Page 9

CHAPTER 9

ELLE

T he lights are blinding, the noise deafening, and my heartbeat is somewhere near my throat as I step onto the rink for the first time as one of the coaches of the River City Renegades. The announcer’s voice booms through the arena, echoing off the rafters.

“And now, introducing the new defensive coach of the Renegades...Elle Carter!”

I lift my hand in a small wave, unsure of how the home crowd will accept me, but they respond with a thunderous roar. A smile tugs at my lips despite the nerves trying to swallow me whole.

I glance at the players lined up beside me—some serious, others wearing grins that look more like smirks, and one who stands at the very opposite end of the line and won’t even look my way. Then, Campbell leans over, his helmet tilted just enough to show his raised eyebrows.

“Look at the stands tonight,” he says, nodding toward the seats. “More women and girls than I’ve ever seen here. Pretty sure it’s because of you.”

Sawyer, a few players down, grins as he adjusts his gloves. “Yeah, no pressure or anything, Coach.”

I let out a shaky laugh, scanning the rows of fans. He’s not wrong. There are faces painted in team colors, young girls wearing jerseys too big for them, and women in Renegades merch holding handmade signs.

Here for the Heels!

Welcome Coach Carter!

Girls Rule, Boys Drool!

That last one makes me snort.

The announcer’s voice fades and the buzz of the crowd swells as the team starts moving to their positions. The energy shifts. It’s time to play.

“All right, Renegades!” I call out, clapping my hands twice for emphasis. It feels surreal, like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s job, but the team responds without hesitation, skating to their spots.

Dixon glances over his shoulder at me before he strides toward the crease, adjusting his helmet. Even from behind, I can see his usual swagger, but there’s an edge to his movements tonight. A little sharper, a little more purposeful. He taps his stick against the post as if marking his territory.

I don’t have time to linger on him because the crowd draws my attention again. It’s a sea of faces, but Hayden catches my eye immediately. She’s still in her new official hoodie and is standing up, waving like she’s at a parade, her grin so wide I can see it from here.

My lips curve despite myself, and then I notice who’s sitting beside her. An elderly woman, her hair teased to the heavens, with makeup looking like it was applied with a paint roller. She’s completely decked out in Dixon Andrews gear: jersey, hat, face paint, the works. A foam finger waggles in the air as she cheers.

I bite down on my lower lip, trying not to laugh. Hayden notices me staring, and she tips her head dramatically at the woman as if to say, Get a load of this.

I shake my head, forcing my focus back on the ice. “All right, boys, let’s make this a night to remember,” I call out, more confident now. “Let’s play hockey.”

The game starts fast. The puck drops, and the Renegades explode into motion, skating hard and fighting for control. The crowd’s roar swells with every slap of a stick and crash against the boards. My eyes dart between our lines, scanning for weaknesses, but when I’m not watching our defensemen, my attention shifts to Dixon in the crease. He’s solid, tracking every movement like a predator, his glove snapping up puck after puck.

Midway through the period, the opposing team’s offense pushes hard, weaving through our defense with sharp, calculated passes. My stomach tightens as they close in on Dixon.

“Hold the line, hold the line,” I mutter under my breath, watching intently.

The puck rockets toward him—a clean shot to his left. Dixon shifts, angling to block, but I see it the moment he moves. His stance isn’t as tight as it should be, his pad leaving the smallest gap near the post. It’s tiny, almost imperceptible, but at this level, tiny is all it takes.

The puck zips through the opening, hitting the back of the net with a sickening clang . I clench my teeth as the arena erupts in cheers from the opposing fans, and Dixon’s head snaps back toward the goal. He reacts immediately, skating out of the crease and slamming his stick against the post. He knows he messed up, but there’s no time to dwell on it.

Until it happens again.

In the second period, the same gap, the same late reaction. Another puck in the net. This time, I’m not the only one who notices. The players on the bench exchange glances, and the energy on the ice shifts.

I can feel tension in my neck. As I stretch it out, I take a deep calming breath and keep my eyes on Dixon. I can see the little twitch in his jaw as he tightens up, trying to get back into the game. Here on the bench, all eyes are on me waiting to see what I’ll do, how I’ll handle it. I know I need to make a change, but where do I even start? It’s one thing to say the right words in a locker room, but it’s another to get them to translate those words into real action on the ice.

By the end of the period, my frustration is bubbling over. I need to download to the defense, give them some notes, but first I need to get our goalie straight. As the team skates off, I catch Dixon by the shoulder.

“Dixon, I need five minutes,” I say, my voice sharp enough to cut.

He pulls off his helmet, sweat dripping from his face, and glares at me. “What? You want to lecture me mid-game?”

“That is not my intention.” I wait until we’re out of earshot of the others before I let it out. “You’re leaving the same gap every time. They’ve spotted it, and they’re exploiting it. You need to adjust.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Dixon scoffs, tossing his helmet onto a nearby bench. “I’m already in my head about it, and you coming at me like this isn’t helping.”

“I’m coming at you because this is my job,” I say, fighting the urge to snap back, instead keeping my voice low but firm. He wants to be defensive? Fine. I’ll smother him with straight up calmness. “I’m asking you to fix it, Dixon. The team, your brothers out on that ice, they need that from you.”

He shakes his head, his jaw tight. “Maybe you should get someone else in the net if you’ve got all the answers.”

“I’m not benching you.” I take a deep breath, forcing myself to stay in a place of calm. “I’m asking you to step up. You can do better than this. You are better than this. I’ve seen it and I know it. So do you.”

He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes hard, before he picks up his helmet and stalks toward the locker room.

As I watch him go, I swallow down the knot of frustration in my throat. This is the part of coaching I wasn’t prepared for; the line between pushing and breaking, and knowing when to stop. Plus, there is the Dixon of it all.

The third period starts with a weight the first two didn’t carry—like the pressure of the game has finally sunk in, pressing hardest on my shoulders. Dixon takes his place in the crease, his movements stiff at first, but I see the way he adjusts his stance, angling just a fraction lower, closing the gap he’s been leaving open.

The opposing team comes at us hard, their forwards driving the puck into our zone with relentless speed. My hands grip the edge of the bench, my knuckles white as the puck passes between them like it’s tied to a string.

They fire off a shot, low and fast, straight for that same spot. My breath catches.

But Dixon is ready this time. His pad drops perfectly into position, sealing off the post. The puck ricochets off with a satisfying thud and is cleared down the ice by our defense. It’s passed to the offense who make a good run and score, giving us a point.

The crowd roars, and a wave of relief crashes over me. Dixon doesn’t celebrate, doesn’t even hesitate. He just resets, focused, steady. But before the next play, he glances my way.

Our eyes meet, and he gives me the smallest of nods. I nod back, keeping my expression neutral, though my chest tightens with something close to pride.

The game presses on, and Dixon stays sharp, turning away every shot that comes his way. Each time, the offense gets the puck and takes it to the opposing net, and in no time, the gap’s closed and we’re ahead by one point.

By the final buzzer, the Renegades skate off with a hard-fought win. The team gathers on the ice, celebrating, the fans in the stands are on their feet cheering, but Dixon heads straight to the bench.

As he passes me, he mutters, “Told you I was trying.”

I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. “Told you you could do better.”

For the first time tonight, Dixon grins. Just a little.

* * *

The stands are almost empty now, the echo of skates and sticks still lingering in the air as the game winds down. A few staff members move between the rows, collecting empty cups and programs, the sound of their footsteps muted in the nearly deserted space. My feet tap lightly against the metal steps as I climb toward Hayden, my mind still buzzing with the last-minute details of the team debrief. It’s been a long night, and I’m definitely ready for a bit of quiet time.

To my surprise, Hayden’s chatting animatedly with the elderly woman I saw earlier, Dixon’s number-one fan. The woman is even more of a spectacle up close. Her makeup is a smeared rainbow of bright blues, deep purples, and glitter for days. Her outfit is truly a walking shrine to Dixon, from the jersey she’s wearing to the sequined scarf draped over her shoulders to her earrings shaped like tiny hockey pucks.

“There she is!” Hayden exclaims, jumping up when she spots me. “Aunt Elle, meet the most dedicated Renegades fan in the arena tonight.”

The woman looks my way, her eyes sparkling yet judgmental behind oversized glasses. “I’m not just dedicated. I’m loyal. Through and through. That goalie of yours…chef’s kiss.”

I blink at her, unsure how to respond. “Uh, thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed the game.”

“Dixon’s going to be one of the greats, mark my words.” She leans closer, as if letting me in on a secret. “But only if he remembers to keep his glove hand up. ”

I stifle a laugh, nodding. “I’ll make sure to remind him.”

She gives me a sneaky little wink. “Or maybe I will.”

I can’t even look at Hayden for fear of laughing, so instead I reach into my bag and pull out a bracelet, one of the team-themed ones we give out to fans. “I thought you might like this as a thank-you for supporting the team. It’s not much, but it’s something to show our appreciation.”

The woman’s smile freezes, and she stares at the bracelet like it’s radioactive. Her nose wrinkles, and she actually shudders.

“Oh,” she says, waving her hand as though she’s brushing the bracelet away. “That’s not really my style.”

Hayden snorts, trying to hold back laughter but failing miserably. She doubles over, clutching her stomach, her giggles echoing in the nearly empty arena.

“Hayden,” I hiss, though I can’t help the corners of my mouth from twitching upward.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps, wiping at her eyes. “I’ve never seen anyone look at a bracelet like it had a virus before.”

The woman raises an eyebrow, looking unimpressed. “Oh, go on, have your laugh. But that’s not a piece of jewelry. It’s a piece of marketing.”

Hayden grins and plucks the bracelet out of my hand. “I think it will look great on you.” She turns to the woman, holding it out like it’s some grand treasure. “You need this. Trust me, it’ll bring balance to the Universe. It’ll be your good luck charm for the next game.”

The woman narrows her eyes at Hayden, then sighs with exaggerated reluctance. “Fine. But only because you’re asking me.”

She takes the bracelet, slipping it on with all the enthusiasm of someone donning handcuffs. Hayden claps her hands, her grin widening.

“See? Perfect. It really brings the outfit together.”

The woman glances at her wrist, then up at me. “Hmm. I suppose it’s tolerable.”

“Where did she go?”

The voice startles me, and I turn to see Dixon standing at the edge of the aisle, his gear bag slung over one shoulder, his hair still damp from the shower. He’s scanning the stands, his brow furrowed until his gaze lands on the woman decked out in his merchandise.

Hayden notices him first. “Hey, it’s your goalie!” she says brightly, nudging his number-one fan in the ribs and waving him over like he’s an old friend.

The older woman perks up, her face lighting like a Christmas tree. “Dixon, there you are! I was just telling these lovely ladies what a fine player you are.”

“Hey, Nan.” He groans quietly, his expression turning strained as he stops in front of us, taking her in from head to toe. “You added some flair to your outfit since we got here.”

“I needed a new scarf and a new jersey, so I put it on your tab at the merch booth.” She beams at him, unfazed by his exasperation. She swivels in her seat to face Hayden and shakes her head. “The puck earrings are my idea. I made them.”

He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes flicking to me briefly. “Coach,” he says grudgingly, his tone a mixture of respect and reluctance. “This is Nan.”

“We’ve met,” I reply, keeping my tone light as the realization of who she is finally sinks in. “She’s quite the fan.”

“Don’t undersell it, dear,” Nan says with a wink. “I’m the fan. I told her you’d better keep your glove hand up.”

Dixon sighs heavily. “Yeah, thanks for the advice, Nan.”

Hayden grins and leans in conspiratorially. “I think she’s got a point, though.”

Nan chuckles, clearly delighted. “See? This one gets it. Hayden, come walk with me to the restrooms. I need to stretch my legs, and you’ve got the kind of energy I like.”

“Of course!” Hayden says, hopping to her feet. She loops her arm through Nan’s, and the two of them start down the steps, giggling and chatting like old friends.

Dixon and I are left standing alone, watching them go. He shakes his head, shifting his bag on his shoulder. “She’ll probably convince Hayden to join her fan club,” he mutters. “Or drag her to bingo. One or the other.”

“That’s the voice of experience talking there,” I reply, glancing at him. He’s leaning slightly to one side, probably from lugging that heavy bag. “Hayden actually likes bingo, so it could be a match made in heaven.”

I can’t help but notice the taut line of his jaw. He’s intense, maybe a little too attractive for his own good. Though the way he’s hunched right now, as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders, makes me think he’d probably benefit from a good yoga class—not that I’d ever be the one to suggest it.

“Thanks,” he says abruptly, catching me off guard.

“For what?”

His eyes meet mine, dark and guarded. “For earlier. Calling me out. I didn’t like it, but you were right.”

For a moment, I’m stunned. I didn’t expect him to say it, let alone mean it. “You’re welcome,” I reply carefully.

The air between us shifts, tightening with something unspoken. My gaze falls on his full and slightly parted lips, which he was licking a moment ago. Now they glisten under the arena lights and the hitch in my stomach tells me I do like what I see.

I realize I’m staring a little too long, but I can’t seem to look away. The lines of his face are sharp, his expression unreadable, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes my chest tighten. Why is there something about this man that is so smoldering and sexy, even when I want to rub his face in the ice?

Neither of us says anything. The silence feels charged, like we’re on the brink of something neither of us is ready to name.

Then, Nan’s voice cuts through the moment. “All set! Time to head out, kids.”

Hayden is practically skipping back toward us, her arm looped through Nan’s once again. Dixon straightens up, the spell between us broken, and adjusts his bag.

“Good game, Coach,” he mutters before following them down the steps.

I take a breath and force myself to move, trailing after the three of them, my heart beating a little faster than it should.

Progress.