I exhaled, rough and quiet.
She wanted a shot. She’d get it.
Didn’t change the fact that both of us knew—it happened.
She was right. At this point, I shouldn't have been surprised. But she was.
She didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t play it. Didn’t even flinch.
And that somehow made this worse.
I dropped into the chair again, elbows braced on my knees. The room hummed around me—quiet compressor whine, a space heater rattling in the corner, the slow drip of melting ice off blades in the hallway. My palms itched. My chest felt tight, like my ribs were trying to remember what staying still felt like.
Memories hit fast, jagged. Her fingers clutching my shoulders, the press of her body, the sound that broke out of her when she whispereddon’t stop. The kind of moment that rewired you, fast and permanent. I felt it crawl back through my veins like a bad habit. My stomach clenched.
I stared at the floor—scuffed linoleum scraped up by years of bad skates and worse decisions. None of this was mine. Not the office, not the title stenciled on the door, not the half-assed “second chance” Gideon kept waving like a carrot over a pit. Whatwasmine was the weight in my throat and the fact that I’d already fucked up before I even hung my jacket on the damn hook.
No excuses. Just me being me again.
I blew out a breath and dragged a hand down my face. Christ. It was going to be a long fucking season.
The clock read twelve-thirty.Down the hallway, I could hear the girls laughing—locker-room chaos, sticks clacking, someoneshouting a joke. All that noise, all that sunshine I needed to keep miles away from. And somewhere in the middle of it all was her. Probably lacing up, taping her stick, pretending she hadn’t slept with the guy now holding her ice time hostage.
I shoved up from the chair. Movement helped. Always had. I dug through the bottom drawer until I found a mangled pack of nicotine gum. It tasted like gasoline and old mints, but it kept my hands busy, kept my jaw locked, kept me from lighting up the cigarette I’d been craving since dawn.
My reflection stared back at me in the window—older than I felt, greys starting to thread through my hair, eyes red-rimmed from too much thinking and not enough sleep. Exactly the kind of man people warned their daughters about.
I huffed out a laugh. Guess someone should’ve warned her sooner.
My phone buzzed on the desk. Gideon. Of course. I clenched my teeth around the gum and picked up.
“Yeah.”
“You keeping your temper under control?” Static fuzzed around his voice, but the judgment was crystal clear.
“For now.”
“I watched the practice stream. You ran them like you were prepping for playoffs.”
“They need it.”
“They also need tosurviveyou.”
“They will,” I muttered.
He paused long enough I could hear him typing. “Good. Keep it that way. You don’t get another do-over.”
“I know.”
Another pause. Then—too casually—“That Donovan kid. Good hands. Remind you of anyone?”
Something twisted low in my ribs. I gripped the edge of the desk until the wood groaned. “She’s got drive. That’s it.”
“Right,” he said, not believing me for a second.
The line went dead.
I let the phone fall and paced the cramped office until my knees started to bark. Every turn kicked up another flash—her mouth on mine, her breath in my ear, the way she’d held onto me like I wasn’t a mistake she’d regret.
