I follow him through the tunnel and up the stairs to his office. As soon as I step inside, I’m hit with the trifecta I’ve come to associate with this space. Dark roast coffee, worn-in leather, and that cozy aroma of cedar and spice that had freshman-year me practically tripping over my skates.
“Sit,” he orders, closing the door behind us with his foot.
I drop into the chair across from his desk, trying not to fidget under his scrutiny. I scan the wall of team photos, my eyes lingering on the one from freshman year—me with that ridiculous haircut, standing awkwardly at the edge. His collection of trophies catches the afternoon light from the window. My gaze drifts to that faded blue poster with the rowing team all pulling in sync: “TEAMWORK: Together Everyone Achieves More.” God, I’d memorized every pixel of that thing, having stared at it whenever I needed somewhere safe to look.
Freshman me was such a disaster. Walking into that first team meeting and seeing Coach Jack Donovan—six foot two of pure muscle with those piercing eyes and that commanding presence—I wanted to come on the spot. For months, I convinced myself it was hero worship. He was everything I wanted to be: confident, respected, in control. But then came the nights I’d jerk off thinking about his fingers pressing into my hip bones, voice dropping low as he murmured technical corrections I could barely process through the thundering in my chest.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Coach leans back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin.
I blink rapidly, remembering where I am. “Nothing’s going on.”
“Bullshit.” The word cracks like a whip. “I’ve been coaching you for three years, Drew. I know when something—orsomeone—is in your head.”
Three years. Has it really been that long since I stumbled into his office as a cocky freshman with a chip on my shoulder and a desperate need to prove myself? He’d seen right through my bravado then.
“It’s just this stupid campus gossip,” I finally admit, slumping in my chair. “Everyone thinks Jackson and I are together because we shared a fucking blanket at the Polar Bear Plunge.”
“And that’s affecting your game how?”
“It’s not—” The denial dies in my throat when his eyebrow arches into that familiardon’t even try itposition.
“You’ve been here alone for two hours, hitting pucks like they personally offended you. That’s not nothing.”
He’s right. He’s always fucking right. It’s one of the things I love and hate about him.Loved, I correct myself. Because somewhere along the way, that desperate crush morphed into something else entirely. Respect. Admiration. The kind of bone-deep trust you have for someone who’s seen you at your worst and still believes in you.
“I can’t concentrate,” I admit. “Every time I walk across campus, people are whispering. Taking pictures. Making up stories about us that aren’t true.”
“Since when do you care what people think?”
“I don’t.”Liar, liar, pants on fire. “It’s just…Jackson doesn’t deserve this. He’s straight, and now everyone thinks we’re some epic love story.”
“Drew.” Coach leans forward, the leather of his chair creaking as his shoulders drop an inch, the hard lines around his mouth easing like ice giving way to spring thaw. The furrow between his eyebrows smooths, and for a moment, those hazel eyes lose their drill-sergeant intensity. “You came in here as this arrogant kid who thought he could charm his way through anything?—”
“I was not that bad,” I protest weakly.
“You spent half of freshman year flirting with me.”
Heat floods my face. “I did not.”
“Drew.”
“Okay, maybe a little.” I can’t meet his eyes, embarrassment and shame warring inside of me. “You were intimidating. In a good way. I didn’t know how else to deal with it.”
He chuckles, and it’s warm, affectionate even. “I know. And I’m glad you grew out of it.”
Did I, though?Even now, staring at him from across the desk, I appreciate the way his shoulders fill out that windbreaker. If he asked—if he showed even the slightest interest—I’d probably still throw his legs over my shoulders. But that’s biology talking. What I feel for him now runs deeper than that old crush. He’s become the father figure I never had, the one person who calls me on my bullshit and pushes me to be better.
“The point is,” he continues, “you’ve grown into one of the best players I’ve ever coached. You’re a leader on this team. The guys look up to you.”
“Coach, I?—”
“I’m not finished.” His voice takes on that tone that makes everyone shut up and listen. “But right now, you’re letting outside noise get in your head. You’re worried about what people are saying instead of focusing on what matters.”
“Hockey,” I say automatically.
“Your happiness,” he corrects, and I blink in surprise. “Hockey’s important, sure. But Drew, I’ve watched you make your way through half the campus?—”
“Not half,” I mutter.
