Frankie exhaled in frustration, glaring at me. "What's going on?"
No, I didn't want to explain. Not yet. Not until I faced the truth. "Get off my back," I snapped, regretting it instantly.
"Get off your back?" Her voice rose, cheeks flushing with anger.
Damn, I wanted to kiss her.
Her narrowed eyes, and the grip of her fist on my shirt pulled me closer, more threatening than enticing. Yet, I craved her. I was painfully aware my teammates now knew about us.
"Coach," I murmured, only for her ears.
"You listen, asshole. I'm the coach. If I say push harder, you push. If I say pick it up, you do it. If I say fly, grow wings. Got it?"
"Yeah," I replied, trying to suppress a grin, though her shove made it clear I failed. I loved her yelling at me. She loved yelling. But I doubted she liked that I loved it. If that made any sense.
With a frustrated shake of her head, Frankie skated toward the cluster of players at the far end of the rink. “Jules, wipe that fucking smirk off your face.”
“Want to come wipe it off for me, Coach?”
Without thinking, I pushed off, skating faster than I had in ages. My knee? There was no pain. Not a single twinge, at least none that I could feel. I closed the distance to Julian before anyone could stop me, slamming him back against the boards. My fist collided with the underside of his jaw, the impact sending a jolt through me.
He retaliated, but I barely felt it when my lip split open. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, spurring me on until Ryder and Rowan's powerful arms pulled me away. As I was dragged back, I realized Frankie wasn’t yelling at me—not about this.
And that was bad.
Instead, she stood frozen, wide-eyed and disappointed, her disapproval thick in the air.
“Practice,” she ground out, her voice tight with anger, “is over. Get off this fucking ice.”
I wanted to go to her, apologize, fix it. But before I could move, Ryder shoved me toward the tunnel. I didn’t bother with skate guards as I stormed into the locker room. This was amess. I’d hit a teammate—Julian, no less—but he deserved it. He always did. But that wasn’t me. I didn’t hurt people. Not unless it was part of the game.
I collapsed onto the bench in front of my locker, my head in my hands. My pulse pounded in my temples.Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.It echoed in my mind, and it was right.
Ryder sat beside me, breaking the silence. “One of the many reasons coaches shouldn’t date their players.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Ted, you’ve got to fix this for her. Might not be fair, but some of the guys have lost the respect they need to have for her.”
“I’ll fucking kill them.”
“Yeah, because that’s a great plan.” Rowan chuckled from my other side. “Honestly, I kind of love that you’re this far gone for her, especially when she’s so… mean to you.”
I groaned. “So mean.”
Ryder slapped the back of my head. “You like it, you sick fuck.”
“Yes. Yes, I do,” I admitted, without hesitation.
Rowan burst into laughter, drawing the attention of a few of the guys nearby. Ryder was right, though. I had to fix this. Frankie had stormed straight to her office, slamming the door behind her. This was my chance. The team… we were a family. Most of the time, anyway. We busted our asses on the ice, especially during games. It created a bond that couldn’t easily be broken.
So, I knew they’d listen. I was sure of it.
I pushed myself off the bench, planting my hands on my knees. One step. Two. Before I knew it, I was standing in the middle of the locker room, directly over the team crest—a demon-like dog snarling at the world. I cleared my throat, but no one seemed to hear me. Time to go bigger.
“All right, assholes!” I bellowed. “Shut the fuck up.”
That did the trick. Conversations died off, and all eyes shifted toward me—some skeptical, others just curious.
Ryder gave me a quick nod, silently urging me on. There was no turning back now.
“Are you fuckers really going to do this?”
