“I’m listing you as a healthy scratch for tomorrow,” I say, and Maverick’s mouth opens in protest. I hold up my hand, stopping him from interrupting. “You’re not in trouble. It’s so you and Emmy can make sure everything is okay with the baby.”
“I’ve never missed a game before,” he says.
“You’ve also never been up all night with a screaming newborn, but things are about to change for you, Miller. Take the next three days off. See who you need to see, and come back ready to work. Sound fair?”
“Yeah.” Maverick nods. His shoulders drop away from his ears. “Sounds fair. Thanks, Coach.”
“Wow. I never knew Coach had a heart,” Ethan whispers to Grant, and I blow my whistle.
“Forget the drills. Fifteen laps for everyone. Last five need to be explosive, and you can thank Richardson when your ankles start to hurt.” I grin when everyone groans. “Begin.”
An hour and a half later,I open the door to my office in our practice facility and glare at my cell phone sitting on the desk.
I’m going to send Hannah that text message even if it’s my fucking demise.
It’s not as good as a phone call, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.
Watching you get off that night was the hottest thing of my life. I’ve replayed it over and over again.Or,Hey, I know we haven’t spoken in almost a year and a half, but do you think I could convince you to give my daughter figure skating lessons? Thanks so much.Maybe,I’m so fucking sorry for what I did and how I did it. How can I make it up to you?
I groan and collapse in the desk chair, putting my forehead against the wood.
I can fuckingdothis.
I’m a thirty-nine-year-old man, for fuck’s sake.
I’m the best coach in the NHL.
I’ve had my leg sliced up. I’ve been through hell and back.
A text message about figure skating won’t be my biggest fear.
I stare at the number Grant gave me and copy it. My fingers hover over the keys, clueless how I’m supposed to start, before my thumbs move on their own.
Me
Hey. Grant gave me your number. I’m not sure if he mentioned it, but my daughter, Olivia, needs a figure skating coach. Are you interested? I’ll pay.
I hit send before I have a chance to double-check what I’ve typed, and when I read it back, I groan again.
“Get it together, Saunders,” I mutter, typing out another text.
Me
It’s Brody. Brody Saunders. The DC Stars coach.
That’s not any better. There needs to be a way to unsend texts because two incoherent thoughts in a row is unhinged behavior.Something I would’ve pulled back in my early twenties, and I shake my head, disappointed in myself.
Me
Sorry. Let me try this one more time. Hi, Hannah. It’s Brody. Grant gave me your number, and I hope it’s okay that I’m reaching out. My daughter needs a figure skating coach, and you come highly recommended. Let me know if that’s something you’d like to discuss further.
I hope you’re doing well, I type after a beat, adding the last thought before I hit send.
I stare at my phone for the next fifteen minutes, waiting for an answer that doesn’t come.
NINE
HANNAH
