“Perfect. My plane is landing at four fifteen.” She goes on about the details of the trip, how we’ll share a rental car, the new spa that she wants to go to—they have mud baths and hot stone massages—the reservation she already made at that sushi place we discovered last year. Her voice becomes background noise as I find it increasingly hard to focus.
I’m pretty upfront when it comes to most things, but with Jemma it’s often easier to just say nothing at all. Why voice an opinion that’s going to turn into an argument I have no interest in having? Why tell her about Oliver when I don’t even know what’s happening myself?
I murmur and make comments here and there—“Mmhmm,” “That sounds nice,” “Good idea”—suggesting massages after a long ski day and dinner at the steakhouse we all like, but my mind floats back to the high school rink. The weight of the aluminum-wrapped bread in my hands. The way Oliver’s eyes lit up when I said it was still my favorite.
Is he still thinking about me? Standing in that locker room getting ready for practice, wondering how I’m doing? If I meant it when I said I’d come to his game?
A smile tugs at my lips, and I let myself slip into that easy comfort of a new crush. Or is it an old crush renewed? Because even though Oliver and I have history—complicated, messy, painful history—this time feels different. Clear. Honest. Like we’re actually seeing each other for the first time instead of through the fog of who we thought we were supposed to be.
It feels like the fresh start we need.
Chapter Fourteen
Oliver
“You excited?” Jeff’s hand lands heavy on my shoulder, the head coach’s enthusiasm practically radiating through his palm. “First game of the season.”
My throat constricts like I’ve swallowed sandpaper. The words stick somewhere between my chest and mouth, and all that emerges is a pathetic wheeze. I clear my throat, force the syllables past the knot. “Yeah.” Another clearing. “Big day.”
Big day. Understatement of the century. My stomach churns like I’m back in the minors, eighteen years old and terrified I’ll blow my shot at the NHL. Except this is worse somehow. These aren’t seasoned pros who know how to handle pressure—they’re kids. Kids whose futures might pivot on how well Jeff and I guide them through the next few months.
The locker room thrums with barely contained chaos. Eduardo’s bouncing on his toes in the corner, stick-taping ritual in full swing. Tommy’s got his earbuds in, eyes closed, probably visualizing plays. The younger kids—the ones whose parentssigned them up because “sports build character”—cluster together, feeding off each other’s nervous energy. And then there are the serious ones, the ones who worship at the altar of professional hockey, who look at me like I’m some kind of deity fallen to earth. Those are the ones who terrify me most.
We’ve been grinding for weeks. Bag skates, passing drills, defensive positioning until these kids could probably execute a neutral zone trap in their sleep. Tonight, the Pine Island Ice Hawks finally get their shot.
That or we crater spectacularly in front of the entire town.
The acid in my stomach intensifies, bile creeping up my throat. It’s not even my ass on the ice, but it might as well be. Every missed pass, every blown coverage, every goal against—it all reflects on me. On whether Oliver Paxton, former NHL star turned high school assistant coach, actually knows what the hell he’s doing.
The old me would have demanded perfection. Would have made these kids run suicides until they puked if they didn’t execute flawlessly. Winning was oxygen, losing was death, and anything in between was unacceptable. But that Oliver ended up broken on the ice with mangled ligaments and a career in pieces. That Oliver pushed away the only woman who ever really mattered.
This Oliver? This one has different priorities. These kids need to leave this season better than they entered it—as players, sure, but more importantly as people.
Jeff’s hands cup around his mouth like a megaphone. “O-Kay, listen up! Settle down!”
The chaos gradually dims to a low rumble, then silence. Thirty-two eyes swivel toward us, and my skin prickles under their collective gaze. Even after years in packed arenas, after Stanley Cup playoffs with millions watching, this hits different. These kids see me as something I’m not sure I am anymore—competent, worthy, someone who has answers.
“You all have been training well,” Jeff’s voice carries that perfect coach timber—authoritative but warm. “Really putting in the work. We’re not even a game in and the season is already off to a great start. I expect you all to go out there and keep your cool, okay? Remember, you’re only as good a player as you are a teammate.”
A smattering of whoops echoes off the concrete walls. Jeff’s eyes find mine, eyebrows raised in that universal coach language:Your turn, rookie.
My throat goes Sahara-dry. I step forward, and the squeak of my shoes on the rubber flooring sounds like a gunshot. I’ve rehearsed this speech a dozen times. Had note cards. Practiced in the mirror like some nervous kid before prom. Now? Every carefully crafted word evaporates like mist.
Heart hammering against my ribs, I force oxygen into my lungs. Slow. Steady. What would sixteen-year-old Oliver have needed to hear? Not the Oliver who was already convinced he’d go pro, but the one before that. The one who just loved the feeling of ice beneath his blades.
“Coach Jeff hit it on the nose. You’ve done really well so far.”
My tongue feels too thick, but something shifts. The nerves transform into something else—anticipation, maybe. Or purpose. “I know each and every one of you has your own reasons for getting on the ice tonight. You’ll put in the effort and do everything you can to win, I know you will. And heck—I want a win. Maybe more than anyone else in this room.”
I let that hang for a beat, watching their faces. Some nod, others lean forward, hanging on words from someone they think matters.
“I want you to remember that, when it comes down to it, sometimes winning is out of your control. What’s in your control, though, is whether you have a good game or not, and that doesn’t have a darn thing to do with winning. It has to do with your perspective. Your values. So I suggest that before youget out there you make a choice. You decide that, no matter what happens, you’re going to see the value in the outcome—whether that be a life lesson, a beatdown by the other team that shows you what techniques you need to work on, or just the fact that you know you can have fun no matter what. So commit to that and you’re going to have a great game.”
The words taste foreign in my mouth—patience, perspective, values. The old Oliver would laugh himself sick. But the silence that follows isn’t dismissive. Tommy’s pulled out his earbuds. Eduardo’s stopped bouncing. Even the parent-mandated kids look thoughtful. Maybe half of them actually heard me. With teenagers, that’s practically a miracle.
Jeff checks his watch, breaks the spell. “All right. Let’s get out there!”
The energy surge is immediate, testosterone and adrenaline flooding the room as kids scramble for last-minute adjustments. I catch Gabe’s arm before he follows the stampede. Our goalie’s good—quick reflexes, decent positioning—but he’s got a tell. Tracks the shooter instead of the puck, leaves himself vulnerable to passes.
