Beckett’s face darkens, his jaw clenching. “Wanted to see how good a team you and Callan were last event?”
I shrug. “I just wanted to see the funny ones. I had a shitty day at work, and I was looking for something to entertain me. To distract me from the fact that we might not make the playoffs. That my job will certainly be on the line, or if it isn’t, it’s literally only because I’m a woman. Which is its own level of drama.” I sigh. “It was just one of those days, and I was looking for an escape.”
Beckett lightly rubs my shoulder with the hand along the top of the couch. “Fin, we’re making the playoffs. You’re a great coach. We’re a good team. And even if we don’t, they’re not going to fire you—and not because you’re a woman. Because you’re good. The team loves you. I think Larsen would organize a full team walkout if they let you go, and that’s saying nothing of the veterans who are remarkably loyal to you.”
It’s easy for him to say. He had to give up a lot of other things to get to where he is; he had to push himself harder than anyone else around him to make it to the pros. He had to want it more than almost anyone. I had to do that while also carrying the weight of knowing I was paving the way for women everywhere.
I didn’t have to be the best; I had to be perfect. And as head coach, it’s impossible to be perfect. I’m destined to fail.
“I know,” I say in response to Beckett’s comments. There’s no use arguing.
I tuck my feet under me, forcing my back a little straighter. “So, what does your ideal vacation look like?” I ask, distracting him with our game.
The side-eye directed my way at the topic change would put even the sassiest of middle school girls to shame, but he lets me have it, anyway. “A month in a cabin. Cool mornings. Lots of hiking. Peace. What about you?”
“I’d join you in the cabin. But I want to spend my days doing those fancy puzzles. You know the ones from really nice wood instead of whatever normal ones are. And instead of being cut into normal shapes, they’re like ice-skaters that you’re trying to fit together. My grandma sent them to me for Christmas, and I always loved spending hours just zoned in on completing it.”
He tilts his head. “I guess I wasn’t a big enough nerd to get the fancy puzzles.”
I lightly shove him. “Rude.”
Getting serious again, Beckett leans forward, clasping his hands together as he places his elbows on his knees. “Why did the comments get to you this time, Queenie?”
I want to tell him. I do. But the problem is, it’s not just about what they were saying; it’s the fact that they were right. And I don’t know how to give him that truth without giving up too much of myself. Though, if there is anyone I’d be willing to give that much of myself to, it’s Beckett.
“It’s fine if you don’t want to tell me.” I swear there’s a note of sadness in his voice. Like he’s upset that I’m not willing to share my burdens with him.
“It’s embarrassing, is all,” I admit before taking a deep breath. “They were talking about us—together.”
I pause, waiting for some reaction, but Beckett just nods.
“And, I guess, I realized that maybe what we have is… inappropriate.”
I have his full attention now, his dark brown eyes piercing into mine. It feels like too much. “What do you mean?” he asks.
I shrug. If I knew what I meant, I wouldn’t have this problem. I’d be making a change. “I guess, it’s just—do you remember when we met?”
“In the hallway?” he asks.
The hollow feeling in my chest isn’t fair to him. There was no way those ten, maybe twenty, minutes he spent with me when I was sixteen meant anything to him. Even if it was everything to me. Even if it started as a crush that lastedwaypast an acceptable amount of time.
“We actually met when I was sixteen.”
His eyes go wide. “What?”
“You were in my high school’s rink practicing when you were home for Christmas break. I was working on my slap shot.”
“That wasyou!” Beckett exclaims. “I never put that together. I mean, I don’t think you even took your helmet off. Though I suppose I should’ve put two and two together. I knew your dad lived around there, and how many girls are at the rink by themselves the day after Christmas?”
I shrug. “It’s not a big deal. You helped me. Gave me a few pointers.”
He’s into the story now. “Yeah. I remember that. I was impressed.”
“Right,” I say with a small eye roll. “I’m sure.”
“I was. But what does that have to do with the comments about us now? Did someone put it together that our paths crossed when we were kids?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. But I’m a little worried they will.” I glance at the TV, unable to hold his eye contact any longer. “Imay have had a crush on you after you helped me. I mean, I got a starting spot because of your help—and well, it was not a well-kept secret.”
