat machine as a shield against hockey thighs and sweaty abs?” She wrinkled her nose. “Tragic. Please tell me they’re hiring in the physical exam department.”
I gave her a warning look.
“I bet that gadget has a built-in camera. I’d use it as a stealth photo tool for biceps in slow motion and adorable bruised jaws.”
I shook my head. “You’re beyond help.”
She laughed. “Are we sure the coach didn’t give you a glowing reference after that little…men’s bathroom collision? He probably expects some oops pictures.”
I almost flicked her forehead. Some things were too sacred (or mortifying) to joke about.
She threw up her hands, laughing. “Kidding! Kidding!”
“I earned every inch of this,” I said, stirring the soup with more gusto, though it hadn’t personally doubted my credentials. “Six years out of college, third job, a solid résumé. This wasn’t just luck.
She stopped laughing and leaned back. “I’m relieved,” she said. “Getting matched in Baltimore…I was worried about you, about the house. I thought maybe we’d sell. I could pay off my loans, and you’d have more freedom.”
I stilled. “You’d really been carrying that?”
She pursed her lips, which meant yes. On a whim, I poured two glasses of wine. It was Friday night; we could celebrate.
I lifted mine. “To surviving the stress and brighter futures.”
“To the best of futures,” she echoed.
We clinked glasses and sipped.
Then she reached over, tasted the soup cooling on the counter, and pointed the spoon at me. “Okay. You crushed the interview, got the job, but you are way too chill. Anything else happened, besides basically bodychecking the coach?”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know.” She watched me. “You blinked three times when I said bodychecking the coach. That’s a tell.”
I tasted the soup. “You’re exhausting.”
She grinned, too pleased with herself. “I’ll get it out of you eventually.”
I rolled my eyes, but my chest fluttered anyway. Because yeah, something happened. That ankle-check night had stuck to me like glitter—the way his eyes had held mine, the feel of his hands so steady and certain. But it didn’t mean anything, especially now that we were colleagues.
He was the coach, the real deal at Tahoe West, a former pro. I was a support staff, and my job wasn’t even official yet.
The only thing worse than messing up was thinking about the boss while doing it. That was a fast track to professional disaster, and a painfully awkward exit interview.
I wasn’t sure what made me more nervous: the new job or the chance of running into Coach Calm-and-Sure again.
His Greek image was stuck in my head, so I put on my favorite Friends episodes to erase it.
I curled up on the couch, a throw pillow under my head, definitely not looking forward to our next face-to-face.
I woke up the next day and texted Erica the good news from bed. She’d been worried about me:
Me: You won’t believe it. I got that job I told you about with the hockey team. I’m so freaking happy right now. Oh, and guess who’s the head coach? That guy who helped with my ankle. I didn’t see that one coming. Talk about a meet-cute gone ‘Oh crap, he’s my boss.’
Erica: Stop it. You got the job, and your new boss has already seen your ankle close up? I knew you’d crush it. Now I need popcorn, and your drink’s on me, obviously. I’m so stinkin’ happy for you!
Me: \*happy emoji\*
I could practically hear her whispering: Look alive, Mel. No deer in the headlights.
I walked into the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee and toast hung in the air; Sam had already left. Sunlight streamed through the window, and the hum of the fridge filled the quiet. I grabbed a mug and poured coffee.
My phone lit up.
Maria: Morning! I should’ve thought of this earlier. Want to come to the first playoff game tonight? I’ll be with my husband in the family section. It’s not formal, but it’ll give you a feel for the rhythm. No pressure, just let me know.
No pressure—as if. I read the message twice. A playoff game with Maria in the family section, where players’ girlfriends, wives, and kids sat. There was no way to say no. This wasn’t a casual invitation from the general manager; it was a code for: You’re on the radar now.
Which meant the real work was about to begin.
I felt nervous as I texted back:
Me: Would love to. Thank you.
The rest of the day blurred in a haze wardrobe indecision. I must’ve changed three times before settling on something that said competent employee instead of overeager fan. By the time I walked into the arena that night, my heart was doing its own warm-up drills.
The family section sat a few rows above the home bench. Close enough to see the players’ expressions, far enough to hopefully dodge a flying puck.
Maria waved me over and stood to greet me with a radiant smile. “There you are. Come meet Greg.”
Her husband stood and offered a firm, friendly handshake. “Nice to meet you, Melanie,” he said, eyes kind.
They made space for me between them, and I slid into the seat, feeling the buzz of playoff energy even up here.
Maria gestured down to the lower rows. “Those front seats are usually for the players’ families. Staff get what’s left, if we’re lucky.”
I nodded, scanning the space. A few little kids in team hoodies were climbing over their parents.
Someone handed out bright orange rally towels, and the energy in the section matched that of the arena—synchronized fan worship, with everyone waving a towel and knowing the chant, a sports version of church.
I had no idea what half of it meant, but I was officially in.
Maria leaned closer, nodding toward the rink. “That’s the second line,” she said. “Playoff rotations shift fast, so watch who’s getting minutes. And if we go into overtime, it’s a whole other animal. No shoot-outs, but sudden death.”
I blinked. “Oh. Good to know.”
She smiled. “We’ll ease you in.”
As she continued explaining things, I nodded, absorbing maybe twenty percent.
After the twisted-ankle incident, I did my homework. It was how I landed this job, and after the first interview, I dug even more into this sport.
Slap shot, puck, body check, stick—damn lingo. Sounded more sexy innuendo than sports terms, definitely not brunch convo with your mom.
The crowd was loud and electric as if everyone had been holding their breath all week for this. Orange jerseys everywhere, fans waving signs... It was chaotic, and kind of magical.
My fourth hockey game, but this was the first I actually paid attention to, and it wasn’t what I expected. It was colder, faster, bodies moving in raw choreography.
Up close, the players were almost unnerving. They were bigger and taller than I’d realized from TV clips and glossy posters: broad shoulders, thighs like tree trunks, yet moving with the kind of balance that made physics seem negotiable.
The puck darted like a mouse playing tag with a cat. Players slammed into the boards and bounced off as if it were nothing but part of the dance.
I shivered, unsure if it was the chill or the way this whole place vibrated under my skin. And then there was him.
Coach Murphy stood near the bench, arms crossed against his tall frame, encasing broad shoulders, laser-focused.
He didn’t bark or pace. He commanded, pulled attention without trying.
Every now and then, he leaned in to speak to a player, and whatever he said landed like gospel. Not up for debate, just accepted truth.
From this distance, I could study him unnoticed. His dark brown hair, clipped short on the side, not fussy, was a style that belonged to someone who had better things to do than check a mirror. The sharp line of his jaw looked chiseled from stubbornness, and those deep brown eyes didn’t flicker.
A silent brooding Greek statue came to mind, and the part of me that knew better than to notice the boss was very much not shut off.
I made myself look away, back to the game.
A Tahoe West player curved around the net, faked left, shot right. Goal! The place erupted. I jumped in my seat, heart drumming, and laughed at myself as my cheeks warmed.
“Good one!” Maria shouted, grinning.
“I don’t get what I’m watching, but I see why people love it.”
“You will,” she said. “This is the first of seven games against the same opponent. It’s best of seven wins moves to the next round. By the end of the playoffs, you’ll be calling line changes with the rest of us.”
Maybe, but one thing was clear: This wasn’t just a sport. It was a heartbeat pulsing through the arena, gripping me the way the coach’s presence did, leaving me short of breath.
Tahoe West was up by one, and the last two minutes stretched for hours. When the final horn sounded, a collective inhale that didn’t release until that final signal blasted like thunder.
They won. Actually, we won.
I rose with the rest of the arena, clapping as if I understood a thing, which, shockingly, I sort of did. Not the rules or the strategies, but the energy, the adrenaline, the sheer velocity of it all.
I was starting to get it.
Then I looked toward the bench. Coach Calm-and-Sure scanned the crowd, and sure as a puck into the net, his eyes landed on me. They held, not a blink, not a flinch.
My hands slowed. The roar around me dipped to a distant hum.
Someone whooped behind me, snapping the moment.
I blinked, cheeks hot, and turned back to the ice.
But inside, something had unfurled. I sank into my seat, pretending I hadn’t locked eyes with the man whose team I might be traveling with.
The same man I’d accidentally plowed into with a bathroom door on my way out, the one I was definitely not supposed to be noticing (but absolutely was).