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17

Lennon

T his is a bad idea.

Even through the exhaustion dragging my lids down, making everything feel slightly out of motion, I still know that this is a bad idea. And by the tense set of Coach Holloway’s jawline and shoulders, he does too.

But I don’t want to take him up on his offer to call Coach Maver. And I definitely don’t want him to turn around and take me home where I know the party will be going until well past 2:00 am.

And there’s a part of me that wants to see his place. I’m curious what other pieces of him I might uncover, even as he’s oh-so-slowly been showing me more of himself. Ever since he found me watching his video and we had that conversation in the weight room, he’s been slightly more open with me. He’s dropped a few stories about how he and his brother would play hockey together growing up on a pond in their neighborhood and how their mom often had to come chasing them down to get them inside to eat or warm up. It’s hard to picture a smaller version of him on skates, but from the sounds of it, he was stubborn even then.

I enjoy getting to know him more, so even if it’s wrong to go sleep over at your coach’s house, I’m not going to stop him.

My eyes drift shut, and I awaken a few moments later at the sound of a garage door opening. I wipe the bleariness from my vision as Coach drives us underground and parks. He shuts the engine off, and if I thought we were riding in silence before, it’s nothing compared to how quiet it is without the sounds of the motor. It stretches, turning deafening, as he stares ahead, hands still gripped on the wheel, like he’s fighting something.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

He exhales and grabs his keys. “Fine. Let’s go.”

I follow him upstairs to his apartment, clinging to my backpack straps just to give me something to do with my hands, as he unlocks the door. It’s pitch black, and instead of turning on the overhead lighting, he walks around the space and flicks on lamp after lamp.

“My eyes can still be a little sensitive to certain types of lighting,” he explains.

“I’m not going to complain,” I say. “I hate overhead lighting.” My feet are glued to the floor by the entryway, as if there’s some final, invisible barrier I can’t cross. Like if I do, it’s going to set off a chain of events that can’t be undone.

Coach glances over his shoulder at me as he turns on one final lamp by the couch. “You can just set your shoes on the rug.”

My shoes. As if that’s why I’m not moving. I don’t know where to put my shoes.

I slip them off and tuck them where he said before taking a few tentative steps in.

“Better text Grace that you’re not coming home tonight so she doesn’t worry about you.” He doesn’t look happy about it as he says it, and I wonder if that’s because he’s regretting that we’re in this position, or that I’m going to have to lie to my best friend.

“Yeah, good idea,” I say and pull out my phone.

Me: My mom surprised me at the rink after practice and brought me home for the night. Have fun!

She doesn’t reply, and I don’t expect her to. Bryant is likely there, and whenever he’s around, he’s the only thing that can grab her attention. Which tonight is going to work in my favor because that’s not even a good excuse, but it’s the only one my brain can come up with right now.

The weight of Coach Holloway’s stare is heavy, and I look up to find him leaning against the kitchen island, arms crossed, dark brows drawn in.

“What?” I ask. “Are you regretting this?”

“I should be,” he answers simply.

Should.

I tuck my phone back in my pocket and look around, needing a moment to take a breath after he’s sucked all the oxygen from the room. It’s builder grade, with white walls, cool-toned wood floors, white cabinets, light granite, and clean lines. The furniture is neutral and forgettable, with the exception of the largest TV I’ve ever seen in my life.

“Damn, how big is that?” I ask, pointing to it.

“One hundred fifteen inches,” he says proudly.

I gape at it, imagining how crystal clear hockey games must look on that thing. “That’s insane.”

He simply shrugs, but his mood seems to have brightened slightly.

I scope out the rest of the apartment, or at least what I can see from where I stand. The living room and kitchen are an open concept, all making up one large space. There’s a door off to the left that looks like it leads into his bedroom, while there’s another door on the right that appears to be a guest bath and bedroom.

But there’s one thing that sticks out above all else.

It’s empty.

The walls are blank, lacking any art or memorabilia like I assumed most professional athletes would hang. The shelves across the room framing a large window are empty, save for a sad little dying plant with a few dead leaves lying next to it. There’s no photos, no trinkets, nothing.

Even in the kitchen, there’s only a toaster and a coffee machine on the counter. No cookbooks, spoon rests, or hell, even a decorative towel.

It looks like the place of someone who just moved in and hasn’t unpacked a single box.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask.

He purses his lips and murmurs, “A couple of years.”

“ Years ?” He looks down at his feet in shame, and I immediately apologize. “Sorry, I don’t mean to insult your home. It’s just—looks, um, minimal.”

“Minimal,” he repeats, chewing the word over. “That’s one way to put it.”

“There’s no art or anything you’ve collected over the years to hang? Brighten it up a bit?”

His eyes capture mine as he states bluntly, “I gave most of it to my ex-wife in the divorce, and the rest I smashed myself a few years back.”

I blink, completely stunned not only at the wild new lore he just dropped on me, but also by the detached way he delivered it. He watches me squirm from foot to foot, unsure of how to respond to that, and smirks.

“Let me show you where you can sleep tonight,” he says and takes off toward the door on the right.

Ex-wife…Divorce…Smashed the rest himself…

Those pieces of information are too much for me to fully process when not only am I completely overwhelmed being in his space, a space I definitely shouldn’t be in, but also when I feel like I could actually fall asleep standing up right now.

I follow him, because what else am I supposed to do right now? But as I do, I ask, “Care to expand on any of that?”

He flicks a bedside lamp on in the guest room. “Nope.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off. “Bathroom is right next to you, and there’s a set of towels beneath the sink.”

“I already showered at the rink.”

He nods. “Need anything else?”

Yes, about a million questions answered and twenty-four hours of uninterrupted sleep. I know my game is improving doing these extra workouts and practices with him, but between them, regular practice, work, and classes, I’m nearing burnout.

“I’m good,” I yawn and set my backpack down in front of the bed. “Thank you for letting me stay. I’m sure you’re not supposed to have a player in your house, so I’m sorry you’re breaking the rules for me.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I didn’t follow them.”

I arch my brow, but he brushes it off.

“I’ll let you get some sleep then.” And without another word, he turns and walks back into the living room. I feel naked standing in this strange, unknown place not only physically, but also emotionally. He’s not my friend, not a boyfriend or someone I’m going to hook up with. He’s my coach, and here I am in his guest room, and I’m just supposed to think that’s normal? And how could he just walk away so quickly?

Honestly, I don’t have the brain power right now to begin to untangle any of that. I slip my coat off and hang it on the back of the door before tiptoeing out to the guest bath. Luke is nowhere to be found, and most of the lights are already out.

The bathroom is just as plain as the rest of the apartment. I quickly wash my face, find a tube of toothpaste in the drawer and scrub my teeth with my finger, and throw my hair into a quick braid.

Back in the guest room, I check my phone one more time and still no text from Grace. There’s a charger at the bottom of my backpack, and I plug it into the wall and hook my phone up.

I might be exhausted, but that doesn’t stop me from doing a little bit of snooping before I crash. The sliding doors to the closet open silently, thank God. I expected it to be as empty as the rest of his apartment seemingly is, but no. It’s so stuffed to the brim with things that I’m shocked nothing comes crashing to the floor.

Jerseys are hung haphazardly across one of the bars. I flip through them as best as I can, but it’s hard to see them all since they’re packed in so tight. One in particular catches my attention, and I pull it out to take a better look.

The royal-blue material is a stark contrast to the white-and-cherry-red details of the New York Flash logo and designs. I’ve never held a real NHL jersey before, and I thumb the material between my fingers, thinking about the things this uniform has seen. I flip it around to find HOLLOWAY in block letters on the back, along with the number 64.

“I should’ve known you wouldn’t just go to sleep,” Coach’s voice rumbles behind me, and I instantly turn red. Fuck, did I not shut the door all the way? He’s always catching me at times I don’t want him to.

“Sorry,” I murmur and reach to hang it back up. But his hand is suddenly on mine, and sparks skitter along my skin at the contact.

Just as quickly as he makes contact, he pulls away, and suddenly I’m cold all over. He clears his throat, and when I look at him through my lashes, he almost looks embarrassed himself. “Don’t apologize. That jersey could use some time to breathe.”

I glance down at it. “Why do you keep it tucked away? I would’ve thought you would have it framed or something.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Maybe one day.”

Maybe when it stops hurting him.

“Were you always sixty-four?”

“No.” He reaches around me, brushing his chest against my shoulder, and I’m frozen, unwilling to move even when I know I should. This close, the smell of his cologne overrides all the sleepiness and completely commands all of my senses. He smells fucking good . Grabbing a green-and-silver jersey from the rack, he turns it around. “This is one of my high school ones. I was thirty-two.”

“Me too!” I exclaim. “Then when I came to Haulton I had to switch to thirty-three, but all throughout high school I wore thirty-two.”

The smallest trace of a smile crosses his mouth as his dark eyes spark with something I can’t quite pinpoint. “No shit?”

“Shit.” I smile, and he ducks his head, hiding his amusement. It sends a thrill through me, despite the exhaustion. “Guess all the cool people wore thirty-two in high school.”

“I wouldn’t push it.” He snorts and hangs the jersey back up. I hand him mine as well, and he jams it into place.

“What other fun stuff do you have in here?” I crane my neck, trying to peek into all the nooks and crannies. There’re trophies, sweatshirts, T-shirts, custom sneakers and pairs of skates, mugs and trinkets from various teams, but overwhelmingly a lot of Flash merchandise. But shoved to the back of the tallest shelf, like he wants it as far away as possible, is a mask.

I gasp, and Coach follows my eyeline. He steps forward and doesn’t even need to go on his tiptoes to grab it. When he pulls it down, he cradles it as gently as someone would a newborn baby, but his expression is darker than it was moments ago.

“Here.” He holds it out to me, and I take it gingerly, our fingers brushing in the transform. I peek at him to gauge his reaction, but he seems lost in his own head.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, turning it over in my hands. The base is pearl white, but it provides a canvas for the red-and-blue designs. On one side is a mix of various New York City staples: the Statue of Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Empire State Building. It blends seamlessly around the back into a graffiti-style 64. On the other side are the lightsabers he had once mentioned. They’re in a cross, like they’re mid-duel, one a vibrant red and the other a cobalt blue. “That’s incredible.” I run my fingers over the sabers, tracing the X they form.

“It’s my favorite design I had in my entire career.” He sounds choked, like the words physically hurt him. His hands are balled in the pockets of his sweatpants, like he’s trying to cling to some semblance of control over his emotions.

“This deserves to be on display,” I say softly. “Not tucked away like that. It’s art.”

He doesn’t say anything, just glares at the mask like he’s trying to eradicate it from this planet. What’s he thinking right now? Is the career-ending hit replaying in his mind on a tortuous loop?

There’s a part of me that’s screaming not to do it, but I step forward until there’s barely any space between us and offer it to him. He looks at it like it’s going to burn him if he holds it.

Silence stretches, the weight of his entire dream ending before he was ready hanging heavily between us.

“One day, I hope you’ll display this as proudly as you should.”

He clicks his tongue. “Yeah, maybe one day,” he says, sounding anything but convincing. Finally, he takes it from me and quickly puts it back in its spot. But I don’t miss the tenderness in which he does, careful not to bump or scratch it on the ceiling.

When he turns back, he looks almost startled at my close proximity. I know I should step back, regain some space between us, but my feet don’t move. My neck tilts back as I look up at him. He’s about five inches taller than me, but with his broad shoulders and muscular chest, he feels bigger.

This close, I can see the shadow coming in on his jawline. He’s been keeping his face cleanly shaven in recent weeks, and I miss the stubble he used to have at the beginning of the season.

I shouldn’t notice that.

I shouldn’t notice things like his facial hair, or how the brown of his eyes looks so dark right now, they’re almost black. Or how his rich brown hair flows back in perfect waves, the portrait of the stereotypical hockey hair.

I shouldn’t notice the scar he told me the story behind, and my finger shouldn’t be twitching right now with the desire to trace it.

His eyes dance back and forth between mine, like he’s cataloging similar things about me and knowing that he shouldn’t be. Once again, I appreciate the bridge of his nose, slightly crooked. The nose of a hockey player.

My eyes drift a little further down to his lips. The dip in the middle of his top one is deep, and my own mouth tingles, thinking of what it would be like to be claimed by his.

Gravity seems to be pulling me forward, or maybe it’s the natural sway of my body as it fights to stay awake, but either way, my chest is mere inches from brushing his. Maybe I want it to. Maybe he wants it, too.

But like a rubber band snapping, he seems to break out of the spell we both fell under, and he quickly retreats to the open door. Humiliation washes over me in horrifying waves, and I cross over to the bed and sit on the edge, needing to ground myself. I pick at the chipped polish on my fingernails, unable to look at him.

He coughs and says, “If you need anything, just uh, let me know.”

“I’ll be fine,” I answer far too quickly, my voice more breathless than it should be. “Sleep good,” I add, when I can still feel him hovering.

Peeking up from beneath my lashes, I find him lingering at the door, one hand on the knob and the other pressed against the frame. The look in his eyes, the glimpse of interest I think I see there, makes me wonder if I’m already dreaming or just delirious.

His fingers drum against the white trim once, twice, and just as the words crawl their way up my throat and I’m about to ask him something stupid, like if he wants to stay, he says, “Good night.” The door closes with a soft click, and I’m left sitting at the edge of the bed wondering if I’m losing my fucking mind.