I laugh. “In the spirit of honesty, I have read plenty of articles about you, but I’ve always preferred hearing things straight from the source.”
“What do you know? The source is right here.” He taps his right knee. A long, white scar stretches across his leg. I didn’t notice it when we hooked up, too distracted by other parts of his body, but I see it now. “I came into the league at nineteen years old. Played four great seasons, but one game, an opponent’s blade sliced through my gear and reached my skin. Cut a tendon, and I had to have surgery. It was a freak accident. My team wanted me back in the lineup as quickly as possible, but when I returned, my body wasn’t healed. After three months of pain, poor playing, and a lot of frustration, I recognized I’d never be the same athlete again. So, I retired. It was the smartest thing I could’ve done, but I still did it unwillingly. It hurts like hell to lose a part of yourself, and I’m not going to let that happen to you.” He kicks off his sneakers and slips on his skates, tying them tight. “Which means we have work to do.”
Oh.
Hearing his story—and his eagerness to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself with me—breathes fresh life into my motivation. It makes me lace up my own skates. Makes my blood hum with anticipation and excitement, and when was the last time I’ve been this ready to work on something as simple as my edge control?
Never, a voice whispers.
“Is that why you’re wearing a whistle?” I ask, trying to keep the air between us light without giving away how much his agreement to help means to me. “Because you’re about to go into coach mode?”
“Yup. Get your ass on the ice, Everett,” Brody says, and I grin.
“Try to keep up,” I say back, and the flicker of amusement in his eyes makes me think working with him is going to be a lot of fucking fun.
“Let’s start with a couple easy laps.” He moves clockwise around the ice. His legs are even longer with skates on, and I match his pace. “No specific focus. No thinking. Just skating.”
“This is my favorite. Hey.” I nudge him with my elbow. “I’m sorry about your injury.”
“It was years ago.”
“Still. I’m sorry things didn’t turn out how you thought they would.”
“They didn’t,” he agrees. “But I think they turned out better. If I kept playing, I wouldn’t have Liv. I wouldn’t be coaching a good group of guys.”
“I’m going to tell them you said that.”
“Don’t you dare.” He stops us after three laps and gestures to center ice. “You really want to get basic with this?”
“Yup. Pretend like this is my first time putting on skates.”
“You’re more elegant than the players I’m used to working them, but we can start with edge work.”
“Sounds kinky.” I smirk when his neck flushes red. “Bring it on, Saunders.”
Brody takes me through a set of stationary drills. There are C-cuts. Outside and inside edge balancing. Dynamic exercises he tells me he runs with the guys, power pulls and crossovers that are new to me.
They’re elementary components I haven’t practiced in years. The moves come naturally to me as an adult, but away from a choreographed program or the jumps I rely on, I’m forced to think about each part of my body.
I have to remind myself to engage my core and the position of my shoulders. I keep dropping my chin, overthinking what comes next, until Brody blows his whistle and makes me jump.
“Eyes up.” He lifts my chin with his finger, humming when my posture straightens. “That’s better. We’re going to do a gliding drill around the face-off circle next.”
“Gliding is my favorite.” I crouch low, pretending like I’m holding a stick. “How do you think I’d do as a hockey player?”
“Well, you’re standing incorrectly, so pretty terribly.”
“I am?” I look down. “How should I be standing?”
“Not like that.” Brody positions himself in front of me. His skate knocks against mine. He hesitates, and when I look up, I find his hands frozen in the air. “Can I touch you?”
“Why? See something you like, Coach?” I tease.
“You’re such a goddamn smart-ass,” he mumbles. “See if I help you again.”
“I’m kidding. Yes, Brody, you can touch me,” I say, and,oh, I wish I had kept my mouth shut, because whatever humor is left dies out. Because his palms are on my shoulders, touching me,controllingme, and I remember how big and warm and powerful he is. I feel small in his hold, but at the same time, I know I’m safe. “Am I doing it right?”
“No. Spread your feet.” His voice is raspier than it was before. I hear the whisper of off-limits in each syllable, but it’s followed up with the touch of smoke. The hint ofI don’t give a fuck. “More,” he adds, but my lack of movement has Brody bending from his hips. Has his hand traveling from my shoulder to my knee, guiding my legs apart so there’s room between my skates. “That’s better.”
