I’d seen it before. My dad didn’t use rules; he used guilt and charm to twist me into knots until I couldn’t tell who I was or what I wanted. That was when I was starting out: a rising player, full of promise, sharp on the ice, and clueless off it. Hell, if not for a coach who stepped in and pulled me into mentorship, I might’ve stayed tangled in that mess.
My dad’s ways were different from Ruby’s, but the result was the same—making yourself smaller to keep someone else comfortable.
Mel had fight in her but still shrank in ways she didn’t see. She didn’t realize how her shoulders curved, or how she got quieter around Ruby. Mel probably thought she was standing her ground, but I could see the retreat under the surface. My coach’s brain kept blowing the whistle, ready to jump in, but this wasn’t about plays or strategy. This was about her. And I wantedher to know I was the guy who not only cared, but who also stood beside her.
Chapter twenty
Sean
Wednesday morning, I stood in the kitchen with a mug of coffee that tasted sweeter than usual and watched the sunrise through the window.
My shoulders felt lighter. The guys had fire in their eyes last night, we pulled off the win, and I was still riding the high.
Maybe it was also the way Mel looked stepping out of the shower last weekend—towel wrapped around her hair, barefoot and bossy. Or the sound of her laugh. Or the way her pajama shorts hugged her curves, leaving bare legs sprawled and pressing against mine.
I hadn’t felt that kind of intimacy in a long time, and never with someone who could boss me around and make me like it. It was ordinary, and somehow extraordinary. Sharing a bed, teasing each other over towels—those were the kind of small, everyday things I hadn’t realized I craved until Mel gave them to me.
She wasn’t rinkside this week, she was rescheduled to the office after someone called in. But when I scanned the stands last night, I spotted her sitting in the last row of the WAG section. Not hidden but not front and center either.
Ruby’s voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and cold:Older. Divorced. Baggage. Not you, Melanie.
That slap stung. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it was meant to shrink her back into the mold her mother had carved for her.
Mel didn’t owe anyone a safe, neutral life packaged for convenience. She didn’t need to make sense to her mother or to a world that preferred her polished and predictable. She had humor, grit, and a damn smart mind that had already brought more value to the team than most in her position ever could.
But she sat in the back of that section, the staff section, when she could’ve sat forward with the WAGs. And that twisted something in my chest.
I hated that she had to second-guess who she was allowed to be, that her instinct was to shrink instead of owning her worth. That someone as good as Mel still had to brace for judgment just for wanting to live out loud—it gutted me.
My pulse kicked harder. I wanted to be the guy who helped her walk into every room owning her worth—heels, flats, fuzzy socks, whatever. Because she did. With or without me, she did. And I wanted her to know, without a doubt, that she was withme. Forty, older, divorced, and public,me.
My phone buzzed. Ben.
“Morning, Murph. Hell, man, you’ve got them skating scared again.”
“We needed it,” I said, glancing at the stat board I’d printed out. “They played tight; we played tighter.”
“That comeback? That wasn’t only coaching. Looks like your cutie, Mel, is giving you extra fire.”
“Yeah, quite a cutie for real,” I said, chuckling.
He chuckled too. “Come on. Don’t downplay the secret weapon. I saw that look on your face when I met her last weekend. I know that look.”
I didn’t answer.
“You’re not only gunning for the Cup,” Ben went on. “You’ve got a real reason, and I gotta say—I’m happy for you, man.”
We hung up after that. I grabbed my keys and headed to work.
Walking through the tunnel, already picturing a second cup of coffee and a five-minute buffer before setting up practice, Asher stopped me mid-stride.
“Coach, I was about to text you.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Have you seen Mel this morning?”
I lifted a brow. “Not yet. Why?”
Asher lowered his voice. “You should find her before she sees this.”
He turned his phone toward me. The screen took a second to load, then split into two images. On the left: me and Mel at Sam’s party, her in that flowery dress, my hand resting on her back, both of us mid-smile. On the right: a cropped shot from a charity gala years ago. Me in a suit, standing beside Evie—my then-wife. The caption still visible:Coach Murphy and wife Evie at the Hockey for Hope fundraiser.
