Chapter 26
Calder
The truck’s engine growled under me as I pulled into the rink’s parking lot, my knuckles white on the wheel. The steering wheel still smelled faintly of her—vanilla and sweat, the kind of scent that clung to my skin even after she’d left.
Two days.
We hadn’t left my bed all weekend after that quick practice. Hadn’t bothered with clothes or excuses or the outside world. Just her legs tangled with mine, her laugh rough and warm against my throat, the way her thighs trembled when I—
I cut the thought off, jaw tightening. The truck idled, exhaust curling into the cold morning air. My fingers twitched against the gearshift, still feeling the ghost of her nails digging into my back, the way she’d arched under me like she was trying to crawl inside my skin.
I hadn’t thought I was capable of wanting like that anymore.
Not after the divorce. Not after the career implosion. Not after years of drowning in whiskey and rage, convinced I’d burned through every decent thing inside me.
But then there she was.
Billie fucking Donovan.
I scrubbed a hand over my face, the stubble rough against my palm.
The memory of her was everywhere—the way she’d bitten her lip when I pinned her to the counter, the sound she made when she came, my name torn from her throat like a confession.
The way she’d traced my scars like she was memorizing them.
Mine.
The word had been sitting in my chest like a live wire all weekend. I hadn’t said it. Hadn’t let myself. But it was there, humming under my ribs every time she looked at me like I was something worth keeping.
I killed the engine and stepped out, the cold air biting at my skin. The rink loomed ahead, all sharp edges and fluorescent lights. Inside, the team was already warming up, the sound of skates cutting ice and pucks hitting boards drifting out through the open doors.
And there she was.
Center ice.
Her ponytail swung as she pivoted, her stride smooth and effortless, like she’d been born with blades on her feet. She was laughing at something Kira said, her face bright, her guard up.
Professional. Distant.
Like we hadn’t spent the last forty-eight hours tangled together. Like I hadn’t had my mouth on every inch of her. Like she wasn’t still under my skin.
I leaned against the glass, my breath fogging the surface. She didn’t look at me. Not once. Just kept skating, kept smiling, kept playing the part of the good little center while I stood there like a goddamn idiot, my pulse kicking hard every time she bent to adjust her laces.
I should’ve been thinking about drills. About the game plan. About the way the defense needed to tighten up before the weekend’s matchup.
Instead, all I could think about was the way she’d tasted. Sweet and sharp, like whiskey and sin. And the way she’d looked at me when she came—like I was the only thing holding her together.
Fuck.
I pushed off the glass and stalked toward the bench, my skates biting into the rubber mats. The girls glanced at me, then away, like they could sense the storm coming. Billie didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just kept skating, her blade edges digging into the ice with every stride.
I wanted to grab her. Wanted to haul her off the ice and remind her who she’d been screaming for two nights straight.
But I couldn’t.
Because out here?
She wasn’t mine.
And that was the problem.
The rink doors banged open.
I didn’t need to look to know who it was. The air shifted—lighter, cockier, like someone had cranked up the heat and let all the oxygen bleed out. The girls on the ice faltered for half a second, their chatter dying down before they forced themselves to focus again.
Nate.
My son.
Standing there in his designer jacket and that smug, media-trained grin, like he owned the goddamn building. Like he hadn’t spent the last decade acting like I didn’t exist unless it benefited him.
I didn’t turn around. Didn’t acknowledge him. Just kept my eyes on the drill, my whistle between my teeth, my hands clenched so tight around my clipboard the edges bit into my palms.
One of the freshmen—Lily, maybe—waved at him like he was some kind of celebrity.
Nate ate it up, flashing that NHL smile, the one that made fans weak in the knees and reporters trip over their own feet.
He leaned against the boards, arms crossed, all easy confidence, like he hadn’t just strolled into a minefield.
Billie’s skate hit a rough patch of ice. She stumbled—just for a second—but recovered fast; her face carefully blank. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t look at me.
But I saw the way her shoulders tensed.
I saw the way her grip tightened on her stick. And I saw the way Nate’s eyes tracked her across the rink, slow and possessive, like he was counting the seconds until he could get her alone.
My molars ground together.
"Donovan! Again!"
My voice cracked like a gunshot. She flinched but didn’t hesitate, peeling off for another lap. Faster this time. Sharper. Like she was trying to outskate the weight of his stare.
Nate chuckled. Low. Amused. "She’s looking good, Dad."
The word Dad tasted like ash in my mouth.
I finally turned, slow and deliberate, meeting his gaze. His smirk faltered for half a second—just long enough for me to see the kid I used to know beneath the polished veneer. The one who’d looked up to me once. Before I’d failed him. Before he’d decided I wasn’t worth a damn.
"What the hell are you doing here?" My voice was quiet. Dangerous.
Nate shrugged, all false ease. "Can’t a guy visit his girlfriend's practice?"
"Cut the shit."
His grin widened. "Touchy. Must be the coaching stress."
I wanted to put my fist through his teeth.
But Billie was watching.
The girls were watching.
And Nate knew it.
He leaned in, just close enough that no one else would hear. "Or is it the stress of fucking my ex?"
My vision went white.
For one heartbeat, I saw it—the way my hands would feel around his throat, the way his smug little face would purge when he realized I wasn’t bluffing.
But then Billie’s skate blades hissed against the ice as she cut too sharp on a turn, her balance wavering—
And just like that, the moment shattered.
I forced my lungs to work. Forced my voice steady. "You’ve got five minutes. Then you’re gone."
Nate’s laugh was a knife twist. "Or what, Coach? You’ll bench me?"
I didn’t answer.
The whistle blew.
Practice was over.
The girls peeled off the ice, chattering, laughing, their voices too loud in the sudden silence. Billie skated toward the bench, her head down, her ponytail damp with sweat. She didn’t look at me. Didn’t look at him.
Nate didn’t give her the choice. He waited until Billie stepped off the ice before moving towards her. The girls went quiet. Even the ones who didn’t know the history could feel the shift in the air—something dark, something coming.
Billie saw him. Her body tensed, her fingers tightening around her stick. She tried to sidestep, but he was faster, cutting her off with that easy, practiced stride. The kind of move that made scouts drool and fans lose their minds.
The kind of move I’d taught him.
My stomach turned.
"Hey, babe." His voice was too loud. Too smooth. Like he was performing.
Billie didn’t smile. Didn’t lean in. Just stood there, her jaw set, her eyes flicking toward the stands—toward me—for half a second before she looked away.
Nate didn’t care.
He grabbed her.
One hand on her waist, the other cupping her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone like he had every right to touch her.
And then he kissed her.
Hard.
Right there on the ice, in front of the team, in front of the staff, in front of me.
The sound that tore out of me wasn’t human.
My stick snapped in half before I realized I’d done it, the crack echoing through the rink like a gunshot. The girls flinched. Billie’s eyes flew open, her body going rigid under Nate’s hands.
He pulled back slow, his smirk sharp enough to cut glass.
"Missed you," he murmured—loud enough for everyone to hear.
Billie didn’t answer. Just stepped back, her cheeks flushed, her breath coming too fast. She wouldn’t look at me. Wouldn’t dare.
Nate laughed, low and satisfied, like he’d just won something.
Then he skated off, whistling, like he hadn’t just set the whole goddamn rink on fire.
The girls scattered.
The ice was empty.
And Billie?
She finally looked at me.
Just once.
Her eyes were wet.
Not with tears.
With rage.
Like she was daring me to say something. To do something.
But all I could do was stand there, my hands shaking, my broken stick still clutched in my fist, and watch her skate away.
Because she was doing it for me.
And that was the part that ruined me.
I didn't talk to her.
Not the next day. Not the day after that.
I ran drills. Called plays. Barked corrections at everyone except her. Because if I opened my mouth—if I so much as looked at her too long—I'd crack.
And I couldn't afford to crack.
Not when Nate was circling. Not when the press was starting to sniff around. Not when Gideon had already called twice this week asking if everything was "under control."
So I stayed silent.
Billie played like she had something to prove.
Every shift was a war. Every drill, a statement. She led the breakouts, anchored the power play, barked orders at her linemates like she'd been born wearing a C on her chest. The girls followed her without question. The wins started piling up.
On paper, everything looked perfect.
But I saw the cracks.
The way her laugh didn't quite reach her eyes anymore. The way she flinched when someone touched her shoulder. The way she sat alone in the locker room after practice, staring at her skates like they held answers she couldn't find.
The way she looked smaller every day. Like she was folding in on herself. Disappearing.
And I was the reason.
I'd told her I wanted her safe.
But not like this.
Not pretending to love a man who'd hurt her. Not performing for cameras that didn't give a damn about who she really was.
Not wilting under the weight of protecting me.
I watched her skate out after practice one night, her bag slung over her shoulder, her hood pulled up against the cold. Nate was waiting by the doors, leaning against his car like he owned her.
She climbed in without a word. Didn't look back.
I stood there in the empty rink, my reflection staring back at me from the glass, and finally admitted the truth I'd been avoiding for weeks:
I was a coward.
Not because I wanted her.
But because I'd let her fight this battle alone.
And that ended tonight.
The rink was empty by the time I made the call.
My voice was rough when I picked up the phone, my thumb hovering over her name in my contacts like it might burn me. I hit send before I could second-guess it.
She answered on the second ring.
"Coach?"
Even her voice did something to me—husky, guarded, like she was already bracing for the worst.
"My office. Now."
A pause. Then, quieter: "Is everything okay?"
No.
"Practice tape. Need your input."
Lie. A coward’s excuse. But she bought it.
"Five minutes."
The line went dead.
I leaned back in my chair, my office door still closed, the blinds drawn against the darkening parking lot outside. The tape sat untouched on my desk; the screen frozen on a play from last week’s game—Billie’s breakaway, the one where she’d faked out the goalie so hard he’d ended up on his ass.
I remembered the way her skates had dug into the ice, the way her ponytail had flown behind her, the way she’d thrown her arms up after the puck hit the net like she owned the goddamn world.
I remembered the way I’d wanted to kiss her right then. In front of everyone.
The doorknob turned. She stepped inside, her bag slung over one shoulder, her hair still damp from the shower.
She smelled like soap and effort, like the kind of sweat that came from leaving everything on the ice.
Her eyes flicked to the screen, then to me, then away—like she was afraid of what she’d see if she looked too long.
"You wanted to go over tape?"
Her voice was steady. Too steady. Like she’d practiced it in the mirror.
I didn’t answer.
Just stood up.
The chair scraped back, the sound too loud in the quiet room. She tensed, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag.
"Coach—"
That was all she got out.
Because then I was in front of her, my hands on either side of her face, my mouth crashing into hers like I’d been starving for it.
For her.
She made a sound—something between a gasp and a moan, her bag hitting the floor with a thud as her hands came up, gripping my wrists like she was trying to decide whether to push me away or pull me closer.
I didn’t give her the chance to choose.
I kissed her like I was drowning. Like she was the only thing keeping me above water.
Her lips were soft, then hungry, then desperate—her nails digging into my skin, her body pressing against mine like she was trying to climb inside me. I backed her up against the door, my hands sliding down to her waist, my thumbs brushing the hem of her hoodie, the heat of her skin beneath—
And then she shoved me.
Not hard. But enough.
Enough to break the kiss.
Enough to make me see the tears in her eyes.
Her chest heaved, her lips swollen, her voice raw when she finally spoke:
"You can’t keep doing this."
I didn’t let go. Couldn’t. My hands stayed on her hips, my forehead pressed to hers, my breath coming just as hard as hers.
"I want you all the time." My voice was a wreck. "I haven’t stopped."
Her laugh was bitter. "What about Nate? The press? The NHL?"
"Fuck the NHL." The words tore out of me, rough and honest. "Fuck all of it. I just—" My throat burned. "I want you."
She swallowed. Her hands were still on my arms, her grip tight enough to bruise. "As what?"
Her voice cracked.
And that was the part that destroyed me.
Because I didn’t have an answer. Not one that made sense. Not one that fixed anything.
I was a man who’d spent a lifetime burning bridges, and here she was—asking me to build something.
"As…" The word stuck in my throat. "As all of it. Everything. Whatever you’ll give me, I’ll take."
The air between us was thick. Heavy. Full of all the things we weren’t saying.
I’m scared.
I don’t know how to do this.
I think I’m in love with you.
She didn’t answer.
But she didn’t walk away, either.
Just stood there, her breath warm against my lips, her heart pounding under my hands, her eyes searching mine like she was trying to decide if I was worth the fall.
And then, she kissed me.