3. Chapter 3 #2
“Uh, yeah. I mean,” I say. “I don’t, but we, um... go to the same...”
My eyes drop to the tattoos on his hands, and my tongue is already forming the next words.
“...tattoo artist.”
The words leave my mouth and immediately die on the floor between us.
There’s a beat. In that beat, I remember I do not have a single tattoo.
Slowly, his gaze drops over me. He gives me a long, lazy look over my very un-inked skin, taking inventory of the complete absence of anything remotely consistent with the lie I just told.
One dark brow lifts as his eyes slide back to mine. At the corner of his mouth, something almost happens. He lets the lie sit between us like a private joke he’s generous enough not to expose.
Beside me, Stacey looks me up and down with open suspicion.
“...Right.”
Just as quickly, she pivots right back to him.
“Anyway,” she says, “like I was saying, the kids would absolutely love you out there. We could totally work around your schedule if—”
“Not my thing.” He barely even looks at her when he says it.
His attention stays on me for another second instead. The first wave of kids starts filtering into the rink entrance behind us, their voices spilling out all at once.
His eyes flick past us toward the sound, and whatever had settled in the air between us changes just enough to loosen.
“Glad you enjoy it,” he says, mostly to Stacey, though his eyes land on me again for a final nod of his head.
And then he’s walking away, disappearing toward the exit while the sound of kids keeps rising around us.
For a second, Stacey and I just stand there. Then she slowly turns toward me.
“What,” she says, very carefully, “the fuck is his problem?”
“You heard him. It’s not his thing,” I say, which is both true and a massive understatement. Him shutting down my dad in his own office is enough proof that it’s not just “not his thing.”
I take a deep breath, expanding my lungs. I am far too affected by a man I have barely spoken to.
Stacey is still staring.
“So you do know him after all.” Stacey gives me one long, narrowed look, then pastes on a rink-appropriate smile and turns toward the kids.
I’m sweating through my top, and my throat is dry from talking.
The kids have been good today. As good as a bunch of small humans on knives strapped to their feet can be. We worked on balance, posture, some basic movement patterns, and a few tiny confidence drills.
Unfortunately, the second the first few kids caught sight of Zed Mercer leaving earlier, today’s practice wasn’t really about skating. Half were focused on Jace, who stayed for the first fifteen minutes; the other half wanted to know if “Z” was coming back.
By the time I get off the ice, I’ve spent half the session coaching and the other half pretending I know far less about one giant goalie than I apparently do.
Stacey disappears toward the staff room, still muttering something about wasted face-card opportunities, and I peel off in search of my dad.
I find him near the far end of the rink, talking to one of the assistant coaches with a clipboard tucked under his arm.
He spots me before I reach him.
“How’d it go?”
“Good,” I say. “No concussions. I’m calling it a win.”
“High bar.”
“With this group? Yeah.”
The assistant coach laughs, says something about needing copies of the updated schedule, and wanders off, leaving me with Dad near the boards while the rink starts emptying.
“You looked good out there.” Dad glances out over the ice.
This used to mean something entirely different. Scores, form, performance. The next competition. It’s hard to say what it means now, although it always feels like he’s coaxing me into making a comeback.
“Thanks.”
The word comes out lighter than the feeling behind it.
It took me a long time to get back on the ice after the accident.
For so long, even thinking about skating made something in me lock up.
My recovery had been slow and painful enough that my body stopped feeling like something I could trust. I could picture the rink, picture myself stepping onto it, and my mind would reject the image before I ever got as far as putting skates on.
Dad tried to get me back to skating professionally. I always found a reason not to. And every time I did, I saw something disappear behind his eyes before he smiled and told me it was okay.
My father spent his life becoming a hockey legend. His name is carved into the sport. Four Stanley Cups. Decades on the ice. A career people still bring up each time he gets mentioned. And his daughter got hurt once and couldn’t even make herself step back onto it.
I may not carry the Bennett name—I’ve had my mom’s last name since I was born—but I’ve always known what it means to be his daughter.
He never called me a disappointment. He never had to. Somewhere along the way, I started doing it for him.
“Kids give you any trouble?”
“They spent half the practice asking about your goalie.” I let out a breathy laugh.
“Did they?” That gets his attention, though not much shows on his face beyond a faint flattening around the mouth.
“Oh, relentlessly,” I say. “Apparently, he’s some kind of urban legend to children.”
Dad huffs once through his nose. Close enough to a laugh to count.
I lean lightly against the boards beside him, trying for casual even though his goalie’s been sitting at the back of my mind all afternoon.
“Why doesn’t he ever come out for the kids?” I ask. “The other players do.”
“I’ve tried.” He shakes his head, as if looking for the words. “More than once.”
He shifts the clipboard from one hand to the other, eyes sliding briefly toward the ice before coming back to me. “And unless you missed it, you probably heard a piece of that the other day.”
I make a face. “A piece.”
Dad gives me a look that says sure.
I look away first.
“He’s a stone wall on it,” he says. “He’s a bit difficult.”
I scoff. Not because I think my father is lying to me. He isn’t, but he’s putting a lid on something because he doesn’t feel like explaining what’s under it.
Difficult. End of story.
Except it doesn’t feel like the end of the story. It feels like one of those labels people put on things when the real answer is messier and no one’s in the mood.
“That can’t be it.” I fold my arms.
Dad looks at me.
“If the other players come out sometimes, and the kids clearly lose their minds just seeing him walk by, then why is he so against it?” I ask. “I mean, it’s one practice. Thirty minutes. He acts like someone asked him to donate a kidney.”
Dad’s expression goes flat in that familiar parental way that says I am nearing the outer edge of his patience.
“Lilly.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t want to do it. And he has a good reason not to.”
“What’s his reason?” Now I’m curious.
He studies me for a second, and I can see the moment he realizes I’m actually digging at this.
“Why do you care about Mercer being out there?” His brows pull together.
Excellent question. I don’t have the answer.
“I care because the kids adore him.”
“Unfortunately, the feeling’s not mutual.” Dad shrugs.
“But why? And why did you let him talk to you like that back in your office if you’re his coach?”
Dad exhales. “Mercer is Mercer. He’s the best goalie in the league. I fought like hell to get him here. Management almost declined when they saw the contract numbers. But he’s the damn best at what he does. That’s what matters. He doesn’t owe anybody anything else.”
That is an aggressively generous interpretation of the man I’ve run into exactly three times and who has managed to make every single one of those encounters feel like a low-grade fever.
“Now you tell me something.” He looks at me again. “Why the sudden interest in my goalie?”
I shrug. “Just… the kids. They’re obsessed. Seems like a waste not to let them have him for ten minutes. What if I ask him?”
“You’ve got a soft spot for lost causes, kid.” Dad gives me a warm smile.
I roll my eyes. “It’s not a lost cause. It’s ten minutes on the ice.”
“Don’t waste your energy.” He waves me off. “Mercer doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do. And he doesn’t want to do this, Lilly.”
I don’t argue, but the more he dismisses it, the more something stubborn starts lifting its head in me.
Because now it feels less like Mercer is just difficult and more like everybody just adjusts around him.
Irritatingly, that only makes me want to poke it.
Dad glances toward the hallway, already half-pulled back to the thousand things he still has to do today.
“Mm.” I straighten from the boards.
“What does that mean?” Dad narrows his eyes slightly.
“Nothing.”
“That was not a nothing mm.”
“It was exactly that.” I smile sweetly.
“Lilly.”
“Relax. I’m not doing anything.” I lift both hands.
Which is not technically a lie. I am not doing anything right now.
Dad gives me one last suspicious look, then glances back toward the rink. “I mean it.”
“I know.”
He studies me for another second, clearly deciding whether or not I’m worth the argument, then gives my shoulder a brief squeeze and heads toward the next thing demanding his attention.
I watch him go, then look back out at the ice.
“Mercer is Mercer.”
Fine.
Maybe that’s true. Maybe he is exactly as impossible as everyone says. But maybe I can… try?
The idea is objectively bad.
Which, unfortunately, does nothing to stop it from taking root.
It’s been three days.
Three days of getting to the rink earlier than I need to and finding reasons to leave later than I should.
Three days of pretending I’m just being helpful, just being thorough, just being such a dedicated little Academy employee, when really I’ve been quietly, stupidly hoping to run into one very specific man.
Nothing.
No black hoodie. No broad shoulders moving through the hall. No pale eyes catching on me from across the rink.
By the end of the second day, I feel ridiculous. By the middle of the third, I start trying to act like I’m over it.