“Alright, bring it in!” Coach yells three hours after he blew his whistle for the first time today.
We huddle around him at center ice, breathing hard and dripping sweat despite the arctic temperature of the arena. As I drink him in, I realize something. What I feel for Coach isn’t only attraction, but something else. Approval. Recognition. All the things I never got from the man who was supposed to teach me how to be one.
Coach sees potential in all of us. He pushes us to be better, and never gives up when we’re ready to call it quits. He’s present, demanding but fair, and invested in our success.
“Alright, gentlemen. That was mediocre at best.” Coach crosses his arms, and I try not to notice how the tracksuit strains across his biceps. “We’ve got a long road ahead, and right now, half of you skate like you’ve got anvils strapped to your ankles.”
He pauses, letting the criticism sink in.
“But.” Another pause. “I saw some fight out there today. Some of you apparently want to be here. That’s what’s going to carry us through the second half of this season. Heart. Grit. The willingness to bleed for the guy next to you.”
His eyes sweep across our exhausted faces, and for a split second, they land on me. My heart does something stupid.
“Hit the showers. Recovery day tomorrow, then we’re back at it Wednesday. Dismissed.”
We start filing past him toward the tunnel, and that’s when it happens—Coach’s hand connects with each ass as we go by. It’s a tradition, one of those weird hockey things that would probably get him fired in any other profession. But here, it’s Coach being Coach.
Gerard gets his smack and full-on giggles, like a kid getting tickled. The sound is so absurd after hours of torture that I almost laugh with him.
“Thanks, Uncle Jack!” Gerard chirps, and Coach’s eye twitches.
“I’ve told you not to call me that here, Gunnarson.”
“Sorry, Coach Uncle Jack!”
Coach sighs the sigh of a man who has known Gerard’s father for decades and deeply regrets it.
Oliver is next. He receives his ass slap with a curt nod, all business, like they closed a deal on a used car. “Coach.”
“Jacoby.”
Kyle shuffles past in his goalie gear; he doesn’t even acknowledge the move. No flinch, no nod, not even a blink.He just keeps walking like Coach is a turnstile he has to pass through.
Then it’s my turn.
Coach’s hand lands on my ass, firm and brief, and yeah, I still get a thrill. Sue me. But instead of walking past, same as always, I stop. Turn my head. “Thanks for today, Coach.”
His hazel eyes meet mine. For a moment, nothing. Then his mouth twitches—the smallest movement, barely there, gone as quickly as it appeared. But I saw it. An almost-smile. Recognition.
“Get some rest, Larney. You earned it.”
I walk toward the tunnel feeling ten feet tall. The arena ceiling might as well be the sky for all I care.
In the locker room, the mood is lighter now that the torture is over. Guys strip out of their gear, trading complaints and jokes in equal measure. The smell of sweat intensifies, but nobody cares. We survived.
“Did Coach smile at you?” Gerard asks, yanking off his shoulder pads.
“I think I hallucinated it,” I admit, unlacing my skates. “Oxygen deprivation.”
“No, I saw it too,” Oliver confirms from across the room. “Larney got a Coach Donovan smile. That’s rarer than seeing a unicorn.”
“What did you say to him?” Nathan asks, his pink hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
“Just thanked him for practice.”
The locker room goes quiet for a beat.
“Youthankedhim?” Gerard sounds genuinely confused. “For that? Drew, he made me do solo suicides until I almost cried.”
