I’m fuckinggiddy, and I can’t remember the last time I felt this good.
I got the best sleep of my life last night after Hannah came over. I made her pasta, and we talked while we ate dinner. She showed me pictures from her first figure skating competition and I brought out the photo album of all my mini mite playingdays. We put on a television show, muting it halfway through so she could ask me about Liv and what it was like in those early days of being a parent. When we got in bed, she opened a book while I read over game notes, keeping my hand on her thigh until we fell asleep.
There was no sex, no orgasms, but that’s how it is sometimes, and I’m not going to complain. It makes it feel like this relationship is something that exists outside the bedroom too, and when I made her pancakes this morning, dodging the spatula of batter she tried to lodge at my face, I laughed for ten minutes straight.
Easy.
Everything with her is fuckingeasy. I don’t have much experience to go off of—my dating history is minimal at best—but Hannah is different. I feel good around her, and that fun people tell me I need?
I’m having a lot of it.
“Again,” I repeat, nodding when the players pull themselves together. “What did you think about that shift, Mitchell?”
“Huh?” Riley blinks. “What? Sorry. My head is in ten different places right now.”
“If you could refrain from thinking about your girlfriend for the rest of morning skate, it would be appreciated,” I say.
“Fiancée,” he corrects with a sharp tone. “And there’s no need to bring her into our conversation. I’m thinking about my AHL game tomorrow.”
“Think you’ll be with the second line?” I ask.
“I hope so. Practices are going well. I’m not afraid of hurting myself anymore, which was holding me back in the beginning.”
“You looked good from what I saw when I sat in the other day. Head down, keep working, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Riley nods. “What did you ask me a second ago?”
“What you thought about that shift the boys just ran. Grant is still playing really fucking well out, and I want to continue to reward that.”
“I’m going to be honest with you, Coach. I don’t know when the hell Everett grew up, but he has a good head on his shoulders. He’s making more of an effort on and off the ice. That positive reinforcement is going to go a long way.” Riley pauses, leaning back at his hips to adjust his prosthetic leg. “You have to know he looks up to you, right? You’re his role model.”
I bristle with the compliment, but I know it’s true. I see how Grant looks to me for approval. It might be his age—he’s one of the youngest on the team. It might be because he’s more locked in this season, more attentive when he’s at practice. Whatever he’s doing, it’s working. He’s playing the best hockey of his career, and I don’t want to be the one to mess up his groove.
“Thanks for the feedback, Mitchell. We’ll keep the lineup as is.” I blow my whistle after the guys finish another run-through of their drill. “Good effort today. Three laps, then you can head for the showers. I want you to focus on building speed for the first lap. Second lap is an all-out effort. Third lap is a cooldown. And when you’re finished, Richardson, I need to see you in my office.”
“Oooh,” Grant teases, elbowing Ethan’s pads. “What did you do, Easy E?”
“Last person to the locker room is on laundry duty,” I add, and everyone starts moving.
Thirty minutes later, there’s a knock on my office door. I put my phone on silent and shove it in a drawer.
“Come in,” I call out, and Ethan steps inside. “Take a seat, Richardson.”
He looks around, shoulders up by his ears while he slides into the seat near the door. “Am I in trouble, Coach?”
“Do you think you should be in trouble?”
“No. But if this is about the video I posted where I was dancing in front of my motorcycle, I didn’t show my face.TechnicallyI didn’t break any team rules, and I?—”
I hold up my hand to stop him. “I don’t need to know what you do in your off time unless it starts to impact your performance on the ice.” I pause, narrowing my eyes. God damn my curiosity. “You post dancing videos?”
“You bet I do.” He digs into the pocket of his athletic shorts, pulling out two phones. He taps the screen of one and hands it over with a sheepish grin. I hit play on the video that has one million likes and ten million views, confused. A guy dances to some rap song I’ve never heard before in full motorcycle gear, helmet and all. “That’s me.”
“Huh. This isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Shit, Coach.” He grins and relaxes in the chair, fingers linked behind his head. “You’re going to make me blush.”
“Hang on.” I tap the profile. “You havefive million followers?”
