Page 32

Chapter 32

Nat

I leave after we finish our Chinese. Olli is tired ; I see it in the hollows of his eyes, his languid movements. Besides, I haven’t entirely forsaken my parental duties, and I have work early the next morning—need to open the rink for high school practice.

So there isn’t much time between when I leave Olli’s cozy house in the evening and when I’m shaking Syd awake the next morning to trundle her into the truck for practice, out in the cold and dark of Day River.

Leaving is good, I tell myself.

I need space. Because sooner or later, I’ll have to face the aftermath of . . . Of us. Me and Olli.

I’m glad Syd’s half asleep in the passenger seat, her head tilted against the window.

My fingers go white on the wheel as the memories crash back over me. Olli in the woods, his lips flitting down my throat, fingers tugging at my pants. Olli curled into the bed beside me, tucked into my arms, feeling like he belongs there.

Beautiful. So fucking beautiful—and I can’t deny that anymore. Can’t deny that whatever this is, whatever I’m feeling. It’s real. It’s not a drunken or off-kilter fantasy, the product of an uncertain mind or sudden upheaval in my life. This, this thing with Olli . . . it’s here, real, solid. Not going away .

I don’t want it to.

But I don’t know what I want it to be either. Are we hooking up? Friends with benefits? Dating? And what does any of that look like when it’s combined with the thing we are first and foremost—coworkers?

Questions, so many questions, I can’t even begin to know how to answer. Or maybe I’m too scared to seek answers because I’m worried I’ll ruffle these deceptively still waters and discover there’s an eddying riptide lurking just below the mirrored surface.

I pull the truck into the rink parking lot. “Syd. We’re here.”

“Fuck,” she mutters, before she opens the door and tumbles out into the cold. I follow her to the rink.

Maybe I should talk to Brenda—I wince. No.

No, I’m thinking too much. Whatever’s happening between us, it feels right. Good. And maybe, for once, I’ll simply ride the current instead of trying to paddle against it.

Besides, we still have to be coworkers first and foremost—which means I have to figure out how to share a locker room with him sometimes too.

Fuck.

Olli, of course, takes full advantage of this a handful of hours later, when he shoots me a cheeky wink and drops his towel to the floor.

“Asshole,” I mutter, jerking my gaze away before I can see anything. How badly I long to look, to take in the perfect image of Olli James devoid of clothing.

“Taylor.” Coach pokes his head into the locker room. “My office.”

Any fantasies or thoughts of Olli in the nude evaporate into thin air. “Shit.”

“You know what he wants?” Olli drags his jeans over his hips. Still takes willpower not to study those lean, chiseled muscles.

My stomach churns as my brain catches up to Olli’s words. “I have no idea. ”

He grimaces. “Maybe it’s better not to speculate. I’m a textbook overthinker.”

“I’m the opposite.” I stand, ignoring the roil of uncertainty in my gut. “Wish me luck, I guess.”

Coach sits behind a shining, barren desktop. He peers at me over the top of a pair of plastic-framed glasses as I enter. More nerves burn through my gut, but beneath that, there’s something else. Something harder, something stronger, something I haven’t felt for a long time.

“Sit, stand, I don’t care.” Coach swipes the glasses from his nose and sets them down. “I’ll make it short. Taylor, I know you’ve been skating the Ice Out for years now.”

Coach has never been one to sugar-coat his words. And I suppose me skating the Ice Out isn’t terribly hard to believe, for someone who’s known me as long as he has.

But that’s the thing about the Ice Out—you look away. Respect the shadows. Don’t try to peer too closely through the dark. But Ethan Douglas isn’t a creature of that darkness.

I perch on the chair in front of Coach’s desk to keep myself from pacing. “I won’t deny it.”

“Good. We’re both adults.”

“Don’t like the sound of that.”

“You should.” Coach slides a small blue ticket across the desktop. “Come to the open tryouts. See how you skate with a real team.”

My heart thuds against my ribcage. Sharp, jarring, fierce. It’s like the dreams of my past have woken up inside my chest, but they’re such violent, dangerous creatures, I long ago turned away, before they could hurt Syd.

You know I think you should skate in this too, right?

I know what Syd would want. And Avery. Olli. Charlie.

But I don’t reach for that ticket.

“You and I both know you’re better than the Ice Out,” Coach murmurs .

Do I know that? I know hockey is part of my soul, lives in my bones, beats in my blood. I know I need it like I need air and water, and it holds me hostage the same way the ice does this town.

But I also know I am this town. And so is the Ice Out.

Coach sighs. “Look. Taylor. I’m just asking you to show up. That’s all. Show up, take it one day at a time.”

I don’t reach for that ticket.

“I think Olli’s onto something here,” Coach says, and my mind fixates on that name. Olli . “We need players who are gonna stick around, work hard, show up all winter long, in the cold and the snow. Who are gonna treat this team like a destination, not a stopover.”

I nod, my throat too dry to speak. He’s right. All of his words make perfect sense.

“That’s all we are for most of these transfers.” Coach’s jaw flexes as his teeth grit. “And Olli’s no different. That kid’s got talent. He’s going places. Maybe he’ll turn this team around before he goes, but we both know he’s not staying.”

My stomach clenches into a tight knot. A cold, dense little ball of discomfort. Dread, almost. Not that any of this is news to me. Not that it’s not anything I haven’t thought about.

But there’s a difference between spinning through your own anxious thoughts, and hearing someone voice them aloud.

“We need Day River boys.” Coach’s statement is flat, final. “We need someone to be here for the long haul.”

His words make me ill. After the days Olli and I shared . . . They’re the last words I want to hear.

“Right.” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “There are a lot of guys in this town who’d kill for the shot.”

“Exactly. And we both know you’re more talented than most of them.”

“Talent isn’t everything.”

“Certainly means a lot in pro sports.” Coach leans back in his chair, lifts his gaze to bore through mine. “Just look at your brother. ”

My fingers clench tight into fists. It’s true; Jesse’s got more God-given hockey talent than anyone I’ve ever seen. Enough to overcome his cocky attitude, his poor grades, his partying. No one ever questioned Jesse’s vices, not when his virtues shined so bright.

He’s forty-one and still killing it in the pros.

“He talked to me, you know.” Coach’s voice goes quiet, and his gaze slips sideways, past me. “Asked about the Ice Out.”

“Did he?” My own voice sounds strangled, like someone’s wrapped an oversized set of hands around my throat. He’s trying to weasel his way into the Ice Out–Dingoes tryouts.

“We had a meeting, in fact.” Coach steeples his fingers together. “About this tournament idea of his—he wants me to handle the rosters.”

“Tournament?” The strangulation on my voice has increased tenfold, so the word barely escapes. “What tournament?”

“Didn’t he tell you about it?”

I snort. “He called me asking what the Ice Out was, that’s all.”

Coach’s brows lift. “He didn’t tell you about how he wants me to run the open practice like a tournament?”

“Nope.”

“Or how he thinks the Ice Out crowd should vote in their favorites?”

I roll my eyes. “He doesn’t tell me shit like that.”

“But . . .” Coach’s brows furrow deep in confusion. “He’s working with your daughter on all the publicity and communication—”

“What?” In a distant afterthought, I realize I’ve stood, shoved my chair backwards. “My daughter, as in Sydney?”

“Yes?” Coach’s brows have pulled so low they’ve built a shelf over his eyes. “He’s hiring people for the event planning and press coverage. I’m doing rosters. And Sydney’s in charge of social media—”

“Syd is working with Jesse ?” The world’s gone fuzzy around the edges, a tunnel vision of anger. My fists clench too tight.

Who the fuck does he think he is, dragging Syd into his bullshit? I know he’s out of touch, but shit .

“She’s got some really good ideas,” Coach says, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from very, very far away. Or maybe it’s because I’m already moving, walking, walking away.

The door claps closed behind me as I exit the office.