“I was a college kid too, you know.” He breathes out a laugh. “Though I promise, lucky for you, I don’t think you’re pissed because you’re headed for rehab or anything.”
One thing I have always respected about Coach is that he’s open about his shit. He doesn’t try to hide behind some fancy D1 coach title. He owns who he used to be and tries to pay it forward by being patient with people like me.
“It doesn’t matter anyway now,” I say, sighing. “It was never going to work between Isla and me.”
“Oh, yeah?” He doesn’t even sound surprised. “And why is that?”
I stop walking, cocking my head to the side at him. “Coach … she’s a good fucking girl. She’s smart. She’s sweet.” I pause, looking down. “And she’s got a good family.” Finally, my eyes lift to his. “You saw me tonight on the ice. That’s who I am. That’s all I’ll ever be.”
I turn away from him and start walking again, making him do the same, and for a moment, he’s quiet.
“You’ve met my wife, Haley, a few times now, Hunt.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “She’s real nice.”
“She is. She’s the best person I know. She’s too fucking good for me.” He chuckles. “Way too fucking good.” This time, it’s him stopping, gripping my shoulder so that I do the same. “Do you think that there weren’t times when I pushed her away because I was a drug addict who put my addiction above anything and everything else—including her?” He looks down, kicking at the hotel rug with his shoe. “That woman saw me at my lowest and chose to love me through it anyway. When I gave up on myself, she didn’t. I’m not being dramatic when I tell you that my wife didn’t just save me; she gave me a life I never dreamed was possible.”
Emotion balls up in my throat, but I keep it inside because this is Coach’s story, not mine. I have no reason to be a little bitch about it. I can’t find the words to say back, but luckily, he makes it so I don’t have to.
“Cam Hardy would murder me for saying all of this to you, but I also know that man has a heart of gold. After all, he chose friends like me and O’Brien.” He laughs. “Don’t assume your problems are too big for her. Or that your life is too fucked up for her. Isla is a tough girl. Let her decide, okay?”
“Okay,” I return, still not knowing what to do with all of this.
“Thank you.” He smacks my shoulder again. “Now, let’s go find those cookies and then get your ass to bed. You have a game tomorrow, and I don’t want to see any fighting. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” I nod. “You have my word.”
“Good.” He grins.
And even though he might not know this … the conversation we just had is one of the most meaningful of my life.
TWENTY-THREE
ISLA
“Come on, bitch!”Haven says, dragging me by the hand toward the house. “You’re dressed all hot and a little slutty. You smell delicious. And it’s time to flirt, dance, and act your age instead of mope around over a dude you hardly knew anyway.”
“I am not moping around!” I say quickly, eyes wide. “I literally am just … being my normal self.”
“Bulllllshit,” Summer utters behind us. “Don’t get me wrong; you’re always way too serious. But you have been straight-up mopey-dopey the past few days.” She comes beside me.
“Whatever,” I grumble, tossing my head back. “Where did Harley go anyway?”
“Pretty sure she stopped to say hi to Cane and ended up jumping in his truck with him.” Haven laughs. “He’s been after her for a while now though. So, it checks out.”
I was clearly down yesterday after getting home from my depressing car ride when I left the arena, so my friends basically dressed me up and dragged me to this party. I’d rather be home,in my bed, watching Netflix, but Haven was not taking no for an answer. So, here I am.
But the men’s hockey team won their game earlier today against New Hampshire, and I know that’s only a two-hour drive. Which means the hockey players could show up at this party since it’s at the other athletes’ house, The Lookout. I’m just praying we’re long gone before they make it back. With any luck, they stop for a celebratory dinner or something, and it takes hours.
And hopefully Hendrix finds a hair in his food. Or maybe gets food poisoning.
When I follow them inside the house, the smell of any NEU party immediately hits my nostrils—which is always a mix of cigarette smoke, weed, body mist, and liquor. And with the music pulsating through my eardrums and bodies smashing into mine while they dance, I’m regretting even more that I agreed to be here.
Standing nextto the fire in the backyard, I sip my second White Claw of the night slowly. We’ve been here for almost an hour, and so far, no sign of any hockey players—fortunately. But I’m not going to push my luck because, eventually, they’re bound to show up.
I don’t know what I would do if Hendrix walked in with his arm around a girl, and I’m sure after a win like the one they just had, that’s exactly the kind of celebrating he’s looking to do.
Inside, I talk myself up to plead my case to the girls as to why I need to leave soon. I know their plan tonight was to get me outof the house to have some fun and loosen up, but truth be told, I just want to get the hell out of here.
