Chapter Twenty-One
Cooper
The adrenaline doesn’t disappear when I leave the ice. It just settles deep under my skin.
By the time I’m walking down the tunnel, my helmet tucked beneath my arm, the noise from the arena has already faded behind me.
My shoulder has gone from hot to heavy. Like a weight I can’t shrug off.
I keep trying to roll it out as we walk.
“Don’t,” the trainer says without even looking at me.
I let out a heavy sigh. “I didn’t realize I was being obvious.”
“You are.”
The exam room feels colder than the ice. The bright lights and the stiff padding under the table beneath me are worse than that god-awful air mattress Brinley had us sleeping on.
They move my arm carefully, guiding me through motions I’ve done hundreds of times before. I answer their questions on autopilot.
Any numbness? No.
Any tingling? No.
Does it feel unstable? No.
It’s not a lie, but maybe not the whole truth either.
They continue to prod my shoulder with their fingers, and I lock my jaw, refusing to give him anything. He nods in confirmation of something, then steps back.
“Probably just irritated it,” he says. “We’ll continue to keep an eye on it.”
I nod like that’s enough.
By the time I leave the room, the guys are ambling down the tunnel toward the locker rooms. When I push open the door, the music is already blaring. The air is thick with sweat and the smell of gear. It’s the kind of noise I usually welcome after a win.
Tonight, I’m just not feeling it.
Kade looks up from his stall and studies me. He doesn’t say anything at first, but I can see the questions swirling in his mind. I drop my helmet into my stall and reach for the straps on my pads.
“What did they say?” he asks, nodding to my shoulder.
“It’s nothing,” I say, keeping my voice even as I start stripping out of my gear. “Just got it jammed.”
He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “You stayed down.”
I shrug. “You saw all the traffic in front of the goal. I needed a second.”
“That second looked longer than usual,” Owen adds from across the room.
I glance at him. “You timing me now?”
No one laughs. That’s when I know they’re not buying it.
Kade watches me wrestle my jersey over my head. My right arm hesitates halfway up, and I have to switch hands to finish the motion.
His eyes narrow slightly. “They clear you?”
“Yeah.”
“For real?”
I finally look at him. “I’m the starting goalie. You think they’re putting me back out there if something’s wrong?”
He doesn’t say another word, and neither do I.
Our assistant coach, Coach Glasgow, passes through a minute later. “Shoulder is irritated, but it’s nothing serious. Just something we’ll keep an eye on,” he says, almost like he’s repeating something he was told.
I finish stripping out of my gear and head toward the showers. I’m slower than normal. It’s not that I can’t move, but I don’t want to prove them right.
In the shower, the water hits my back, and I tilt my head forward, letting it run. When I reach up to rinse my hair, my shoulder resists enough to make me grit my teeth.
It’s fine.
It has to be fine.
Back at my stall, I grab my phone and see two messages from Brinley waiting for me.
I picture her in the stands, watching every save, catching the moment my shoulder started to bother me in the way most people wouldn’t notice.
I start typing I’m fine when her next message comes through, telling me she’s heading home with Atlee.
Before I can respond, Coach Glasgow reappears. “Coach Dawson wants to see you.”
“Right now?” I ask, still sitting in my towel. I haven’t worked up the energy to get dressed yet.
He nods once. I glance down at my phone, hovering over the screen before I type out a quick message.
Me: Just hit the showers. I’ll call you when I’m heading out.
I send it and shove my phone back into my locker, then stand. My shoulder protests when I pull on my T-shirt and hoodie, and I quickly pull on my jeans and boots.
The hallway outside the locker room feels too calm after a game. Coach Dawson’s office door is cracked open when I get there. Light spills out into the hall.
I knock once and step inside, telling myself this is about our next game. About our upcoming matchups. Anything that would make sense after a win.
Instead, my mind imagines Brinley here, confronting him about the news that he's her father, and her storming out in tears. Why? I still don’t even know.
As the door shuts behind me, it isn’t only my shoulder that feels heavy. It’s not knowing what he wants to talk to me about.
Something tells me this won’t be as simple as I hope.
“Have a seat,” he says.
He doesn’t ask how my shoulder is doing or how I’m feeling. Instead, he leans back in his chair, folds his hands in front of him, and looks at me like he’s already decided how this conversation is going to go.
“What is going on with you and Brinley Taylor?”
My jaw tightens at the mention of her name. At the way he intentionally uses Taylor, when it should’ve been Dawson.
“That’s what this is about?” I ask.
He arches a brow. “Your head hasn’t been in the game, Rowdy.”
There it is. The nickname. The one everyone uses. It doesn’t usually bother me, but in the context of this conversation, it does.
“My stats would say otherwise,” I say evenly.
He waves a hand. “I’m not talking numbers. I’m talking about your focus. Your discipline. You’ve been distracted.”
I lean back in the chair, careful with my shoulder when I cross my arms. “With all due respect, sir, you pulled me in here after a game where I took a hit in the crease to question who I spend time with?”
His nostrils flare. “That personal life,” he says evenly, “is starting to bleed into this team.”
I shake my head. “I don’t see how.”
I want to laugh and point out that if anyone’s personal life is interfering with our team, it would be his.
His jaw tightens slightly. “Because she’s my daughter.”
I don’t react right away. I already know that. He might not know that I do. But the way he says it—like that alone should shut this down—doesn’t sit right.
“And?” I ask.
“And when my daughter starts showing up around my team,” he says carefully, “that becomes my concern.”
“Who I’m spending my time with has nothing to do with hockey. She came to a game,” I reply. “That’s not exactly crossing a line.”
“It is when people start talking.”
There it is.
“Talking about what?”
“You know how this works,” he says. “One picture. One rumor. It doesn’t take much.”
I hold his stare. “She’s not a rumor.”
“She is when she’s with you.”
That lands heavier than he probably intended.
“I don’t want her around this program,” he continues. “Around the noise. Around the attention.”
“You’ve been keeping tabs on her?” I ask.
“I’ve been informed.”
The phrase makes my jaw tighten. Suddenly, the incident in the alley behind Broken Saddle doesn’t feel so random anymore.
“You don’t get to call me in here and tell me who I can spend time with,” I say. “You sure as hell don’t get to try to run her out of town.”
“Rowdy—”
“No. If this is about hockey, say it’s about hockey.”
His expression hardens. “You’re too valuable to this team to lose focus. You’ve got a future most guys would kill for.”
Now it all makes sense.
“You need to think long term,” he adds. “Careers get destroyed over less.”
“Are you worried about my game,” I ask quietly, “or about your reputation?”
That’s when he stands.
And that’s when he stops calling me Rowdy.
“Cooper,” he says, voice low and detached. “I’m telling you one last time to stay away from her.”
“And if I don’t?”
His eyes hold mine. “Then I hope you’re prepared for the consequences.”
It’s not a threat, but a warning.
My whole body hums. I can’t tell if it’s from the hit or the tension simmering under my skin.
He knows I’ve heard him.
He knows I understand exactly what he’s implying without him directly saying the words.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
He gestures toward the door, already shifting his focus back to his computer. “You’ve been cleared. Go home. Get some rest.”
I’m halfway out when he adds, “Be smart, Cooper. Don’t let some girl cost you everything.”
I don’t tell him what I want to say, which is to fuck off. Instead, I pull the door open harder than necessary and stalk out of his office.
The hallway feels colder than before. My shoulder throbs in a way I can’t ignore now.
I pull my phone out without really thinking about it. I told Brinley I’d call when I left. Her name is at the top of my screen. For a second, I stare at it.
I can picture her answering. The way she’d pretend she wasn’t waiting. The way she’d ask if I was okay, like she’s been anxiously awaiting the answer.
I want to hear her voice.
That’s the problem.
If he’s already being “informed,” if he’s already paying attention to where she is and who she’s talking to, then calling her won’t stay a secret. It turns into leverage he can use against me.
And worse, against her.
My thumb hovers over her name a second longer, then I lock the screen and shove the phone back into my pocket.
The second I push through the doors, I drag in a breath, trying to get a handle on it. My shoulder tightens when I roll it, but I don’t stop walking.
I’ve played hockey long enough to know when things feel off.
And for the first time since I put on the Wolves jersey, I’m starting to wonder who I’m really supposed to trust.