“I don’t know.”
“That’s not very Coach Blake of you.”
“Things have been weird between us. I was the one who made the doctors check him over,” I admit, a pang of guilt hitting my ribs.
“So go talk to him.”
“We’re at a hotel.”
“And he doesn’t get to travel anymore?”
“No, he still came with the team.”
She squints. “Then I don’t see what the problem is.”
“People could see me.”
“Be sneaky. And if caught, lie.”
“I just… What if it’s a bad idea?”
“What if it’s not?” she counters.
I bite the inside of my cheek before responding, “I don’t know.”
“Only one way to find out. And just pretend you’re going to talk about some hockey thing if someone sees you.”
My pulse kicks up, and I’m not sure whether it’s nerves or excitement. “I could do that.”
“Then why are we still on the phone?” Charlotte asks.
I stand up. “I’m still not sure if I can get past the fact that he’s my player. Itiswrong.”
“You don’t have to make any decisions right now. Just go talk to him. At least clear the air. You can go from there.”
***
Three minutes later, I’ve figured out which room is Beckett’s and am standing outside of it, knocking like I’m about to enter thelocker room. Just a coach doing coach things. Nothing to see here.
The door flies open, and I try to contain my smile. “Kane. Do you have a minute to talk—”Fuck. What was I going to pretend to talk to him about?“Matchups?”
“Of course, Coach. Come on in,” Kane says.
He smiles, and my heart melts. I wasn’t lying when I told Charlotte things have been weird between us. As a coach, the kind of outburst he had is completely expected. Players hate being benched. It’s justified, too. One injury, one stint on IR means a chance for them to be replaced. To lose their spot. To slowly become unnecessary for the team. And for a veteran who knows he’s nearing the end of his career? It’s dangerous.
But it’s also what’s best for the team. We can’t have players on the ice when they’re injured. And it’s what’s bestfor himin the long run. He has to use that hip long after hockey is done.
And I happen to care about his life after hockey.
Which made it hurt so much more when he threw our friendship in my face. I have to be his coach first, a fact we’re both very aware of, but even if I didn’t, it was the right call.
I slide through the door, and it closes behind me with a judgmental snap.
Okay, maybe I shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be thinking about the way Beckett’s arms felt around me yesterday morning. Or the way he came into my office later and made the formal coach/player apology, too. The sadness in his eyes when we told him he was on IR for the next three weeks.
Seeing him in the coaches’ section in his team gear, rather than suited up and on the bench tonight, was hard, even if it’s the job—for both of us.
But it also sucks to suffer through it alone.
