Page 6

CHAPTER 6

ELLE

S ome days, I swear I’m made for early mornings, while others I barely pass the mark. I love an early start because you feel like you’ve accomplished a ton of work and lived ten lives, and all before noon. Luckily, today was one of the days where I was up and ready to go before the sun was even murmuring its hello. Come on, it’s only day two. I still have an impression to make, don’t I?

With coffee in hand, I sit at my desk scrolling through footage from the last game. I’d gotten to the office so early that the Zamboni driver hadn’t even made it to the ice yet and none of the other coaches were here. There was a moment of panic when I realized no one had given me a key to the building or a key fob for the side entrance. Luckily, a security guard patrolling the parking lot recognized me and let me in.

It’s quiet here this time of day, peaceful. There’s a serenity in this space that one could never explain to the ordinary non-hockey-playing human. You have to appreciate the chaos that exists when an arena is stuffed with fans to the rafters to truly enjoy the morning silence when it’s empty.

Sipping my coffee, I make notes about what I’m seeing on the screen in front of me. It doesn’t take long to spot where the defense needs some work with positioning, timing, and some basic communication. It’s all here in the clips, clear as day and now it’s up to me to fix it. I jot a few notes on my tablet, mapping out drills and adjustments we’ll run during practice.

I tap pause on the computer and take a second to stretch my arms overhead. I’m not sure how long I’ve been frozen in one place. An hour or more? Ninety minutes? Long enough that my butt’s asleep, that’s for sure.

My phone buzzes on the desk, the name flashing on the screen instantly souring my mood. Eric Handleman. A name from my past that needs to stay there.

Honestly, it makes me feel better if I play this game with myself, where we all have one of ‘those’ exes in our lives. I think I simply need to know I’m not the only one who picked wrong at one time. You know the person, the kind of former partner who somehow pulls the wool over our eyes, burrowing their way into our hearts and lives until one day something happens where you realize that somehow, some way, you’ve let in a viper.

Eric was always the master at fooling people. For the most part, everyone around me only saw the charming, supportive boyfriend. The guy who could light up a room and make anyone, and everyone, feel special. But I knew the truth. I knew the way his smile would slip as soon as we were alone, replaced by a sharp edge that cut deeper than any insult I’d ever faced. He had this way of making me feel like my dreams were ridiculous, like I was ridiculous. His words would sting. There are some of them which echo still, like a lost memory calling out somewhere inside of me: You’re not good enough for that, Elle. No one’s going to take you seriously as a coach.

He always apologized afterward, of course. Said he didn’t mean it or that he was trying to protect me from getting hurt. I wanted to believe him—every time, I wanted to believe him.

But then there were the little jabs he didn’t bother apologizing for, the subtle ways he chipped away at my confidence daily. Like rolling his eyes when I was excited about a new idea or making some offhand comment that stayed with me for days. He’d ask me questions like if I really wanted to grow my hair out, because why would I if it makes me look like a horse? That one hurt, but not like the time when he announced to his family that my jeans were too tight because I’d gained weight. Someone once said I should be careful; death by a thousand tiny paper cuts doesn’t become me.

But I didn’t listen, I pushed on. You start to block out the icky until one day you can’t ignore it any more. I still cringe when I think about a video call a few years ago, when I was at that same skills camp where Dixon and I were. I’d been honing my coaching skills and was exhilarated. Jubilant. Thrilled! This was what I wanted and I could see the road ahead of me so clearly. I was at this camp, clearly in my element, and called my partner to share my excitement. Boy, did that backfire.

When I decided to call Eric, I was on lunch break and sitting in a booth at a local diner, eating my lunch. I was flying high––one of my old mentors had called me and put my name forward for a coaching spot for an NHL team and I was buzzing! Who wouldn’t be? I couldn’t wait to share my good fortune with Eric, and yet from the moment he’d gotten on the phone with me, he’d low-key raged about my coaching plans, his voice full of disdain.

“It’s funny how seriously you’re taking this hockey thing,” he chuckled cruelly, his voice dripping with condescension. “I’m not trying to be a harbinger of bad news, but you do understand that the NHL is a pipe dream and that you’re probably only getting the interview because of a favor right?”

“Pipe dream?” A surge of what felt like ice cold water shot through me.

“The guy probably wants to look good for you, Elle. I bet he wants to hook up with you, you know?”

I froze. The words hit me harder than I wanted to admit, leaving me numb and silent. I couldn’t even muster a response. I was in shock that anyone I knew, let alone someone I cared about, could be this awful. Somehow, I fumbled through another few minutes of his gaslighting, mumbling responses I didn’t even register, before finally hanging up and tossing my phone across the booth like it burned to touch it.

“Elle?”

I looked up, startled, and found Dixon standing at the edge of the booth, his jaw tight and his eyes searching mine. I hadn’t even realized he’d been there but the look on his face told me he’d heard everything I wouldn’t have wanted him to hear.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low but firm, the kind of tone that demanded honesty.

I didn’t know what to say. My throat felt tight, and my cheeks burned with the humiliation of being overheard. “I’m fine,” I mumbled, reaching for my phone like I could somehow erase what had just happened.

“Funny, you don’t look like you’re ‘fine’.” His gaze flicked to the phone in my hand and then back to my face, and for a moment, I thought he might climb into the booth and shake the truth out of me. “Who was that?”

I’d mumbled something about my boyfriend being a bit touchy, and laughed it off. Luckily, other players from the camp were in the diner and at that moment, saw us and came over to say hi. I didn’t want to talk about it. If we’re being honest, I couldn’t even look Dixon in the eye after that. The thought of someone else knowing how small Eric made me feel…it was almost worse than the words themselves.

So yeah. Eric. The man I’d love to see shipped out to space and left there. He makes me want to gag. We all have exes and history, but this man takes the cake.

Eric couldn’t have cared less about us when we were together, but the moment it’s announced I’m taking a coaching position in River City? He’s texting, calling, and I’m pretty sure there’s been an email. We’re two steps away from carrier pigeons.

However, if there is one thing I can be grateful for here is the history we do have, because it helps me see what he’s doing. Always convenient and on his terms. I swipe the notification away without reading the message and toss the phone onto the desk, resisting the urge to hurl it across the room. Once a smarmy journalist, always a smarmy journalist, I say.

There’s a noise from behind and I spy Pete as he drops his backpack on his desk and gives me a wave. Pete seems like a good guy and he’s got such a chill vibe that he makes me smile as soon as I see him. He looks intent as he jogs back out the door, probably clutching a list a mile long to get through to set up for the day.

I’m fine-tuning a slide about zone coverage when Pete reappears, poking his head into the room. “Ben’s on his way in and Cannon messaged that he’s running late.”

“Thanks for letting me know.”

“Players are starting to arrive. You want to brief them?”

I hit pause on the game I’m watching and jump up from the desk. Day two and I’m already up to bat. Okay, wrong sport, but the analogy works here.

“Sounds good.” I grab my notes and head for the hallway.

Pete falls into step beside me, gesturing toward the locker room. “Want me to go in first? Let them know you’re coming and to keep things decent?”

I smile. “Thanks, Pete. That’d be great.”

As Pete disappears into the locker room, the team mascot strolls by in full beaver costume, waving enthusiastically. Ben or Sutton had mentioned at some point that he’s been with the team forever, and it shows in how comfortable he is. That and the fact he seems to be here every day.

“Hey, Coach!” he says, voice muffled under the big furry head.

“Hi,” I reply with a grin. “Trevor, right?”

His giant beaver head moves up and down, in a gesture that is similar to a nod. “That’s me.”

“I know this may be a strange question, but isn’t nine on a Tuesday morning a weird time to be dressed in your mascot suit?”

He does a pose that would rival anything on a Paris runway during Fashion Week. “Not when you’re doing a photoshoot for the paper.”

“Ah ha, of course,” I say as I chuckle. “Well, in that case, break a leg.”

“Thank you,” Trevor calls out as he disappears from sight, walking toward the rink.

In a matter of moments, Pete reemerges from the locker room and gives me a nod. “All clear.”

I step into the locker room, keeping my gaze professional. The guys are all seated or standing, attention shifting to me. I quickly find the defense crew and give them a nod before launching into my briefing.

“Morning, guys. I’ve been poring over videos from the last few games so I could see where you’re at and develop a plan for us to start. We’re focusing on tighter zone coverage today. Less scrambling, more communication. Stick to your assignments. I’ve got footage for you to review after practice?—”

And that’s when I see Dixon.

He’s off to the side, standing in nothing but a towel, leaning casually against his locker like he owns the place.

He looks good. Too good. And the parts of him that pull my attention are the parts I like best. Broad shoulders that beg to be touched, lean muscles that are worked out everyday, and then there’s his signature cocky smirk tugging at his lips like he knows exactly how distracting he is.

I force myself to look away, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck. I’m here to coach, not to get sidetracked by Dixon Freaking Andrews.

I finish my briefing, ignoring him entirely as I wrap up. “Got it? Good. Let’s get moving.”

As I turn to leave, Dixon shrugs, drops his towel—thankfully with his back to me—and starts pulling on his gear.

Unbelievable.

I want to storm out, focus on my own prep, and leave him to stew in whatever plan he’s cooking up to make my second day difficult. But no, instead, my traitorous brain decides this is the perfect time to notice that Dixon’s butt looks...really good. Like a tight little peach. It’s an annoyingly, distractingly good-looking butt that is oh-so-peachy.

Scolding myself, I force my line of sight back to my clipboard, mentally cataloging drills for practice. But my gaze flickers back, just for a second. Seriously, how is that even fair? Focus, Elle. He’s your player, not some guy you’re ogling on vacation. You’re a professional. Professionals do not think about their players’ butts.

I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t help. My cheeks burn, and I’m not even the one who dropped a towel like it’s no big deal. Who does that? Dixon does, apparently. The man is an immature menace and now, because the Universe has a cruel sense of humor, I’m stuck coaching him.

I clench my jaw and spin toward the door, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s gotten under my skin. Instead, I make a choice.

“Andrews!” My voice cuts through the room, sharp and commanding. “Hallway in five.”

My teeth are grinding together, my jaw shaking from tension, and I barely make it to the hallway before the anger boils over. Something I should not have to deal with is this . One of the guys on the team being so blatantly disrespectful to me and to his teammates with his actions.

I stop and take a few breaths of air, calming my heart rate. I cannot let him get to me.

Within a few minutes, Dixon joins me in the hall. “Elle,” he says casually as if we’ve just run into each other while doing errands. “How can I help you?”

I whirl around, not bothering to hide my frustration. “Who do you think you are?”

He blinks, clearly not expecting that. “Come again?”

“I’m your coach, Dixon. I deserve respect and we all deserve professionalism. The next time I’m in that room, you better be dressed, and you better stay that way until I’m gone. Otherwise, this conversation is going to go very differently.”

He raises an eyebrow, leaning against the wall like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “I see you’re leaning into your new role.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” he says smoothly. “I’d lean in, too, if I’d stepped on whoever I had to so I could get where I wanted.”

I know exactly what this is about. I bristle, fists clenching at my sides. “You still think I told someone about what you shared with me?”

“Who else could have done it?” he snaps, his voice sharpening. “No one else was there. It was just you and me.”

“And I promised you I wouldn’t say a word,” I fire back. “I kept that promise, Dixon. I told no one.”

“Then how did it end up as a feature story?”

His words hang between us, heavy and accusing.

I swallow hard, my chest tightening. “I don’t know.”

He takes a step closer, and I’m hit with the full force of his glare. Why does he have to look this good even when he’s furious?

“You don’t know?” he echoes, his tone dripping with disbelief. “That’s the best you’ve got? My life gets turned into tabloid fodder, and all you can say is ‘I don’t know’?”

“Yes, because it’s the truth.” I square my shoulders, refusing to back down. “I don’t know how it got out but I do know it wasn’t me.”

Dixon lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes,” I snap, the heat rising in my chest. “I take my promises seriously.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to yell. Instead, he lowers his voice, which somehow makes it even worse. “Do you have any idea what that article did to me? To my career? To my reputation?”

“Of course I do.” I don’t flinch, but his words hit like a slap. “You think I’m heartless? I know what this cost you, Dixon. If I’d been the one to leak it, don’t you think I’d at least own up to it and take responsibility for it?”

He studies me, his eyes narrowing like he’s trying to read between the lines of what I just said. “So what, you’re the victim here?”

“You need to get over yourself.” I roll my eyes, unable to stop myself. “I’m not the victim because this isn’t about me. What I want to clear up is that you blaming me for something I didn’t do isn’t going to help either one of us.”

He stares at me like I’ve started to recite the dictionary, his tone still unbelieving. “You’re deflecting.”

“And you’re projecting.”

He takes another step closer, and I can feel the tension crackling between us like a live wire. I want to both shove him away from me and also wrap my arms around him and pull him closer at the same time. Like a weighted barbed-wire blanket. “This isn’t a joke for me. My entire team looked at me differently after that article, and then they traded me down. Now these guys, being here with the Renegades, I have to walk into practice every day pretending it doesn’t bother me.”

My voice softens, despite myself. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to keep your head up while the world tries to knock you down? News flash, Dixon: you’re not the only one fighting battles.”

His expression falters for a split second, but then the wall is back up. “So, you’re innocent, and I’m supposed to take your word for it?”

“Yes,” I say firmly, holding his gaze. “Because whether you believe it or not, I’m on your side. I don’t deserve to be your punching bag just because you’re too angry to think straight.”

His lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, the hallway is dead silent except for the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

Finally, he mutters, “I want to believe you, but I don’t know if I can.”

I cross my arms, forcing myself to stay calm even though his words sting more than they should. “That’s your problem, not mine.”

We’re interrupted when the locker room door swings open and the team pours out in a noisy flood of energy and conversation. Sticks clatter, skates click against the floor, and the sharp tang of sweat mixed with laundry detergent hits the air.

I pull my gaze from Dixon’s and clear my throat loudly to get everyone’s attention. They all turn to me one by one. “Offense!” I call out, projecting authority. “When you get to the ice, you’re going to run through some puck-handling drills while you wait for Cannon. He’s running late but will be here soon.”

“In five minutes, Coach!” Pete yells a little too enthusiastically.

“Thank you,” I murmur as we walk en masse to the ice as a team. My skin tingles, alerting me that Dixon trails behind me, and when I turn my head to see if I’m right, I’m rewarded. It’s like I have a Spidey sense for that man.

When we clear the tunnel, the offensive players break off, skating toward an area where Pete’s indicating, and I follow them out to the ice, walking briskly to grab some cones and set up their drill. I rattle off instructions, detailing the sequence and the focus. They start running it smoothly, and I leave them to it.

I glance toward the defensive players milling near the boards. Dixon is at the center of the group, leaning casually on his stick, his mask perched on top of his head. Even in full goalie gear, he manages to look infuriatingly nonchalant, like he has all the time in the world. My teeth clench yet again. I need to keep it professional or I’m gonna have to wear a mouthguard to coach this guy so I can keep my teeth from grinding.

“Defense and goalies, with me,” I call out, my voice cutting through the chatter.

The group gathers, following me toward the far end of the rink. I focus on setting up the drill—a fast-paced sequence designed to push both the defense and Dixon to their limits. It’s no-nonsense, straightforward, the kind of drill that demands focus. As I explain the setup, pointing out the key movements and positioning, I can feel Dixon’s eyes on me, sharp and unwavering. It’s like he’s daring me to mess up.

Once the drill starts, I step back, tucking myself into the shadows where I can observe without interruption. The defense is hustling, chasing down pucks and battling for position, but Dixon is what draws my attention.

He moves with a precision that’s almost surgical, every motion deliberate and lethal. The tension in his crouched frame speaks of control just barely held in check, like he’s a storm coiled at the heart of the crease. His stick sweeps across the ice with practiced ease, deflecting pucks and clearing danger as if it’s an extension of himself.

Every movement of his is calculated, like controlled chaos contained in a six-foot-something wall of pure determination. He’s not just defending the net; he’s guarding it like a dragon hoarding treasure, daring anyone to challenge him.

When he drops into a butterfly save, his pads hit the ice with a satisfying thud, and my breath catches. Grace like that shouldn’t be possible for a man his size, and yet, he makes it look effortless.

“Nice work, Dixon,” I yell, clapping as the players all reset and start again. “Keep it up, defense, give him your all.”

He doesn’t respond, not even a flick of his helmet in my direction. His eyes stay trained on the puck as the skaters charge at him again, but there’s a new edge to his movements now, like he’s stepping up to the challenge I’ve thrown out to the team.

Watching him is nothing shy of intoxicating. If I had to label that man, he would fall squarely under ‘A’ for aphrodisiac. The worst part? He doesn’t even realize it. He has no clue how irresistible he is when he’s on the ice. He’s focused and brooding with every ounce of his being dialed into the game. And those glares he throws? Lethal. Each one carries the weight of a command, like he expects the world to bend to his will. The scary thing is, I see how it could.

My pulse thrums in my ears and my breath hitches as I try to look away, to find something else worthy of my attention. I fail, my gaze flitting back to him .

He’s quick, his movements fluid, blocking shots with the kind of ease that comes from experience. But there’s something else—a deliberate flair, a little extra flash in every save, like he’s putting on a one-man show.

He snags a hard shot out of the air with his glove and tosses the puck lazily toward a defenseman, flashing a smug grin beneath his mask.

“Nice save, Dixon,” I call out, working hard to keep my tone dry. “But how about you focus less on theatrics and more on teamwork?”

“Theatrics?” He skates closer, pulling his mask off and letting it dangle from his hand. “You’re welcome for keeping the puck out of the net,” he says, his voice sharp.

“That’s your job,” I say easily, ignoring the bass in his voice. I swear, we get over one hurdle and we cross another. “We don’t need a performance. We need consistency.”

“Are you challenging me?” Dixon’s expression hardens.

I cross my arms in front of me. “Do you need me to?”

He drops his voice low enough that only I can hear. “You walk in here like you’ve got it all figured out, but you’ve never been the one in the position I’m in, blocking those shots.”

I raise an eyebrow, my tone still calm but cutting. “You mean shots like the slapshot that broke my collarbone in the World Championships? Or the penalty kill against Canada that won us the gold in overtime at the Olympics?”

His jaw tightens, but I don’t give him a chance to respond. Instead, I’ve made a choice to remind this man of who it is exactly that he’s dealing with. “You know me. I’ve been in the trenches, Dixon. I’ve played on the biggest stage there is, under a pressure I’m pretty sure that you can’t even imagine. So don’t stand there and question whether I understand what it’s like out there.”

He blinks, clearly not expecting me to fire back, but his expression quickly shifts to one of defiance. “Fine. You’ve got credentials. But respect is a two-way street, Coach . You want me to trust you? Earn it.”

I step closer, refusing to back down. “Respect is what’s earned, Dixon, and with it comes trust. You think I don’t know what I’m asking of you? I do. But if you want to play games with me instead of giving this your all, you’ll find out real quick how little patience I have for excuses.”

We stare each other down for a beat, the air between us crackling with tension. Finally, Dixon nods, more to himself than to me, and skates back to his position, his movements sharp and precise.

I take a deep breath, letting the exchange settle before calling out to the group. “Reset! Let’s run it again!”

As the drill resumes, I can tell Dixon’s taking it seriously now. The showboating is gone, replaced by focused, disciplined play. I let a small, satisfied smile tug at my lips.

He wants a challenge? Fine.

He’s got one.