Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Sean
The rink had mostly emptied, leaving that after-game hush that settled in your bones. I did a few slow laps, then a burst of speed, then back to slow, trying to skate out the noise in my head. Tonight, it was louder than usual.
Then, a shape along the far boards. Someone clung to the rail, elbows locked, knees wobbling as if it were the only solid thing left in a hurricane.
I blinked, half convinced my brain had finally given in to playoff fatigue, but no.
It was Mel on skates, glaring at the ice as if it had insulted her.
She spotted me, and I swore I saw the word crap materialize above her head in a thought bubble. She tried to shrink back, a valiant but futile effort, as if becoming one with the wall would make me unsee her. Her panic was glowing, clear as a puddle, and beautiful.
I changed course, coasting her way in a gentle glide. My blades hissed to a stop when I reached her side.
“Hey, you’re not invisible. I see you,” I said. She looked away, caught. A smile ghosting her lip. “Didn’t peg you for the late-night skate-it-out type,” I added.
She gripped the rail tighter, knuckles white. “Figured the ice already saw me at my worst. I might as well make it a tradition.”
That pulled a laugh out of me. A real one. Not even game stress could filter out her dry, defeated humor.
“Frank gave you the skates?”
“Yeah, he remembered me: wobbly limbs, baby deer on skates.”
“Frank’s not wrong,” I said, glancing at her careful stance. “There was a moment back there I thought the wall might file for harassment.”
She lifted her brows, then laughed. It felt good to hear her laughter echoing in the rink; it released the knot in my chest.
“You’ve got potential, and the wall hasn’t rejected you yet,” I added.
She looked more relaxed than she had in days. Less guarded, tension in the shoulders gone as she laughed. Her showing up despite her wobbliness was remarkable. She had grit and wanted to prove the ice wrong.
I should treat this as any other staff looking for late-night ice and skate away, toasting her a casual “Good luck out there.” But her fingers curled around that rail as if it were the last stable thing in her life, and something off-script was in the air. I couldn’t walk away.
Maybe Asher had seen more than I wanted him to. Hell, maybe the guys already thought there was something here, even if there wasn’t, but staring at Mel, all I saw was someone who needed a minute of steadiness.
“Come on,” I said, reaching for her hand.
She stiffened but didn’t pull away when I gently peeled her fingers from the rail. I coaxed her forward slowly toward center ice.
“You’re a menace,” she said, wobbling. “You’ve sunk my flotation device.”
I snorted. “My pleasure.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And you freaking glow in it.”
I chuckled, moving us forward. “I coach. I destroy comfort zones. You translate.”
She didn’t quite smile, but her shoulders eased a little. Her free hand floated out, the instinctive reach of a tightrope walker’s, and the other gripped mine tight.
I tried to let go, but she clutched harder. “Wait, where are you going?”
“Nowhere. Switching strategies.”
She didn’t look convinced, peering at me with suspicion.
“Side by side will throw your center off,” I said, stepping behind her, her hand still gripping mine. “From behind like this”—I placed my free hand on her hip—“you’ll be more stable for the gentle side-to-side shift.”
She craned her neck to give me a skeptical look. “That sounds suspiciously close to you pushing me ahead alone.”
“That wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
“Sean Murphy, don’t you—!”
I laughed hard before she finished. When the hell was the last time I laughed this freely without a scoreboard in the background?
“You won’t fall. Promise,” I said when I caught my breath.
She took a breath and slowly let go of my hand.
Both my hands held her hips steady as I pushed us forward in a slow glide.
Her back lined up with my chest, and we found a gentle, swaying rhythm, her closeness turning the moment into a slow-burning, sexy dance.
Not only the physical sensation, but the tension between us was taut, then my mind flew to the spilled undies.
I shouldn’t be doing this—teaching someone’s maybe girlfriend to skate in the middle of the night, after already giving her two late-night rides. A pattern was forming, one I couldn’t keep brushing off.
But her fingers had let go of the wall and held mine.
“Are you seeing someone?” The words were already there before I could talk myself out of it.
Her breath caught for a second. Then she twisted slightly, glancing back at me. “No.”
One honest word. Which of course was the most dangerous answer of all. So, the flirty panties were for her own peace of mind?
My hold automatically firmed on her hips, her warmth bleeding through the layers.
I guided her around the rink, keeping her balanced.
And damn it, I almost wished she’d said yes.
Because this thing, this not-off-limits spark wasn’t breaking any rules, but it sure as hell was getting into my head, knocking loose the focus I relied on.
I’d told myself I was helping her build confidence, but guiding her like this, hand steady at her waist, I was crossing into something murkier. The air wasn’t cold anymore, heat gathered under my gear.
Then she leaned back slightly, her shoulder brushing my chest as she found the rhythm, trusting me completely. That was it. Not the closeness, not the late hour, not even the damn panties. Trust. The ease in her body hit too close. Evie had trusted me too.
“It’s getting late,” I said, easing back a little. “We should call it.”
I led her to the rink exit. We shuffled off the ice, her balance shaky.
“Thanks,” she said, eyes avoiding mine.
“Don’t mention it,” I replied.
I watched her unlace the skates and leave the arena. Only then did I push off and cross to the other side, slipping through the back to my car.
The shuttle idled outside Tahoe West quarters, half the roster already boarded.
Equipment guys loaded the last of the gear cases into the luggage hold and clapped the door shut with a final, decisive snap.
I climbed in, nodding to a few guys, and dropped into the row behind Sergei and Paxton.
Then I pretended to scroll through my phone, but my real mission was to watch the reflection in the tinted window. And there she was.
Mel stepped out of the building, dragging her luggage. Her ponytail bounced, cardigan left open to flash a flat strip of abdomen—nothing flashy, yet my focus locked on like a heat-seeking missile. Her face looked perfectly put together, but I knew where to look for cracks.
She sat two rows up, opposite side, far enough to keep her distance. Maybe that was the plan. Her plan, anyway.
We hadn’t talked since Monday at the shipwreck skating lesson. That moment stuck, catchy, the kind of pop song you couldn’t get out of your head. Guess that’s what three years without a woman in my life would do, especially after holding her like that.
Maria mentioned Mel was shadowing admin this week, checking off that part of her orientation before flying again this Friday. That had created space, letting the dust settle. Maybe that helped her, but it sure as hell hadn’t done a thing for my equilibrium.
We were flying to Alberta on a win. Wednesday’s game had been clean passes and tighter rotations. Colton nailed a one-timer, Porter blocked most opponent breakaways, and the bench felt alive again. The Oilers would be salivating, ready to show us on their home ice.
We got to the charter. I was grateful to have decent leg room and to not deal with screaming babies. I boarded last, my usual routine, giving myself one final breath before being trapped in the flying locker room.
The guys were already half asleep, hiding behind noise-canceling headphones as I walked down the aisle. The spot behind Colton and Brent was taken by Mel, and the seat next to her was open.
She sat by the window, scrolling through her phone. Her ponytail swung when she looked up.
“Oh, hey,” she said.
“Hey, guess we’re seatmates,” I replied, trying to sound casual in this lottery-winning airline seat.
“Looks like it,” she murmured.
I dropped down beside her.
“Coach, you should get a glass of champagne.” Brent peeked back from his seat. “But nah, you’ve been dodging the booze circuit since forever.”
“I’m saving my liver for the Cup parade…and my charm for a first-class seatmate who is not you, McElligot.”
Mel and Colton laughed. Brent did too before hooking his earphones back on.
We didn’t talk again until the seatbelt sign chimed. Mel and I both reached for our belts at the same time in awkward elbow bumps.
“Sorry,” she murmured, arm pulling back.
“All good,” I said, my voice too damn soft for someone trying to keep his head away from cute assistants during the playoffs.
She buckled in, eyes back on her phone. I leaned back, stiff as a board, and stared straight ahead. I told myself not to look at her.
Ten minutes in, she pulled out her laptop and typed something into the search bar. Then she stared at it, as if the words themselves knocked the wind out of her. I shouldn’t look… Okay, maybe a quick scouting glance strictly for playoff strategy, obviously.
Jobs for sixty-four-year-olds near Sacramento.
She angled the screen away. A chortle, genuine and honest, slipped out of me. She glanced over, lips twitching as small amusement played out on her face. Then, with a sigh, she straightened the laptop again.
“You already know the worst of the story. I might as well commit.”
“Jobs for your parents?”
She nodded. “For my dad first. With that retirement fund collapse, they both need to work again.”
“That’s hard.” The simple truth didn’t fit the enormity of the situation.