Same shoulders. Same crooked jaw I’d traced with my thumb. The same split in his bottom lip I’d kissed last night when I thought he was just some stranger at a bar who didn’t want my name.
My knees forgot how to hold me. The blade caught, a quick slip that sent a shot of panic through my calves. I gripped the stick hard enough my knuckles went white.
He saw me. I felt it—a pause that cracked the air between us. His stride faltered for one breath. Then he straightened, eyes unreadable, expression locked into something cold and professional. But I knew that face. I knew the weight of his hand on my hip, the way his voice had dropped when he whisperedokay?
My lungs burned.
Paige’s voice carried over the echoes. She was smiling too much for a scene that felt like a funeral. “All right, ladies, let’s get settled. This is our new head coach.” My heart slammed against my ribs. “Coach Shaw.”
The name hit like a slap. My vision tunneled again, and all the noise of the rink—skates scraping, puck clatter, lockers slamming shut—went muffled beneath that single word.
Shaw.
Of course it was. NHL pedigree, old-school enforcer, highlight reels full of fights and glory years. Calder Shaw—man who’d shattered bones and headlines in equal measure. Every hockey kid in this city knew the name.
My stomach twisted.
And I had hooked up with him. Thecoachof all people. The man now standing in front of two dozen players, calm as stone while my pulse threatened to shake me apart.
He scanned the team, voice low and rougher than I remembered. “First rule—nobody coasts on reputation. You earn every damn shift.”
A few girls giggled nervously. I couldn’t move.
“All right,” he said, voice echoing off the glass. “Let’s see what kind of team we’ve got.”
He turned his back, barked for drills to start. The room moved again—sticks clacking, chatter buzzing—but I stood rooted, blades biting a clean groove into the ice beneath me.
Every nerve screamed at once.
Last night I’d escaped into someone else’s arms, just to feel seen. Now that same someone was my coach. He stood at centre ice, legs braced apart, hands buried in his jacket pockets like he could anchor himself there. The way he moved—slow, deliberate—reminded me of someone walking a tightrope over an open hole. Every step measured. Every word loaded.
“This isn’t house,” he said. His voice rolled low, rasped from cigarettes or too many late nights. “If you want to make noise, earn it.”
No pep talk. No welcome. Just that.
Silence stretched. A few helmets tilted, waiting for the part where he’d soften and say he was joking. He didn’t.
Reese broke it. Of course it was Reese—our winger with a mouth faster than her sprint. She raised her glove, not mock-polite, not shy.
“Didn’t you punch out a linesman?” she asked.
A couple girls snickered. Someone mutteredJeez, Reese,but she barreled on.
“What happened to your last coaching job?” Her tone carried that high, bright edge people used when they smelled blood. “And… is it true you were suspended for drinking?”
A heartbeat of stillness followed, sharp as cracked ice. Calder didn’t blink. He looked right at her like he was checking whether she’d flinch.
“Yeah,” he said. “All of it’s true.” He let the words hang, then added, “And I’m still better than whatever you had before.”
A low ripple moved through the team, half amusement, half discomfort. Sticks scraped the ice nervously. No one laughed now; they’d wanted a show, not a confession.
Someone behind me whispered, just loud enough to bleed across the air, “This program won’t last a week.”
The sound lodged under my ribs. I should’ve turned—corrected her, told her to shut it—but I just stared at him.
Waiting.
He didn’t explode like I expected. No bark, no threat, no swinging stick. Just that stillness again. His gaze swept across the lineup, steady and savage, daring anyone to meet it. No one did.
