Which was why I couldn’t understand Coach Frankie. She was the only person who could look at me with such a scowl, the only one who made me question my usual charm.
There had been that girl in college—the one who slept with me once then cut me off without hesitation. I never even bothered remembering her name, but her words? Those were etched in my mind, a permanent reminder of that rare, unshakable rejection. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks.”
She was good. Without me.
I got along with everyone. I made friends easily, always left a good impression on professors and coaches. Hell, I was the guy parents loved—the one they’d invite over for dinner, the one they wanted as their kid’s friend.
And yet, in a single moment, I’d thrown it all away. A semi-lie, an attempt to seem darker, more serious than I really was.Maybe that was what Frankie saw through. Maybe that was what made her see me differently.
“Coach,” I rasped, my throat tight with frustration. “Did you hear me?” I ignored the sound of Guardian running from the kitchen into the living room, his usual evening zoomie session.
She took a step back, her sharp eyes never leaving mine. “You’re treading in dangerous waters, Valentine.”
I shook my head, refusing to let her control the narrative. “No, don’t call me that. Valentine is for the ice, stitched on the back of my jersey. Here, in my home, you’ll call me Teddy.”
Her nostrils flared at my demand—small but telling. It was the only sign I’d managed to get under her skin.
“Take off your pants, Teddy,” she said, her voice cold, calculated.
I leaned in, lowering my voice with a hint of challenge. “Do it for me.”
“No.”
It was a standoff, my charm battling her willpower. That was who she was, the one in control, the one who called the shots. But had she ever let go of that control? Did she ever really want to?
Her phone buzzed, the distraction taking her gaze away from mine. She pulled it out, eyes scanning the screen. “Sullivan. Griff wants an update from you. Can’t get a hold of the doc.”
“Then, we better give him one,” I muttered. With a sigh, I tried to lift myself off the couch, sliding my pants off my hips. But as I bent to pull them down, nausea hit me hard, and I stopped, my stomach churning.
I glanced up at her, a mix of frustration and sincerity in my eyes. “I wasn’t lying. I really do need help.”
When would this end? This feeling of helplessness. I didn’t want to need a babysitter or someone to help me undress—not like this. It was humiliating, and I wasn’t a guy who gotembarrassed. Making a fool of myself? That was usually my thing. But this time… I wasn’t in control.
With a deep, almost reluctant sigh, Frankie lowered herself to her knees in front of me. I’d imagined this moment so many times, but never like this. In my fantasies, there was no hesitation. She was always confident, her fingers sure as she reached for my pants. But this time, there was a softness to her touch, like she was trying to avoid brushing against me as she eased them down.
Her hand hovered just above my uninjured knee, and I had to fight the urge to lean back and bask in the warmth of her closeness. I wasn’t going to enjoy this, not until she did.
She carefully avoided my injured knee—the one that had become my constant reminder of pain—and shifted to pull my pants off, casting them behind her.
Her eyes flicked to my bruised leg, her brow furrowing as she examined the darkening marks spreading beneath my brace. “Some of these bruises aren’t new.”
Her words hit me like a cold slap, dousing the heat I’d been feeling. It was as if a bucket of ice water had poured over me, the weight of her gaze making my pulse quicken in ways I couldn’t control.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I muttered, turning my face away, not letting her see the defiance that still burned in my eyes. My knee had never really recovered—not from the last few injuries, nor from the surgery. Doctors could keep me on the ice, but I felt it every single day. The pain wasn’t enough to keep me from playing, but it was always there, lurking, a shadow that never quite left. It had affected my game lately, but the media chalked it up to the age factor I tried my best to ignore. I was getting older, but hockey had been my life since I was a kid. A bad knee wouldn’t stop me.
Frankie didn’t acknowledge the way my leg twitched when she carefully began unlacing my brace. Sometimes, it felt like that brace was the only thing holding my knee together, like it was keeping my entire leg in place, keeping the skin from rubbing raw, the ligaments from giving way.
She set the brace aside, inching closer as her fingers traced my skin with surprising gentleness.
I tried to force my body to relax, but the combination of pain and her touch was so confusing, so overwhelming, I wasn’t sure what to feel. She didn’t comment on the silly smiley faces printed on my boxers. And if she noticed how I shifted, trying to conceal what lay beneath, she said nothing.
“The swelling’s worse than it was a few days ago,” she spoke as she gently cupped my knee, her long fingers pressing underneath, sliding up to the back of my thigh.
I flinched, trying to hide it with a cough.
She wasn’t fooled. “Your leg’s compensating. The rest of it’s trying to pick up the slack, avoiding putting too much weight on the knee.”
I couldn’t help but comment, even though I wasn’t sure why it came out like it did. “You’re kind of good at this.”
