It was meant to be a compliment. But it sounded more like an accusation.
“That’ll happen when you spend three years studying sports medicine, get injured and lose your hockey scholarship, drop out, and then become a coach for a bunch of teenage boys who have no idea how to take care of their bodies.”
I blinked, trying to process her words. “You were going to…” My voice trailed off as her fingers pressed harder against my leg, sending a sharp pang of pain through me, causing me to yelp.
“The teenagers sure dealt with pain better than you.” Her voice was low, muttered more to herself than to me. But I heard it. And I liked it. There was something about her sharpnessthat cut through the usual pretenses I faced. Something that contradicted how everyone else tried to protect me.
“You’re kind of mean.”
She shrugged without looking up. “I’m your coach, not your fucking therapist.”
“Damn.” A grin spread across my lips involuntarily. I couldn’t hide it even if I tried. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”
She leaned back on her heels, grabbing my pants and starting to slide them back over my feet. “I want to leave the brace off for a while, but that means no bouncing up and down the stairs like you’ve got somewhere important to be.”
“I don’t flounce,” I said, tilting my head toward her. “I dance.”
She snorted out a laugh—sharp, genuine—and I wanted to feel that laughter vibrate through me.
“You think our dancing’s funny?”
“Absolutely.” She nodded. “One hundred percent.”
“Hmmm…”
Her eyes held something else now. A flicker of something unreadable.
“Interesting. But that’s not all you think about it.” I raised an eyebrow.
“You’re really going to make me say it, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
She glanced up at the ceiling, deliberately avoiding my gaze. “Fine. What you guys have been doing to save the team… dancing during commercial breaks, becoming social media stars…” Her eyes finally dropped to meet mine, and in that moment, everything seemed to snap into place. It was like an invisible latch turning, a bolt sliding shut.
“Yes…” I urged, my voice low, steady.
“It’s so fucking brave,” she continued, her voice tight, like she was working through something. “You could have become a joke, but you did it anyway. And I… I love this team as much as any of you. I was so goddamn grateful for what you did. Fuuuuck…” She let out a long, shaky breath.
I couldn’t help but tease her. “Has anyone ever told you that you’ve got a dirty mouth?”
Her breath caught, her chest rising and falling in quick, uneven motions. “Travis, he?—”
I pressed my finger gently to her lips, stopping her.
“Travis is the last thing on my mind,” I murmured. “I want him to be the last thing on yours.”
She nodded, her lips brushing my finger as they parted, just slightly.
“Coach…” I started then stopped myself. “Frankie. I’m going to kiss you.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but I pressed harder against her mouth, silencing her.
“You’re allowed to say ‘no,’ but let me plead my case first,” I said, taking a deep breath, drawing the air in like it was something precious. “You don’t like me. And I’m not used to that. But honestly? I find it so fucking hot. I’ve been away from the team, from the game that’s more obsession than passion now, but all I can think about is how I knelt by your bed. How I touched you. How you let me. And I think… we need to kiss. Get it out of our systems so we can…” I trailed off, unsure how to finish.
“Move on,” she whispered, her voice soft but certain.
“Exactly.” I reached for her, reaching past all the doubt and uncertainty. I grabbed her arm, pulling her closer, settling her between my legs on the couch. The pain in my knee faded into the background, overshadowed by the craving in my chest. I wanted her. There was no denying it.
