Page 2

CHAPTER 2

ELLE

“S igned, sealed, and delivered!” Sutton takes the papers stacked on her desk and flings them in the air.

Laughing at my old friend, I shake my head and watch in horror as her immaculate office floor is suddenly littered with a twenty-page contract. “Who’s going to pick those up?”

“Oh, who cares?” she retorts, her Southern drawl prominent. “We’ve got you on our side for the season. Elle Carter. The Elle Carter of NHL fame is coaching my guys. My Renegades. If those papers stay there until next year, I’m okay with it.”

I sit and admire the mess of scattered papers that have landed in an intricate pattern, looking almost as if they’ve been woven together. “I’m glad you’re okay with it, because if this was my office, I’d be—” She holds up a hand to stop me speaking, and I oblige.

“You’d be losing your mind because it’s a mess. I lived with you for how long, two years? I know these things.”

Sutton makes her way across the space to a counter where someone has laid out the perfect morning spread: pot of hot coffee, fresh orange juice that looks like it’s been hand-squeezed, a bowl of the most beautiful fruit, some small containers of yogurt, and if my nose isn’t deceiving me, danishes that were most likely baked a few hours ago at most.

“Want a cup of coffee?” she asks, as she pours one for herself.

“Of course I do,” I say, taking the time to admire her setup. I exhale a slow whistle of appreciation. “This is fancy, Sutton. I remember when we had to shakedown our sofa cushions for change to get groceries. Do you have someone do this for you every morning?”

“Oh sure,” she says, half-laughing. Her eyes meet mine, a wicked grin playing on her lips, and she shakes her head. “No, like I do this everyday. I had them do this for you. I wanted to show off a little, of course, but I also want to ease you into the role.”

Sweet Sutton. “Thank you, my friend.”

She lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Don’t thank me yet. When we’re done here, I’m taking you to see your office. You may think twice.”

She hands me a cup of coffee, and I grasp it with both hands, inhaling the aroma. “Let me guess, this gorgeous office setup you have isn’t the case for the coaches.”

“Nope,” she spits, holding back a teasing laugh. You don’t have a friendship as close as ours and not have full access to teasing as needed. She holds one hand in the air, high above her head. “Owners here.” Then she drops her arm down to her kneecap. “Coaches here.”

“I’m going to add that to a list of ‘things I should have negotiated better’.” I throw a teasing wink her way. “Don’t make me call my lawyer.”

“Oh stop, you know I love ya,” she says as she tosses a few grapes in her mouth. “I mean, how cool is this? We’re working together, finally! Do you know how exciting this is for me?”

“Stop making it about you,” I shoot back playfully. “How about the players?”

“Them, too,” she says as she cracks up. “I mean, that is why you’re here, but also yay me. I get to reap the rewards, too.”

Our fit of laughter is interrupted by a loud rapping, signaling someone at her office door.

“Door’s open, come in,” she calls out in a very unladylike fashion, considering how on top of things my hostess always is. As if reading my mind, she looks my way as the door swings open. “Sorry, I’m a little more proletarian at work.”

“There you go, using big words again.” A slightly disheveled man wearing a Renegades hoodie eyes Sutton teasingly as he struts across the room, holding out his hand. I know this man already, not only from several Zoom meetings we’d snuck in over the past few weeks but we’d also crossed paths over the past few years. “I’m here to say hello to my new colleague.”

“She’s always done that, Ben, don’t let her fool you,” I manage, stepping around Sutton and shaking his hand. “I’m one of the few people who knows she is subscribed to a list where she’s emailed a ‘word of the day’ every morning and will try to use it in a sentence. It’s for her own amusement and to hopefully befuddle anyone around her.”

Coach Masters chuckles, accepting the cup of black coffee Sutton has all but thrust in his hand.

“That explains a lot. It will also help my self-esteem going forward when speaking with her; thank you for the insight.” His eyes are smiling as he holds his cup in the air, toasting the two of us. “I’m ready to introduce you to the team, if you’re ready to head down?”

There’s a knot in my stomach, one I thought I’d unraveled on the drive over, and it is tightening. This is a day like all the others, right? I’m starting a new job, with a new team, in my new city, where I’m living in a new state. These things are all new, and while I do have some tangible lifelines around me, like Sutton, I’m also blissfully overwhelmed.

“She’s ready to head down, but are you ready to let her loose?” Sutton winks at Ben as she spins on her heel and walks back around to her desk and settles into her chair. “Once we go down and tell the guys that we’re bringing in Elle, things are going to change.”

“Of course they’re going to change,” I say, leaning against the counter. “I’m not the same kind of coach as anyone you’ve had before, and I don’t have the background with these guys your previous coach did. He played beside them before he changed lanes and moved into coaching. Me? I’m coming in brand-new.”

“And it’s fine.” Ben tosses back the last few sips of his coffee so fast, it makes the back of my throat sting from the thought of the heat it’s still got to have since Sutton only poured it a moment ago. “This is a resilient team. We’ll have a few hurdles, but I know these guys. We’ll be good.”

While his words are designed to, and should, inspire confidence, they don’t. I know some of these guys, too. In fact, I know one in particular, and I can’t say that when he sees me it’s going to be “good.”

As if she can sense my hesitation, Sutton steps in. Gotta love a ride or die.

“I know we’ll be good, that’s why I asked that we bring Elle here. Would we be the best if we still had our old defensive coach? Yes, but is it going to kill us to not have him?” She shakes her head. “He left us stronger than we were. He’s missed, he’s left an impression, but we have to push forward.”

“Straight from the boss’s mouth.” Ben taps the countertop a few times with the flat of his palm and looks at me, sweeping his hand toward the door. “Well, m’lady, let’s get you to your office, but first we’ll do a quick side quest into the arena to meet the team. By the way, did Sutton tell you how amazing our offices are in the basement?”

“I’m getting this feeling that they’re lined with cinder blocks and have no windows.” My words come out with whimsy, but this ain’t my first rodeo. I know my place and where I’m headed, and I’m okay with it.

“You’ll be the first female to share a space with the four of us. I’m hoping we don’t make you crazy.”

“The town where I grew up was so small that I was the only girl on an all male team for four years as a teenager,” I say with a shrug. “I don’t think it’s possible to make me crazier.”

“Don’t forget, Ben, she’s probably been in more locker rooms in her career than you have,” Sutton interjects, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms.

I can’t resist the urge to elbow her. “Hey, do you even know how that sounds?”

Ben snickers as he holds the door open. “You know, Elle, I have a feeling you’re going to fit right in here with the guys.”

When Ben’s words hit my ears, my stomach twists inside out, a feeling like I’ve swallowed sandpaper taking over. Fit right in. With the guys. This is the part I’ve been the most nervous about.

I follow him and Sutton down the hall, my spine naturally getting straighter, and my shoulders pull back as I raise my head high and take a giant breath of air. I’m about to meet the team, and there will be repercussions from this, that I know. One thing a lot of people who are on the outside of ice hockey don’t realize is how close and interwoven an industry it is. Every one of us crosses paths with each other at some point or another. Most of the time, they’re positive interactions, but every now and then, there’s the less-than-stellar run-in.

I saw the roster when I agreed to come here as a favor to Sutton. I saw his name. And I am as prepared as I’m going to be for seeing him again.

* * *

The cold hits me first, sharp and bracing as we step into the rink. It smells like ice and effort—crisp air mingled with the faint tang of man sweat and the rubbery bite of gear. The sound is a hum of skates slicing into the ice, sticks cracking against pucks, and the low, echoing shouts of the players, amplified by the cavernous space. My heels slap against the rubber flooring as I follow Sutton and Ben down the tunnel and out onto the benches. The rink opens up before me, all gleaming ice and towering boards, with the massive scoreboard looming like some modern coliseum display.

The Renegades are everywhere, their practice jerseys flashing team colors of teal, blue, and yellow as they whip across the ice, moving with a speed and precision that makes me feel like I’ve stumbled into a battlefield mid-fight. They’re giants, these men, larger than life, their voices cutting through the cold like commands. Ben strides out ahead, his whistle clenched in one hand, his presence as solid as the boards themselves. When he finally blows it, the shrill sound bounces off the walls, cutting through the chaos. The players slow, their movements turning to tight arcs and gliding stops, as they gather near the benches.

My heart is racing and my palms are slick with nervous sweat. I may know ice hockey—and let’s be clear—I am GOOD. However, I don’t know this arena. This is their world, I realize, one of grit and grace, of raw power harnessed into something impossibly fast and beautiful. And now, thanks to a favor asked and owed, I’m standing in the middle of it.

Ben doesn’t waste time, stepping forward with that no-nonsense air that makes him impossible to ignore. “All right, listen up,” he starts, his voice firm and steady, the kind of voice that doesn’t ask for attention—it demands it. “As you know, we’ve been looking for someone to step into the defensive coach role, but it couldn’t just be anyone. It had to be the right person. Someone who knows the game inside and out; someone who can bring experience and leadership to the team.”

He pauses, scanning the players, his gaze sharp as a blade. “And today, we’re lucky enough to introduce you to that person.”

Before he can say more, Sutton steps up beside him, her smile bright and confident as her heels click against the boards. She looks so effortlessly polished, I can’t help but second-guess the new suit I picked out for today. “This isn’t just any new coach,” Sutton says, her tone warm but commanding. “I made a call to a very talented friend of mine, someone I knew could take this team to the next level. And lucky for us, she said yes.”

Ben turns to me, nodding for me to step forward. I do so automatically, all too aware of the weight of at least a dozen sets of eyes locking onto me.

“Guys, you should already know who Elle Carter is. If you don’t, you need to get off the ice and go do some homework because she’s made history in our corner of the sports world,” Ben announces, his voice echoing across the ice. I don’t know what he’s going to say, but I can tell you that if it’s what I think––he’ll remind them I was the first female to become an assistant coach in the NHL––it’s definitely not my favorite way to be introduced or described.

Why? Because being a woman isn’t why I got the job, it’s just the reason the press paid attention.

“Elle made history when she set the record for the most blocked shots in a single professional season, a record that had stood for decades in both the men’s and women’s leagues. Not only that, but she became the first woman to break the 200-career-points mark as a defenseman, a feat that was once thought impossible for someone in that position. She didn’t just play defense, she redefined it and now, she’s here, with us, as your new defensive coach.” Ben then closes his eyes and holds up a hand as if he were making a testimony in church on a humid Sunday afternoon. “Trust and believe, she’s more than qualified to whip you all into shape.”

There’s a slow banging sound as someone starts knocking their stick on the ground, with another joining in and another after that, until it sounds like a herd of elephants is about to stampede our space. A true hockey welcome if there ever was one.

I can’t help but smile, giving my head coach a nod of gratitude. I can already tell Ben and I are going to get along really well, and I can’t wait to meet the other coaches in person.

I let my gaze sweep over the team. Some are grinning; those are the players I recognize either from skills camps over the years where we attended side by side as players or from random games where we met up over the past few years. Most of them look curious, a few offer polite nods. But at the back, leaning casually against the boards is a giant in goalie gear who, if he bothered to remove his mask, would most likely be glowering my way and probably wishing that I was on the other side of the rainbow with a wicked witch or two.

Dixon Andrews.

My gaze flits over the team again, trying to focus anywhere but him. I can feel the weight of his stare, even with his mask still on. That’s power.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dixon shift, standing a little taller. He’s still wearing his goalie pads, towering over the others, his helmet tilted slightly downward like he’s trying to disappear into the background. Except Dixon never disappears. In fact, he’s impossible to miss.

And then, slowly, he reaches up, his gloved hand gripping the cage of his mask. He pauses, his dark eyes boring into mine through the bars, like he’s daring me to look away. I don’t.

With one fluid motion, he pulls the mask off, his movements deliberate, almost defiant. His face is sharp and shadowed, a sheen of sweat catching the light. Those same dark eyes hold me captive, unblinking, as if they’re searching for something—or accusing me of something.

And there he is.

The same Dixon I once knew, but harder now, his jaw tighter, his expression a wall of unreadable emotion. And yet, I know what’s behind it, even if he won’t say it. Betrayal. Hurt. The remnants of something we left unresolved, now staring back at me across the ice.

I’d known of Dixon before meeting him at a skills camp I’d attended a few years back. That camp was the first one I’d been asked to go to not as a player, but rather as someone who was moving into coaching, or at least, wanted to. Skills camps are a place where players focus on improving their individual skills: skating, puck and stick handling, shooting, passing, and defense. No team drills, no scrimmages. Just repetition. You work on perfecting the technical stuff until it becomes second nature. For me, it was going to be a starting point for coaching, a place where the stakes aren’t so high but still allowed me to hone in on myself. And, true to what I’d hoped, it was a game changer. I’d always been the one on the ice, fine-tuning my own skills, but stepping into a coaching role gave me a whole new perspective. Not only for the game, but for the players, too.

Over the two weeks we were sequestered away, I became friendly with a lot of the players. You can’t avoid it when you’re all in the same place for that long. But it was Dixon I really connected with. He wasn’t the typical player; he wasn’t trying to be the center of attention, but somehow, he just was. After a hard day on the ice, we kept finding ourselves talking, going over the ins and outs. We’d grab dinner together after sessions, or could be found chatting between drills. I started opening up to him about the nerves I had about coaching. Whether I’d actually be good at it, if I was even cut out for it. And, even though I was in a relationship at that time, Dixon listened. He really listened and offered advice and encouragement that I wasn’t getting on my home turf.

It’s fair to say that we bonded and developed an easy closeness that I never saw coming. And then, he found a way to surprise me. Over a pizza late one night, Dixon admitted he was struggling with a case of the “yips”. The yips are a feeling of losing control over something that should be second nature. He wasn’t immune to doubt, and it was at that moment I realized just how human he was. With his permission, I’d made notes about what he was experiencing to add to the file I had on him, just like the files I kept on other players, and we just talked about it. A lot. Since he’d been so patient and kind listening to me, of course I wanted to return the favor for him. I didn’t know if opening up would be a trigger to help release it, but I was glad he had picked me to talk to. He didn’t want anyone else to know, especially not the guys nor the coaches from the NHL team he was on at the time. So, I promised I’d keep his secret safe.

It felt strange, talking to someone like him about something so raw, but there was this unspoken understanding between us, a shared vulnerability. It was the kind of connection that didn’t need a lot of words to make sense. Yet somehow, in a strange turn of events, things were twisted and had gotten out of hand to the point where he’d blamed me.

I force myself to hold his gaze, even as my heart hammers in my chest, but the silence between us is loud in my ears. Deafening. I feel like I’m the one under scrutiny now, the past playing out in his eyes, all the things we never said hanging in the air between us.

He doesn’t nod or smile, just watches me, his dark eyes steady and unreadable, a sharp contrast to the easy camaraderie radiating from the others. There’s a tension in his posture, like a coiled spring, and something flickers in his expression—something raw and unresolved that makes my stomach twist.

For a moment, it’s as if the noise of the rink dims. In my imaginary world, it leaves me on one side of the rink, under what could very well be a giant spotlight, with Dixon opposite of where I stand. Only he’s standing on the outside of his spotlight, and the giant, cavernous wall of whatever this is stretches between us.

I swallow hard and look away, forcing my attention back to Ben and the players, but I can still feel Dixon’s gaze, heavy and unmoving, like a shadow I can’t shake.

I knew I’d see him again one day. I just never thought it would be under these circumstances.

I really didn’t think this through.