I should’ve stepped back then. Should’ve moved on to the next exercise, maintained the professional distance that was supposed to exist between coach and player. Instead, I adjusted his position again, my hands sliding slightly lower to correct the angle of his pelvis.
“The power needs to come from here,” I said, my voice coming out rougher than intended. “Your core is the foundation for everything else.”
“I can feel that.”
The double meaning in his words—intended or not—sent heat rushing through my system. I was standing close enough to smell his shampoo, to see the fine sheen of sweat on the back of his neck, to notice the way his breathing had changed from steady to something more rapid.
“Let’s try the next variation,” I managed, though my own breathing was far from steady.
This exercise required him to maintain balance while I provided resistance, my hands on his torso to simulate the kind of pressure he’d face from an opponent. It was a standard training technique, one I’d used with dozens of players.
None of whom had ever affected me like this.
I positioned myself behind him again, my chest nearly against his back as I placed my hands on either side of his ribcage. “I’m going to apply pressure from different angles. Your job is to maintain your center of gravity no matter which direction I push.”
“Got it,” he said, and concentration filled his voice.
I started with gentle pressure to his left side, feeling the way his muscles engaged to counteract the force. He was strong, much stronger than his compact frame suggested, and the way his body responded to the challenge was mesmerizing.
“Good,” I said, increasing the pressure slightly. “Now from the right.”
My hands shifted to the opposite side, andherregud, I was paying far too much attention to the solid warmth beneath my palms, the way his breathing changed as he focused on maintaining balance. When I applied pressure from behind, I had to step closer, my body nearly pressed against his as I tested his stability.
“Excellent,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
He turned his head slightly, probably to ask a question about the technique, and suddenly we were inches apart. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, close enough to notice the way his lips parted slightly as he looked at me.
The moment stretched between us, charged with something that had nothing to do with hockey training. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, sense the shift in the air that meant we’d crossed some invisible line.
My hands were still on his torso, and I realized with a shock that I was stroking my thumbs along his ribs in a gesture that was anything but professional. His eyes had gone dark, and there was something in his expression that looked almost like?—
“Coach?” he said softly, the word barely audible.
The title hit me like cold water.Coach. Student. Professional boundaries.Everything I was supposed to remember, everything I’d apparently forgotten in the space of a few charged moments.
I stepped back abruptly, my hands falling to my sides. “That’s… That’s good work. You’re getting the feel for it.”
The spell broken, Adan blinked and seemed to come back to himself. “Yeah, I think I understand what you mean about core stability.”
“Right. Excellent.” I cleared my throat, trying to regain some semblance of professional composure. “Let’s move on to the next exercise.”
The rest of the session passed in a blur of forced normalcy. We worked through the remaining drills with careful attention to maintaining appropriate distance, though I caught myself stealing glances at him. If Adan noticed my distraction, he didn’t comment on it.
When our time was up, he gathered his gear with his usual efficiency.
“Same time Wednesday?” he asked.
“Yes, Wednesday at seven.”
“Cool. Thanks for the workout. I can already tell this is going to help with board battles.”
“That’s the goal.”
He headed toward the exit, then paused and turned back. “Hey, Coach?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for letting me borrow your skates.”
