Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Sean
I pulled in front of Mel’s house, engine idling low, headlights cutting down the street.
The silence stretched, charged with the delightful awkwardness of a first (fake) date.
She hadn’t unbuckled her seatbelt, and part of me wanted to lean in for a kiss.
That would be the right end to a dinner that started fake but had too many real edges to ignore.
I put the brake on that impulse. Mel didn’t need a coach calling the next play right now; the last thing I wanted was to make her feel cornered. So I kept my hands on the wheel.
“We’re good?” I asked.
She nodded, eyes flicking to mine. “Yeah. Thanks for dinner.”
“I like that you came.”
She slipped out, shutting the door softly, leaving behind a faint scent of vanilla. I watched her disappear through the side gate, her hair bouncing with each step. No look back. Not that I expected one, but it stung a little anyway.
Back home, I walked toward the bathroom through a landscape of Cassy’s forgotten toys and a perpetually left-on light. I switched it off, then peeked into her room. She was starfish-sprawled with Pitou, the penguin, wedged under her arm.
I stood there a second, a soft smile tugging at my lips. I’d really miss her when she left. Abby and Jeff were getting close again, a happy ending finally shimmering into view for them.
Even if Abby’s “We’re taking it one step at a time” sounded light, and her eyes had that careful look of someone trying not to trip over their own hope. Jeff coming to visit next week was a win in my book.
That story was promising, unlike my dad’s endless “new beginnings” that always looped back to the same old mess.
Once, early in my playing years, a couple of sports blogs thought my dad’s drinking was a scoop worth chasing. I remembered the knot in my gut, the mix of dread and shame I didn’t want to name. Back then, I was protecting Abby and the little bubble of normalcy we had left.
Same as I wanted to protect Cassy now.
I pulled her blanket up, brushed a stray curl off her cheek, and stepped out, cracking her door per Abby’s instructions.
Walking to my office, my brain flipped a switch.
Round Three of the playoffs against the Vegas Golden Knights was tomorrow night.
I took off my shoes, grabbed the lineup sheet from the table, and scanned it.
Same guys, same system, different pressure.
We were moving ahead, and this was the critical stretch when players misfired on simple plays and coaches started to micromanage.
There was no room for that if I wanted to gun for the Cup.
I had to keep the guys loose and trust them to keep doing what worked.
Not overanalyzing the game and definitely not Mel.
Which was a joke, considering my brain had already logged every detail of her in that dress and was still running the marathon replay.
The way she leaned in when she was listening, and her lips pressed together when I told her about my marriage—little things that said she was holding it, not passively hearing it.
I smiled, heading to my room to get ready for bed. It wasn’t until I hit the lights, plunging my room into darkness, that I let myself fully exhale.
Fake date or not, I was in it now. My grin widened.
The following day rolled along like any other game day, a blurb of light training and clocks ticking toward puck drop. Mel and I didn’t speak face-to-face, but after the final game buzzer, a text from her popped up on my screen.
Mel: Hey, nice win! I thought you should start filing info for Saturday’s walk-through fire: Sam aced her presentation.
Sean: Filed. I’m your favorite sponge, soaking it all in, no complaints.
Mel: Ew. That’s a gross nickname, SPONGE. But it fits. Filed.
Sean: Try me, and I’ll start collecting debt from you.
Mel: \*laughing emoji\*
Sean: Has your mom started measuring Vince for a tux yet?
Mel: Wow. Straight for the jugular.
Sean: Figured you could handle it. You’re the emotionally unavailable one in this fake relationship.
Mel: Incorrect. I’m the hot older sister with a party-planning trauma, a fake boyfriend with a kiss I’m still recovering from.
Sean: Didn’t realize back-door kisses were part of the résumé. Updating now.
Mel: Add “emotionally stable under pressure.” That’s rare these days.
Sean: Might replace “can fold a fitted sheet” with that. Big sacrifice.
Mel: You fold fitted sheets?
Sean: Don’t spread it around. I have a rep to maintain.
Mel: Consider it sealed. Like your fate on Saturday if you back out.
Sean: Dagger emojis wouldn’t do it justice.
Mel: \*dagger emoji\* + \*flaming pinata emoji\* because I usually one-up you.
That made me laugh.
Wednesday night, we locked in another win.
I stood in the cold press room, bright, and packed. Same reporters, same hungry energy. We’d taken Game 2, making it two-nothing in the series. But this wasn’t the time to exhale, not when the Golden Knights were waiting on home ice.
I stepped up to the mic, ignoring flashes and scribbles.
“Coach, you’re up two games heading into Vegas. How are you feeling about the momentum shift?”
“It’s a best-of-seven. Momentum’s nice, but it doesn’t win four games. We’re heading into a tough building Friday. That home crowd will come hard, and we have to play smart.” I kept my tone even.
Another hand. “Colton ‘the rebel’ Lombardi’s line has been especially dominant. What’s clicking there?”
The room chuckled.
“They’re staying connected, reading each other well,” I said. “Colton’s got that instinct: When it’s channeled, it elevates that whole line.”
More questions rolled in about matchups, power play adjustments, injury updates (none), and recovery.
“Thanks, everyone.” The PR coordinator kept it short.
I stepped down, tugged my cap lower, and headed out the side door. The night air behind the rink was cold and sharp. I breathed it in, letting the echo of the crowd bleed out of my system.
I checked my phone. Nothing from Mel. Not that I should be expecting anything. Our texts yesterday ended with a string of dagger and flaming pinata emojis. I smiled to myself. Nothing said we’re fine more than miniature digital murder weapons.
Still...she’d worked courtside the last three days, and we’d barely exchanged a “hey.”
Was she avoiding me? Hard to say.
Maria was pulling her to the office most of the day tomorrow.
The following morning, Thursday, the rink smelled of liniment and coffee. I was half watching warmups, half reviewing line rotations when Rich, our head trainer, walked over with that look. The one that meant I wasn’t going to like what came next.
“Brent tweaked his knee, overextended it yesterday,” Rich said.
I exhaled through my nose. “How bad?”
“Not major, but I want him off it through the weekend. We’ll check again Sunday.”
I nodded, jaw tight. Brent wouldn’t like it, neither did I, but late season wasn’t the time to gamble, and Rich didn’t make requests lightly.
“Alright, pull him.”
He gave a nod and walked off.
I ran a hand down my face, already adjusting lines in my head, when I caught Mel walking up, iPad hugged to her chest, hair pulled back with small strands escaping, though she still looked pro.
At five-five, she carried the kind of proportions that had a way of making sense, especially next to my six-one frame.
I caught myself tracking that before forcing my focus back to her face.
She’d dropped her usual slacks. Today, it was a pencil skirt that sharpened her stride, paired with a soft pink blouse, more boardroom than bench. Something about the switch caught me off guard; she’d leveled up without warning, and I had to keep my expression steady.
She stopped beside me.
“Coach?” she called.
That threw me. We were fake-dating. “Hey, what’s up?”
“I wanted to ask… if I could sit out tomorrow’s trip to Vegas.” She paused. “Just this one. Sam’s graduation stuff is ramping up, and I need the extra planning time.”
Reasonable request, terrible timing. Not because I didn’t get it, but because consistency mattered. Also, I kinda wanted her around.
I straightened slightly. “You know I can’t play favorites.”
“I didn’t know I was one.”
Oh, the sass. I smirked, studying her. She pushed a dendrite of hair from her face. Her neck flushed slightly, and those eyes were like the daggers she sent in that text.
We could manage without her. Vegas was only an hour and a half flight. In by noon, puck drop by seven, out by midnight. Long day, but doable.
“I can spare you, this once,” I said, voice even.
Her shoulders visibly dropped, and she nodded but didn’t move.
I lowered my voice. “Are you avoiding me?”
That had her posture shifting and she glanced around the rink. “Not avoiding, being careful,” she said. “With the media stuff you mentioned, I didn’t want to feed rumors before the party.”
So I wasn’t imagining the distance, the chill.
“Fair. Don’t completely ice me out.”
She smiled. “Not icing. Just preemptive thawing.”
I huffed a laugh. Whatever that meant, I was into it.
She walked back toward the bench, and my eyes followed. I told them to knock it off. This was not the venue to run a hip movements study, even if I was only monitoring her stride integrity—for safety, obviously.
I drove up to Mel’s house and immediately slowed. Cars lined both sides of the street. Every driveway was full. Even the patchy front lawn across the road had become a makeshift parking lot.
Wow. Was this a party or a small-town reunion?
I hadn’t expected it to be this packed, especially after the financial mess they were still sorting out. Guess simple came with thirty cars and a trellis of balloons on the front porch.
I glanced at the bottle of wine in the passenger seat. No cards, no flowers, no game plan. Game 7? No problem. But showing up at a backyard full of strangers as Mel’s date was a play I didn’t know how to make. I needed a playbook on how to forecheck a very inquisitive aunt.