The other girl with her—tiny, faster talker than sense—was mid-story, waving her hands. Billie played along, polite smile, eyes scanning the hallway like she was already halfway gone. Then she saw me.
The laugh died.
I didn’t move at first. Just leaned against the wall across from the benches, arms crossed, waiting to see if she’d pretend not to notice. Her body went rigid. A small twitch in her jaw gave her away before her eyes even met mine.
Two fingers. A short, clean pull through the air.
“Office. Now.”
I didn’t bother to raise my voice. Didn’t have to. Authority built its own echo.
The friend blinked, looked between us, then stepped back fast, muttering something about grabbing her gear. Billie stayed rooted for a half-second longer, chin tight. Then she followed. Each step stiff, precise, measured like she was heading to the firing line.
The hallway stretched too long, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Her sneakers scuffed against the tile once, then went silent—she matched my pace, a single stride behind. I could smell the faint warmth of her shampoo, that soft clean note that didn’t fit the cold stink of the rink. My lungs hated me for noticing.
We reached the office door. I pushed it open, stood aside. She passed by without looking up, shoulders squared like she could hide behind posture.
Inside, the light hit her face. No trace of the girl from the bar—no shaky smile, no humor. Just focus, hard as the ice we both tried not to fall through.
I shut the door. The click sounded final.
She crossed her arms, every line in her body coiled tight.
“Are you going to write me up for something, Coach?” Her voice carried a thin edge, one I hadn’t heard before.
I didn’t answer. I stepped around the desk, hands braced against its lip, studying her the way I would any player I didn’t yet trust to keep up.
This was the moment to control it—to set boundaries, keep distance.
Only problem was, my pulse hadn’t gotten the memo.
Her arms stayed crossed, chin tilted high like a shield she wasn’t lowering for anyone. She looked small against the window’s pale light but not fragile—more like she was carved out of something that didn’t break easy. I stayed standing. Couldn’t bring myself to sit. Sitting would’ve made this feel like an interrogation, and my guilt already made it one.
“We need to clear the air.” My voice came rough.
She didn’t blink. “About what happened?”
“About the fact you’re a player on my team, and I—” The rest jammed in my throat.
Silence stretched thin between us. The rink hum filtered in from below, the faint clatter of sticks against ice. She breathed once, slow.
“It won’t be a problem,” she said. “You don’t have to worry.”
I frowned, heat creeping under my collar. “No threats? No demands? You’re not gonna ask me for anything in exchange?”
Her arms dropped, palms curling at her sides. The sting in her expression cut harder than I expected. “Wow. That’s what you think of me?”
The words hit somewhere deep, a clean slice. I didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t make it worse.
She stepped closer, eyes locked on me. “If I wanted something from you, I would’ve asked for it last night.”
“Would’ve been easier.” My voice carried too much edge. “Cleaner.”
“You really think I’d risk my whole season for a ‘cleaner’ mess with you?”
That one burned straight through the room. The sharpness in her tone stole my breath for a heartbeat. Fire, pure and unfiltered, snapped off of her.
I stared—reallylooked at her. The set of her mouth, the anger flickering just beneath it, the steadiness she rebuilt around herself in less than twenty-four hours. She didn’t flinch under my scrutiny. Didn’t need to. She’d already rendered her verdict.
