Page 7

CHAPTER 7

DIXON

T wo days of back-to-back practice have me feeling like I’ve been run over by a Zamboni. Between Elle’s extra drills—which I swear she’s only making us do because she’s irritated with me—and the time I’m spending in the gym to burn off my stress, I am wiped. My legs are heavy, my shoulders ache, and my head’s pounding from squinting at caregiver resumes until midnight.

The headhunter I’ve been talking to swore she had a solid list of candidates to care for Nan, but none of them are going to cut it. Word must’ve gotten out about her sharp tongue and penchant for chasing off every carer who tries to help.

That’s right. My sweet little old Nan has a really horrific rep right here in River City.

I sigh, leaning back in the seat of my Jeep Wagoneer for a second longer than I should before finally dragging myself out. My boots crunch against a thin layer of ice in the parking lot and I tread carefully, the sharp wind biting at my neck. I’m not a fan of the cold, which is funny to me. Considering I’ve ended up playing a sport that takes place on a slab of ice, something most folks don’t know about me is that I’d rather be on a tropical island somewhere year-round. Maybe in retirement, I will.

Inside the arena, the crisp air smells like fresh ice, and the faint hum of the compressors fills the quiet space. It’s oddly soothing, a gentle reminder of why I put up with it all: this game, this place, this team.

I head straight for the locker room, nodding at a couple of guys as I pass. My gear feels heavier than usual as I suit up, but once it’s on, the ache in my legs and shoulders starts to fade. Muscle memory kicks in, and the rhythm of getting ready settles me.

Finally, I step out onto the ice, stick in hand, and my gaze catches on her.

Elle’s already out on the ice with the other goalie, Owen, running drills. She’s skating backward, stick tapping the puck as she grins and shouts instructions. My heart does this annoying little skip, caught somewhere between wanting to impress her and being irritated that she still gets under my skin. But I’m too tired to dwell on it, plus she looks way too hot for me to not pause and take her in.

Owen makes a sharp stop near the crease, spraying ice that catches Elle in the chest and upwards, hitting her face and hair. She tosses her head back and laughs, spinning to chase the puck, her ponytail swaying behind her. She looks natural, happy out there. It reminds me of the first time we met, both of us fresh-faced and ready for the world and all it had to offer us at that skills camp. Watching her breeze past Owen, I’m reminded of her speed. She was faster than me then, too.

“Hey, man.” Campbell’s voice cuts through my thoughts and I blink, realizing I’ve been standing at the boards like a creep.

I clear my throat. “What’s up?”

He nods toward Elle and Owen. “Looks like they’re having fun.”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.

Campbell grins, then shouts onto the ice. “Hey, Elle! How about you practice with me for a bit?”

Elle stops, tilting her head in mock consideration. “What are you thinking?”

“Let’s make some runs at Dixon. Shake him up a little.”

“Oh, I’m in.” She smirks, a wicked glint in her eye as she nods. “If you think Dixon can handle it, that is.”

“Oh, he will,” Campbell fires back, the pair discussing me like a mom and dad at a parent-teacher conference. “Come on, Dixie-pooh.”

Before I can protest, she’s skating over with Campbell, a mischievous bounce in her stride. I should be annoyed, but instead, I feel a familiar rush of adrenaline. The challenge. Oh, the challenge, and I am up for it.

“Don’t go easy on me,” I call out as they line up.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Elle fires back, tossing her ponytail in what I can only describe as sheer defiance. I like it. To the point I can almost feel the softness of her hair on my skin as I rake my fingers through it. What does it say about me that it’s kind of a turn-on?

The drill starts, and despite my exhaustion, I’m having a blast. They’re fast, unpredictable, and relentless. More players join in as they arrive—Ollie, Henry, Sawyer—turning it into a chaotic but fun free-for-all. The kind of thing that reminds me why I love this sport.

I’m giddy defending the net, each block another notch in my belt. I look over at Elle as she streaks toward me with the puck, her focus razor-sharp. I move to block her, but she fakes right and I overcommit. There’s no time to react as my leg clips hers and she goes down fast and hard, sliding across the ice and crumpling into a heap near the boards.

The rink falls silent.

“Elle!” My stomach drops. I rip off my mask and skate over, my heart pounding. “Are you okay?”

I drop to my knees beside her, already imagining the headline: Goalie Body-Checks New Coach. Feelings Possibly Involved.

She lets out a groan, just loud enough for the rest of the team to hear. “I don’t know,” she says, dragging it out like a soap opera star on her third fainting spell. “I think I’ve sustained some kind of trauma.”

“What kind of trauma?” I ask, scanning for actual injuries while my brain starts to fire off and short-circuit. Why isn’t anyone calling an ambulance? “Did you hit your head? What hurts?”

“My ego,” she deadpans, flopping back like she’s gone full Disney princess. “Also maybe my butt. Mostly my butt.”

I blink. “I didn’t mean to…”

Before I can finish, she pops up, shaking ice off her pants like it’s nothing as the guys erupt in cheers, but I’m still frozen. “Wait. You’re okay?”

Elle sticks out her tongue. “I’m fine.”

“You scared me!” I blurt. “So you’re not hurt?”

“No, I wiped out but I’m okay.” She looks at me, blue eyes piercing through, but there’s that grin tugging at her lips. “Be careful, folks will think you care if you stay here making sure I’m alright.”

For a moment, I’m speechless, caught between relief and exasperation. Then I shake my head, fighting the tug of a smile.

“Noted,” I say, and we both turn back to the ice, the team already gearing up for the next round. “I’ll reserve the urge to carry you to the benches for another time.”

The sound of a whistle breaks the air as Ben jogs out of the tunnel with Cannon by his side.

“Okay, guys, good to see you’re already rocking. Let’s keep the day rolling,” he calls out as he gives a nod of appreciation to Elle. “Who’s up for the Corner Cycle Drill? Let’s see some hustle!!”

* * *

The locker room is filled with the usual post-practice chaos: laughter, the clattering of sticks, and the unmistakable smell of sweat and ice. The guys are all cracking jokes, winding down from a hard day, and the air feels light despite the exhaustion in our muscles.

Dressed in street clothes, I take a seat for the team meeting, where Ben’s in the middle, commanding attention from the team as usual.

“And no excuses tomorrow night,” he says loudly, making sure everyone hears him. “Suit up for the game. As usual. No exceptions.” He looks over at Cannon, who’s standing off to the side, fiddling with his tablet. “Yes, Cannon, that means a real suit.”

Cannon flashes a lazy grin. “Relax, Ben. I’ll wear a tie, too.”

Ben rolls his eyes, pushing forward. “And don’t forget. Monthly mandatory team game night, at my place, in two weeks. Come alone or bring your partners, girlfriends, kids”—his eyes narrow slightly as he glances at me—“or your Nan.”

The room erupts in laughter and I smirk, leaning against the boards. “She’ll bring the cookies,” I joke, which earns some chuckles.

“Please, no,” Sawyer groans. “Last time she made her ‘special cookies’ I swear I saw stars for weeks.”

I stare at a locker as the memory of last month’s game night comes back to haunt me. Having a very liberal grandmother who wears her association with the Grateful Dead like a badge of honor can be a bit much for my friends at times.

“Don’t worry, I’m watching her medicinal use now,” I manage with a sigh. When I look up, I find Elle staring my way with a quizzical expression. “Nan baked weed cookies last month, and let’s just say not everyone was as excited as she was to have them.”

The guys burst into laughter, and even Elle lets out a snort she tries to cover with her clipboard.

“Wait,” Elle says, holding up a hand. “She never told you what the ingredients were?”

“Oh, she told me after ,” I say, throwing my hands up. “She’s standing there all proud, handing out these cookies like she’s hosting some sort of high-end bake sale.”

“Emphasis on the word ‘high’,” Ollie jokes.

I close my eyes but can only see an image of Nan and the plate of cookies. “The guys don’t realize what they are at first because, I mean, cookies are cookies, right?”

“Wrong,” Campbell says, wiping a tear from his eye. “Cookies are cookies unless Nan bakes them.”

“About twenty minutes in,” I continue, “Sawyer decides he needs to have a deep conversation with Ben’s houseplant.”

“It wasn’t a casual chat either,” Ben says with a snicker as Sawyer’s cheeks erupt with redness.

“No,” Campbell adds. “Bro was pleading with that thing to forgive him for whatever he thought he’d done.”

“You’re getting it twisted,” Sawyer interrupts. “The sheer fact that a man named Ben has a Ficus benjamina, or what is commonly known as a Benjamin fig to the rest of you, in his living room was hilarious. I’m sorry but it needed to be brought to our attention.”

“How do you retain that kind of information after all the head knocks you’ve had?” Campbell asks as the team erupts, the sound of their laughter echoing off the walls. Even Elle is leaning against the doorway, shaking her head and laughing so hard she can barely breathe.

“It gets better,” I continue, grinning despite myself. “Nan’s sitting there, sipping her tea like nothing’s happening, and when I ask her why the cookies taste a little off, she just pats my cheek and says, ‘Oh, honey, they’re my medicinal batch. Relax, everyone will have a great time.’”

“I can’t,” Elle wheezes, clutching her clipboard like it’s the only thing holding her upright. Around her, the entire group is in stitches.

Once things settle down, Ben continues. “Alright, now, let’s focus. Make sure you’re all squared away with tomorrow’s schedule.”

Just as he’s about to move on, something—or rather, someone—catches my attention. A young girl, probably around fifteen or sixteen, comes into view, hovering just outside the doorway. She’s got dark hair pulled back into a messy ponytail and an oversized jacket that practically swallows her. She hesitates, shifting from foot to foot like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to be here.

Elle notices her right away. She straightens up and steps into the hall, her body language shifting from serious coach to approachable in an instant. The girl brightens as Elle walks over, pulling a brown paper bag out of her tote. She hands it to Elle, who takes it with a small, genuine smile. They exchange a few words I can’t hear, and then the girl wraps her arms around Elle in a quick hug. Elle hugs her back without hesitation, saying something that makes the girl nod. The kid hurries off down the hall, her steps quiet, while Elle watches her go.

For a moment, Elle just stands there, holding the bag and staring after the girl with the most serene and proud expression, making my heart skip a tiny beat.

By the time she steps back into the room, the look is gone, replaced with her serious coaching face again.

“Who’s that?” Campbell asks casually when Elle steps back inside the room.

A mischievous grin tugs at her lips. “My niece.”

Her tone is light, but there’s something else there—something she’s not saying. I didn’t even know Elle had a niece. Then again, there’s a lot I don’t know about her. We’re not exactly swapping life updates or following each other’s socials, but that doesn’t mean I don’t notice things. Like how her energy shifted for just a second, her vibe dimming ever so slightly.

But then it’s gone.

“Alright, let’s wrap it up!” Ben’s clap breaks the moment like a referee’s whistle. “We’ve got a busy week ahead, so get out of here and rest up.”

The guys start filing out of the locker room, ribbing each other and planning whatever chaos they’ll cause tonight. I grab my stuff, slinging my bag over my shoulder, but I can’t help stealing another glance at Elle. She’s leaning against the doorframe, talking to one of the rookies, her laugh cutting through the noise. Whatever weight I thought I saw is nowhere to be found now.

She catches me looking and arches a brow. “Something on your mind, Andrews?”

“Not a thing,” I lie, smirking as I push past her. “See you tomorrow, Coach.”

“Bright and early,” she calls after me. “Don’t be late.”

I don’t look back, but a grin spreads across my face as I feel her watching me, the sharpness of her presence lingering in the air. Whatever it is about Elle that keeps pulling me in—whether it’s her sharp tongue or that occasional flicker of something softer beneath it—it’s enough to keep me on my toes.

And if I’m honest? I don’t mind one bit.

My grin widens as I make my way to my car. Tomorrow suddenly feels like it can’t come soon enough.