A pause. Then, quieter: "Is everything okay?"
No.
"Practice tape. Need your input."
Lie. A coward’s excuse. But she bought it.
"Five minutes."
The line went dead.
I leaned back in my chair, my office door still closed, the blinds drawn against the darkening parking lot outside. The tape sat untouched on my desk; the screen frozen on a play from last week’s game—Billie’s breakaway, the one where she’d faked out the goalie so hard he’d ended up on his ass.
I remembered the way her skates had dug into the ice, the way her ponytail had flown behind her, the way she’d thrown her arms up after the puck hit the net like she owned the goddamn world.
I remembered the way I’d wanted to kiss her right then. In front of everyone.
The doorknob turned. She stepped inside, her bag slung over one shoulder, her hair still damp from the shower. She smelled like soap and effort, like the kind of sweat that came from leaving everything on the ice. Her eyes flicked to the screen, then to me, then away—like she was afraid of what she’d see if she looked too long.
"You wanted to go over tape?"
Her voice was steady. Too steady. Like she’d practiced it in the mirror.
I didn’t answer.
Just stood up.
The chair scraped back, the sound too loud in the quiet room. She tensed, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag.
"Coach—"
That was all she got out.
Because then I was in front of her, my hands on either side of her face, my mouth crashing into hers like I’d been starving for it.
Forher.
She made a sound—something between a gasp and a moan, her bag hitting the floor with a thud as her hands came up,gripping my wrists like she was trying to decide whether to push me away or pull me closer.
I didn’t give her the chance to choose.
I kissed her like I was drowning. Like she was the only thing keeping me above water.
Her lips were soft, then hungry, thendesperate—her nails digging into my skin, her body pressing against mine like she was trying to climb inside me. I backed her up against the door, my hands sliding down to her waist, my thumbs brushing the hem of her hoodie, the heat of her skin beneath?—
And then sheshovedme.
Not hard. But enough.
Enough to break the kiss.
Enough to make me see the tears in her eyes.
Her chest heaved, her lips swollen, her voice raw when she finally spoke:
"You can’t keep doing this."
I didn’t let go. Couldn’t. My hands stayed on her hips, my forehead pressed to hers, my breath coming just as hard as hers.
