“I-I’m just trying to help, get you out of your head,” I murmur softly, guilt crushing my chest.
He sniffles, anger beginning to bubble beneath the surface. I know he’s not mad at me—his eyes tell me so—but he feels it allthe same. “Sometimes, the only place I like to be is lost inside my own mind.”
“I get it, trust me.”
His eyes soften at my words, his nostrils twitching.
He chews on his bottom lip before whispering, “I know you do. But I’ve gotten through this all on my own so far. I can’t change my routine just because you’re here. I need to be mad at myself. I need to be disappointed. I deserve it.” He stops himself, guilt echoing in his words, and I want to press further, to lift the next layer that he’s peeling back.
But I don’t because now is definitely not the time and here is certainly not the place.
“All right.” I nod, conceding.
His gaze bounces between my eyes rapidly. “Thank you.”
“I’m here to help. That’s all I want to do.” I pause, fighting the smirk about to form on my lips. “And to secretly take over your hiding space at the arena because that room is only big enough for one of us.”
His brows turn up ever so slightly, and gradually, the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen stretches across his face, lighting up every inch. “That’smyroom, Shay. You can’t have it.”
Tipping my head back, I cackle. “Ha! Watch me! You’re going down.”
A genuine laugh bubbles out of him, and he shakes his head, his eyes glued on mine, something deep swirling inside. Something indiscernible. As he comes down from the high of his laughter, a seriousness drifts over his face, and with a gentle nod, he sighs once more, but this one lightens his shoulders instead of tightening them.
Reaching out, he rests his hand on my arm, squeezing gently. “Thanks, Shay.”
Crossing my arms, I click my tongue and straighten my features. “That’s Coach to you.”
With a two-finger salute, he steps back and smirks, a twinkle in his gaze that steals the air from my lungs. “Yes, Coach!”
He turns and strides down the hallway, and I watch the number on his back until he turns, disappearing from view.
An unsettling ache forms in my throat, sinking lower until it finds a home in my stomach. I want to poke and prod at it, figure out why I’m feeling it at all. But I think if it has anything to do with the way I felt, being so close to Matt just now, I don’t want to know.
It’s so confusing and so wrong. I’m here for my own healing journey and to help the team, not develop feelings for one of the players.
My eyes drift closed, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Oh God.”
I was totally professional. I even made him call me Coach in a perfectly respectable manner. I didn’t flirt at all. Not with my eyes or the touch of his arm. I was a good coach.
But … next time, I need to keep more feet between us because he certainly made it harder to keep the distance.
Before Andy has a chance to find me and yap my ear off about him and his partner’s drama or ask probing questions about why I stopped Matt, I take off to find the bathroom. I’ll hide out there for a few minutes before I have to return to my post.
Thankfully, the bathroom I find has many stalls so I don’t feel guilty, taking up unnecessary time. I use the next few minutes to check messages, having received a few from my parents and friends during the first period.
Mom: We just saw you on TV! You look so beautiful!
I’m wearing her favorite color on me—green—but it’s a specific sage, almost mint, suit with matching straight-leggedpants and black pointy-toed heels. My parents always said it was easy to find me in a crowd because my hair always stood out.
While I love my red hair, it has also become an easily recognized feature for hockey gossip blogs and social media. My thumbs are already betraying me before I can stop them, opening up Instagram and checking my tags.
This is the most reckless thing I can do to myself, but it’s like opening a can of worms or driving through yellow lights. I’ve reached a point of no return.
The first post I find is from a hockey account that posts about the men’s league. They’re often a bit misogynistic, so this should go swimmingly.
The caption reads:Shay Rooney joins Nighthawks staff roster as new goalie coach. You know what they say—if you can’t do, teach. Not to be rude. We’re a big fan of the Nighthawks here, and we're interested to see how this plays out for the organization. Shay had a bright future and found a new path as a coach. Good luck!
Oh, yeah, that wasn’t condescending at all.
