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“No, you’ll be with me.”
He examines me thoughtfully for a moment, hand reaching up to readjust his baseball cap. “I had no clue you were interested in coaching,” he says. “If I had, I would’ve asked if you wanted to work on staff.”
The fact that he remembers me at all feels . . . different. Flattering, though anxiety inducing in some measure.
Why does he remember you? I can think of a few reasons, Polly.
I cross my arms over my chest.
“Do you have any questions for me?”
I shake my head, eyes darting down toward my tapping feet. Coach Harris stands and grabs a bag from the corner, then tosses it to me.
“School-issued warm-up jacket for you. I’ll get you some more merch. You can wear whatever athletic gear you want for practices, but I’ll make sure they get you some jackets and sweats from the team gear.” He sits back at his desk and signs off on my schedule paper, spinning it back to me. “And you’ll work at least three games on the bench with me.”
“Okay.”
“All right.” He nods his head and smiles. “Today is half strength and conditioning before on-ice time. Let’s go deal with the pack of idiots I call my team.” The words are sarcastic, but there’s a glimmer of mischief in his eyes as he rounds his desk and opens the door for me. I follow him into the weight room.
I nearly trip and slam face first in the middle of the room at the sight that greets me.
Bennett, one leg extended to his side, the other bent back so his heel is nearly touching his ass. He’s bent over the extended leg to stretch, but only briefly, before he lays flat forward and switches his legs.
Coach Harris starts writing a few things on his clipboard and speaking low with one of the strength trainers.
And my eyes are focused, ashamedly, on Bennett Reiner’s ass as he settles onto the ground in a position like the splits, but with both legs bent at the knee, heels toward his butt. A frog pose with his groin flush to the ground, hands planted in front of him as he rocks back and forth into the stretch.
My mouth is bone dry, face hot.
“Feel sick yet?” A voice laughs, low in my ear. I blink at Toren as he walks by, grabbing a roller from the stack at my side. “Looking a little warm, Blake.”
He sits near to Bennett’s space and starts to dramatically roll out his hips, nearly obscenely humping the floor.
“Kane,” Coach Harris snaps, eyeing him with an exasperated glare. “This is a gym. Not a sex club. And there is a lady present. Act right.”
The same blue-suit-wearing assistant coach steps forward and snorts, muttering beneath his breath, “Toren Kane couldn’t act right if his life depended on it. I’ll take him to the ice early, if that’s all right, Harris?”
Harris observes Toren for a moment before nodding. “Work your magic. I hired you for a reason, LaBlanc.”
“Kane,” Coach LaBlanc snaps out, voice booming over the blaring music. “C’mon. Show’s over.”
Toren looks like he’s been handed a death sentence, his eyes ghosting over the crowd of his reluctant teammates. Holden stands up, adding a quick, “Need me, too?”
It makes sense—Holden Dougherty is Toren’s defensive partner. They’re a pair, so they should practice together. But LaBlanc shakes his head and follows a sulking Toren out of the room.
“Meet you all on the ice in a half hour,” Coach Harris announces, turning toward me. “Hopefully they show you something actually impressive.”
I can’t help the grin that forms at feeling more a part of this team than I ever have before.
• • •
After practice, I wait until I’m sure the locker room is empty, taking my time to stall and walk the arena halls before chancing a quick glance through the door.
Bennett is the only one left, slowly and meticulously working on his gear.
A rush of longing blares through me at the memory of so many nights like this—him and me, washing his pads and doing his routine together.
My eyes dart around the room as I stay hidden behind the doorframe for a smidge longer. I can see the past versions of us around me. The place where, arguably, we fell in love.
