Page 1

Chapter 1

Battery Acid Filtered Through a Jockstrap

Nora

I ’d never wished for a Zamboni to run me over more than I did right now. Actually, scratch that. Make it two Zambonis, just to be thorough.

Not only had my coffee maker crapped out this morning, but I’d been running late and was left with no other choice but to chug a disgusting gas station brew that tasted like battery acid filtered through a jockstrap. And now, to top off this already stellar morning, I had to deal with this colossal man-child gliding around my ice like he owned the place.

Dominic Wilson. Hockey’s golden boy. One of the Tri-State Titans’ best players. And the current bane of my existence. I’d rather teach basic skating to a herd of drunk elephants than deal with his ego for one more minute.

He was doing everything in his power to avoid the edge work I’d specifically assigned for the morning’s skating skills session. Instead, he was showing off, launching himself into unnecessary jumps and sprints, completely ignoring the fundamentals that might prevent him from getting his ass handed to him this season. The way he moved reminded me of a peacock who’d had too many energy drinks.

I blew my whistle so hard I nearly passed out from oxygen deprivation, and my ears rang from the sound. “Wilson! What part of crossover progression drills translates to doing whatever the hell you want?”

His six-foot-four frame came to a dramatic stop inches from where I stood at the boards, sending a spray of ice shavings that miraculously avoided hitting me. I knew that move was deliberate, and he had the precision to threaten without following through.

“Coach Hastings, what seems to be the problem?” He flashed me a million-dollar smile that had probably gotten him out of trouble his entire life. The kind of smile that made me want to assign extra drills out of spite. “I was just warming up.”

“For what? The circus?” I folded my arms across my chest and straightened my spine. He had seven inches on me physically, but mentally, I was taller. At least, that’s what I continuously told myself when dealing with grown men who acted like toddlers. “Your crossovers are a mess, your transitions are sluggish, and you’re coasting when you should be working.”

His smile faltered for a microsecond before returning with renewed arrogance. “My dad says my crossovers are textbook.”

Oh, here we go. The Dad Card. Garrett Wilson, Sr., grade-A asshole, former NHL star, and now, apparently, a coach. There wasn’t a team in the league that would ever consider letting him touch their team.

“Well, unless your dad is suddenly signing your paychecks or the one blowing this whistle, his opinion matters about as much to me as a broken stick.”

This wasn’t my first rodeo with players testing the waters with me as a coach. All new coaches were tested, but being a female and having a dad who was a very successful head coach of an opposing team added to the fun. What also added to the fun? My dad and Dominic’s dad were mortal enemies both on and off the ice.

Dominic leaned on his stick, casual arrogance personified. “I scored eighty-two points last season. I think my skating is just fine.”

“And you could have scored a hundred if you weren’t compensating for your edges.” I planted my hands on my hips, fixing him with a stare that had made grown men cry. Okay, not really, but I’d come close a time or two. “The choice between average and great is yours. But hey, if mediocrity is your comfort zone, who am I to push you out of it?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched beneath the stubble. I could practically hear the gears grinding in his head, calculating whether to double down on the attitude or concede. “My technique got me this far.”

“And it’s precisely what will keep you from going further.” I gestured to the ice where a group of players was practicing exactly what I’d asked, like the functional adults they were. “Nothing has changed since last season. You’re leaking speed on your inside edge recoveries. And your outside edge grip? Barely there. Your transitions waste motion. And your power generation is all upper body with no drive from your lower body or core. I need you skating more like Collins.”

“You figure skaters and your thing with perfect edges. Some of us play a contact sport.” He rolled his eyes, but I caught the way his gaze flickered to Miles Collins, who was executing perfect edge control.

I smiled sweetly. “Let me know how that philosophy works when you’re getting skated around by rookies half your size. I’m sure that’ll make a great highlight reel.”

Dominic narrowed his eyes at me before turning and yelling across the rink, “Collins! Come here!” His voice echoed off the rafters like a petulant child calling for backup.

Miles skated over, stopping without sending ice flying. How these two men were best friends was beyond my comprehension. On the ice, they were an unstoppable duo, and as far as I could tell, it was the same off the ice too. They were like a buddy cop movie come to life. One by-the-book professional, one loose cannon with authority issues.

“You rang?” Miles’s expression suggested he knew exactly what kind of drama he was being dragged into.

“Back me up here. Hasn’t my skating gotten us through plenty of tight spots?” Dominic already looked like he’d won the battle, wearing the smug expression of someone who’d never heard the word ‘no’ in his life.

Miles glanced between us with the diplomatic expression of someone who’d played peacemaker between Dominic and authority figures a thousand times before. “Your skating’s solid, but Coach Hastings knows her stuff. I’ve added two miles per hour to my top speed, and it’s only been a week.”

I bit back a satisfied smile, forcing my expression to stay neutral even as warmth bloomed in my chest at the genuine respect in Miles’s eyes. Getting validation when I’d just started working with the team a week ago meant more than I cared to admit. But this wasn’t about collecting gold stars. It was about breaking through Dominic’s titanium-grade stubbornness.

“Traitor,” Dominic muttered, shooting his friend a betrayed look that belonged more on a sulking teenager than on a grown man.

“It’s not betrayal if it’s for your own good.” Miles clapped him on the shoulder. “Just try the drills. Worst-case scenario, you waste an hour proving her wrong.”

Wilson exhaled with enough drama to fuel a daytime soap opera, like I was demanding he give up his firstborn child instead of fixing his sloppy technique. “Fine.”

“Remember, power starts in the core, transfers through the hips, and then to the edges. You’ve got no core drive and hardly any leg engagement. You're relying on your upper body, and that’s what’s holding you back.”

For a moment, that familiar stubborn glint flashed in his eyes, and I braced for another round of testosterone-fueled resistance. But then, surprisingly, he gave a curt nod, his jaw set with determination. “If I don’t feel or see a difference, we go back to my way.”

“Fair enough.” I couldn’t quite suppress my smirk. I knew exactly what he’d discover once he stopped fighting me long enough to practice. The fact that it hadn’t been corrected until now was almost unbelievable. Sometimes the hardest part of coaching wasn’t the technical instruction but managing the egos that came attached to all that talent.

Dominic positioned himself at the far blue line, wearing an expression that screamed malicious compliance. The other players had subtly created distance, forming a loose semicircle as if preparing to witness a car crash in slow motion.

What followed was nothing short of hockey sacrilege.

Dominic pushed off, exaggerating every movement to cartoonish proportions. His arms flailed like he was fighting invisible bees, and his core twisted so dramatically I half-expected to hear his spine crack.

I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.

Several players snickered. Coach Mendez, one of the assistant coaches, suddenly found his clipboard fascinating. As for the head coach? Thankfully, he was in a meeting with the owners.

Still, it made me uneasy dealing with this bullshit even though before the start of training camp, we’d had a big sit-down to discuss the potential pushback I might get. We’d all agreed that if I wanted to make it with this team, I’d have to be the one to deal with any ridiculous behavior. I’d coached long enough to know that the second I let others get involved, my battle would be lost.

“Wilson, if you’re not going to take this seriously!”

“I’m doing exactly what you said!” He cut another exaggerated crossover, wobbling dramatically before recovering with a flourish. “Power from the core to the hip to the edge!”

My pulse hammered in my ears. Every move I made was scrutinized under a microscope, and the slightest hint of emotion would be twisted into proof that I couldn’t handle the pressure—or worse, that I was too emotional for the job. What would be passionate coaching from a male counterpart would become hysteria from me.

So instead of screaming at him, I put on my best poker face. “Take five and come back when you’re ready to work.”

Wilson skated up to the boards where I was. “What’s wrong, Coach? Not the demonstration you wanted?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe figure skating drills don’t translate to real hockey after all.”

My fingers tightened around my whistle, which his eyes dropped to. Victory was all over his face, and I resisted the urge to shove the whistle where the sun doesn’t shine.

I was acutely aware of all the eyes on us, gauging my reaction, waiting to see if the female coach would crack under pressure. I wouldn’t give them that pleasure.

“What I want is for the highest-paid center to stop skating like a child when he gets tired in the third period. But if you’d rather keep losing races to nineteen-year-old rookies, by all means, continue with your current technique.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’ve been skating this way my entire career.”

“And you’ve been leaving points on the table the entire time.”

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. I’d struck a nerve. Good. Maybe beneath all that arrogance was an actual competitor who cared about improvement.

“Coach Lovell said?—”

“Coach Lovell isn’t here,” I cut him off, my patience wearing dangerously thin. “I am. And right now, I’m telling you that your skating is holding you back from being elite.”

His jaw tightened. “Elite? I’m already?—”

“Already what? Coasting on raw talent and your last name?” I lowered my voice, making sure only he could hear me. “You could be so much more, Wilson, if you’d get out of your own way.”

His nostrils flared, a vein in his forehead throbbing visibly enough that I half-expected it to burst. For a split second, I swore something vulnerable flashed across his eyes as if I’d peeled back the cocky veneer and found the insecure little boy desperate for his daddy’s approval.

But then his lips curled into that infuriating smirk. “You know what your problem is, Hastings?”

“Please, enlighten me.” I matched his volume. “I’m positively dying to hear the psychological assessment from a man who still thinks Axe body spray is cologne.”

“Your problem is?—”

“Hey, Coach!” Miles skated past where Dominic and I were having our spat and stopped at the boards where Coach Lovell and one of the team owners stood. Their eyes were locked on me and Dominic.

Dominic’s face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning who’d just unwrapped a flamethrower. The smirk morphed into a full-blown grin that screamed checkmate .

Shit. They’d heard the whole Axe body spray thing, hadn’t they?

“How’s practice going?” Coach Lovell crossed his arms, staring down his nose at Dominic.

Dominic’s grin widened, a touch of delight dancing in his eyes. “Great. Coach Hastings was just explaining how my skating’s holding me back from being elite.” He dragged out the last word like it physically pained him to say it, each syllable dripping with the kind of condescension that made me want to demonstrate exactly how sharp my skate blades were.

Coach Lovell’s brow lifted, creating deep furrows in his forehead. “That so?” His gaze shifted to me.

I could have played it safe and backpedaled, sugarcoated, or smoothed things over. My career would certainly be easier if I just nodded and smiled. But I hadn’t worked this hard to get to where I was by taking the path of least resistance.

“Yes,” I said firmly, squaring my shoulders and meeting Coach’s gaze. “Wilson’s skating is inefficient. He’s relying too much on upper body movement and losing power in his transitions. If he wants to be faster, he needs to clean up his technique.”

For a long moment, no one said a word. The only sound was the soft scrape of idle skates on ice as the other players pretended not to eavesdrop. I braced myself for the lecture and the reminder that my job wasn’t to ruffle feathers or bruise egos, especially not those attached to multi-million-dollar contracts.

Instead, Coach Lovell snorted softly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Sounds like you’ve got some work to do, Wilson.”

Dominic’s grin faltered and his shoulders stiffened. “What?”

Richard Kessler, one of the owners, finally spoke, adjusting his tie. “I’d listen to your coach if I were you. There’s a reason I made her the highest-paid skating skills coach in the league.”

With that, they both turned and walked away, leaving Dominic standing there like someone had told him his new puppy wasn’t his. I allowed myself a small victory smile, savoring the way his perfect jawline clenched in frustration. Sometimes the best wins were the quiet ones.

“Five minutes,” I called out to Dominic as I skated away, my blades cutting clean, efficient lines into the ice. “Then we get back to work.” And this time , I added silently, you’re going to do it my way .