“Emmitt. My office.”
The walk down the hallway feels endless. My skate guards click against the concrete, and sweat rolls down my spine, despite the cool air. Coach closes the door behind us with a soft click that might as well be a gunshot. He settles into his chair, studying me like game film.
The silence persists longer than comfortable, but hell, if I’ll be the first one to speak.
“Talk to me,” he says finally. “What I saw out there tonight? That wasn’t you.”
My throat is dry. I stare at the framed photographs on the desk behind him. Coach in his twenties with the Stanley Cup when he played for the Blades. With his daughter, the blonde teen holding a stringed instrument of some sort.
“Twenty-three years I’ve been coaching.” He leans back, arms crossed, but still, I don’t meet his gaze. “I’ve seen players struggle with injuries, contract disputes, family problems. But since day one, you’ve never wavered. You’ve always been a rock. It’s why you’re captain of the Freeze. You don’t lose focus like you did tonight.”
The concern in his voice cuts deeper than anger would. I can handle being yelled at. Cursed out. But disappointment from aman I respect? A mentor who’s taught me so much? It’s hard to swallow.
I stare at the logo on his jacket. He watches my face. “Look, I’m not going to pry, but we’re five games from post-season. I need to know my captain’s head is screwed on straight. Especially now.”
My pulse spikes. Is that a general question, or does he know something? I can’t tell and can’t say anything, anyway. I don’t know what happened with McKenna, and until I do, I need to remain quiet. And I definitely can’t give him more reason to think I won’t be ready to lead this team back to the finals.
“My head’s fine, Coach.”
“Is it?” He leans forward, elbows on the desk. The leather chair creaks under his weight. The sound reminds of McKenna’s bed, but my attention snaps back to him as he continues. “I had an interesting conversation with Linda in HR earlier. Nothing specific, she was just…checking in on the players.”
My blood turns to ice. The casual way he says it, as if he’s discussing the weather, makes it ten times worse.
“The players?” I croak, definitely not playing it cool.
His eyes never leave mine. “This time of year can be hard. You know that. The pressure’s intense, and that can lead to…poor decisions.”
My hands curl into fists. McKenna is the polar opposite of a poor decision, but I can’t get a read on him, can’t get a sense of where this is going. Is he fishing? The uncertainty kills me.
Especially when something flickers across his face. “And you’ve always been the one other players look up to. A role model.”
There it is again, careful phrasing that could mean everything or nothing. My hands are sweating. I unclench my fists and wipe my palms down my pants, hoping he doesn’t notice.
“Pressure makes people do things they wouldn’t normally consider,” he continues. “Take risks they can’t afford.”
Then he rises, moving to the window that overlooks the parking lot. With his back to me, he adds, “I trust you’ll make smart choices going forward, Emmitt. For the good of the team. For your career.”
“I…appreciate the advice, Coach,” I grind out, not entirely sure I do.
“Good. Get some rest. Clear your head. We need you sharp for Tampa Bay.”
I stand, my legs unsteady. As I reach for the door handle, his voice stops me.
“Emmitt?”
I turn back.
“Whatever’s going on, just remember actions have consequences. Not just for you, but for everyone involved.”
The words follow me out. No more uncertainty. He knows something. In the hallway, I lean against the wall, my heart hammering. One thing’s crystal clear: I need to find McKenna. Tonight. Because whatever anyone knows or suspects, she and I are in this together. I’ll be damned if she’ll face the consequences alone.
McKenna
Whitney’sapartmentsmellslikevanilla. But tonight the scent isn’t comforting. It’s cloying. And mixed with my anxiety, it’s creating such suffocating sweetness my stomach churns. But I can’t go home. Chances are good Emmitt will show up there tonight and pound on my door, and I highly doubt my ability to resist opening it.
To prevent relying on willpower that is less likely to show up than a monsoon in August, I’m curled into the corner of Whitney’s oversized sectional, surrounded by a graveyard of empty tea mugs, watching the Freeze in a nailbiter on live TV.
Or, more accurately, watching Emmitt implode on national television.
