Page 24 of The Dating Coach (Hearts on Ice #4)

The hit came from my blind side in the third period, Kowalski's shoulder driving into my ribs with enough force to send me sprawling across the ice.

Stars exploded across my vision as I hit the boards, the crowd's roar becoming a distant buzz.

For a moment, I couldn't breathe, couldn't think beyond the searing pain radiating from my left side.

"Dirty fucking hit," Tyler spat as I finally made it to the bench, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through my torso. "Refs didn't even call it."

"They haven't called anything all night," I managed through gritted teeth, trying not to show how much it hurt to simply exist.

My father sat among them like a king holding court, his disapproval radiating across the arena. He'd made his feelings about my "distractions" clear in his latest email, a masterpiece of passive-aggressive disappointment about my "lack of focus" and "misplaced priorities."

"Delacroix, you good?" Coach Jack leaned over, concern creasing his weathered face.

"I'm fine," I lied, tasting blood in my mouth.

Everything hurt – ribs, shoulder, pride – but I could see her in the stands.

Gemma sat with Mia and Karen, wearing my jersey, her face tight with worry every time I took a hit.

The thought of her watching, of disappointing her by not finishing the game, hurt worse than any check.

"You're up," Coach called, and I vaulted over the boards before he could change his mind.

The ice felt different under my skates – less stable, more treacherous. But hockey had been my refuge for twenty one years, the one place where my body knew what to do without conscious thought. Even through the pain, muscle memory took over.

The puck dropped, and I won the faceoff cleanly, sending it back to Gabe. We cycled in their zone, patient despite the clock ticking down. My ribs screamed with every turn, every stop, but I gritted my teeth and focused on the play developing in front of me.

Then I saw it – a gap in their defense, their left winger cheating too far up ice.

I called for the puck, accepting Gabe's pass and wheeling behind their net.

Kowalski came charging, looking for another crushing hit, but I'd learned his patterns.

At the last second, I spun away, leaving him to crash harmlessly into the boards.

The goalie had committed to the pass I'd faked to Frank. Top shelf, glove side – a shot I'd practiced ten thousand times. The red light flashed, the crowd erupted, and suddenly we were up 3-2 with ninety seconds left.

My teammates mobbed me, but all I could think about was not vomiting in my helmet from the pain. Henry must have noticed because he subtly supported me as we made our way to the bench.

"That was fucking beautiful," he murmured. "Now sit your injured ass down and let us close this out."

The final ninety seconds crawled by. Michigan State pulled their goalie, desperate for the equalizer. Bodies crashed and collided, sticks slashed, everything on the line. When the final buzzer sounded, I allowed myself one moment of relief before the medical reality set in.

Something was definitely wrong with my ribs.

In the handshake line, Kowalski sneered at me. "Lucky shot, pretty boy. Next time you won't get up."

"Scoreboard," I replied, squeezing his hand harder than necessary and enjoying his wince. "And there won't be a next time. We'll be in the playoffs while you're watching from your couch."

The locker room celebration felt distant, muffled by the pain radiating through my torso. I sat in my stall, gingerly removing gear and trying not to wince visibly. The adrenaline was fading fast, leaving behind a deep, throbbing ache that made breathing difficult.

"Jesus," Henry whistled, looking at my torso. Bruises were already blooming across my ribs, purple and angry. "You need the trainer."

"After," I said, nodding toward the door where I could hear voices gathering. "Scouts incoming."

The parade began as expected. Providence's scout entered first, all false concern and calculated interest. "Hell of a game, Delacroix. That hit looked rough – you okay?"

"Fine," I said automatically. "Part of the game."

"Good to hear. Love seeing that toughness, that dedication." His eyes glinted. "Though I have to wonder if you'd have taken that hit six months ago. Seems like you're playing with more... edge lately."

The implication was clear – was my "edge" because I was focused on hockey or because I had something to prove?

Before I could respond, more scouts filed in, each with their own version of the same questions.

Detroit wondered about my "commitment level.

" Colorado mentioned hearing about "outside interests" affecting my training schedule.

My father entered last, the scouts parting for him like courtiers. His presence filled the room, commanding and cold.

"Good game," he said, which from Victor Delacroix was practically a parade. "You showed them what happens when you eliminate distractions and focus on what matters."

"I played hockey," I said evenly. "Same as always."

"No," he corrected, voice sharp. "Tonight you played like someone who remembers his priorities. The scouts noticed. Providence is prepared to make a significant offer, but they need assurance that you're fully committed."

"To hockey?" I kept my voice neutral despite the fire building in my chest.

"To excellence. To the path we've built toward your entire life." His eyes hardened. "Not to architecture portfolios and complicated women who pull your focus."

I stood slowly, ignoring the protest from my ribs. At full height, I could look him in the eye – something that had taken me twenty-one years to manage.

"What if I told you those 'distractions' are the reason I can play through pain? That the woman you dismiss is why I want to win – not for scouts or contracts, but because she believes I'm more than just hockey statistics?"

His jaw tightened. "Then I'd remind you that emotions are temporary. Careers are built on sacrifice. Your grandfather—"

"Liam?" Gemma's voice cut through his lecture like sunshine through storm clouds. She stood in the doorway, concern radiating from every line of her body. "Sorry to interrupt. Mia saw that hit and she's worried sick."

"I'm fine," I said, but she was already moving closer, her med student instincts taking over.

"You're not fine," she said flatly, eyes cataloging every visible injury.

"You're favoring your left side, your breathing is shallow, and you're gripping the wall for support.

" She turned to my father with polite steel in her voice.

"Mr. Delacroix, I'm Gemma Spears. I'd shake your hand, but I need to get your son to the trainer before he does something stupidly heroic like pretend broken ribs are just a bruise. "

My father stared at her – this small, fierce woman who'd interrupted his grand moment to fuss over his son. "You're the swimmer."

"Pre-med student, actually," she corrected. "Swimming just pays for school. Kind of like how hockey is supposed to pay for Liam's education, not define his entire existence."

The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Henry coughed something that might have been a laugh.

"Did you know," Gemma continued conversationally, "that repeated rib injuries can lead to chronic pain and respiratory issues? Probably not ideal for someone with professional sports aspirations. Or architectural dreams, for that matter. Hard to draft blueprints if you can't breathe properly."

"You told her about the applications?" My father's voice went dangerously quiet.

"I told her everything," I said simply. "Because unlike some people, she actually listens when I talk about my dreams."

"Your dreams?" He laughed, harsh and dismissive. "You want to throw away guaranteed millions to play with building blocks?"

"I want to build something that lasts longer than a career-ending injury," I shot back. "I want to wake up at forty without CTE, able to remember my children's names. I want—"

"What you want," he interrupted, "is to follow this girl around like a puppy, letting emotion override twenty years of preparation."

"Okay, that's enough." Gemma stepped between us, small but immovable. "Liam, we're leaving. You need medical attention. Mr. Delacroix, with all due respect, your son just played through obvious pain to win a crucial game. Maybe try 'good job' instead of berating his life choices."

She took my hand, tugging gently. "Also? That hit was late and dirty. If you really cared about your son's wellbeing, you'd be filing a complaint instead of lecturing him about architecture applications he submitted months ago."

“Architecture,” the word came out like a curse.

“Yes—architecture, not hockey,” I confirmed.

"We'll discuss this later," he said, ice in every syllable.

"No," I said, surprising us both. "We won't. I'm done discussing. I'm done pretending hockey is my only option. I'm done letting you live through me." I squeezed Gemma's hand. "I'm just done."

We left him standing there amid hockey gear and shattered expectations.

In the training room, Gemma hovered while the trainer examined my ribs – bruised, not broken, though it didn't feel like much difference.

"You didn't have to do that," I said as ice packs were applied. "Confront him like that."

"Someone needed to." She perched on the edge of the training table, close enough that I could smell her shampoo. "He was being a bully, and I don't like bullies. Especially ones who hurt people I—" She stopped, color rising in her cheeks.

"People you what?" I prompted, probably more eagerly than was dignified.

"People I care about," she finished softly. "A lot. Maybe more than I should."

The trainer finished his work and discreetly left us alone. The silence stretched, heavy with things unsaid over weeks of tutoring and family crises and careful boundaries.

"Gemma," I started, but she pressed a finger to my lips.

"You're hurt and high on adrenaline," she said. "This isn't the time."

"When is?" I caught her hand, keeping it against my face. "We keep waiting for perfect timing that doesn't exist. Maybe we should just—"

She kissed me. Not gentle or questioning, but certain and claiming. My ribs protested as I pulled her closer, but I didn't care. She tasted like possibility and home and everything I'd been afraid to want.

"Stop talking," she murmured against my lips. "For once in your life, just stop talking."

So I did. I stopped talking and started showing her everything words couldn't capture. The months of want, the careful distance we'd maintained, the way she'd become essential to my existence – it all poured into that kiss until we were both breathless.

"Your ribs," she gasped, pulling back.

"Worth it," I assured her, then proved it by kissing her again.

When we finally made it to the parking lot, my father's car was gone.

Good. I had more important things to focus on – like how Gemma's hand fit in mine, how Mia hugged me carefully but fiercely, and how Karen declared, "About fucking time you stood up to your father," with her characteristic subtlety.

Back at the hockey house, Gemma fussed over me, helping me settle on my bed and adjusting pillows and ice packs with medical precision. "You should rest. Doctor's orders."

"You're not a doctor yet," I pointed out, catching her hand before she could retreat.

"Close enough." But she let me tug her down beside me, careful of my injuries. "That was stupid, you know. Playing through that kind of pain."

"You were watching," I said simply. "I couldn't quit with you watching."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," she said, but her eyes were soft. "Also possibly the sweetest."

"I'm excellent at dumb but sweet," I agreed, then groaned as shifting sent fresh pain through my ribs.

"Okay, that's it. Sleep. Heal. We can talk tomorrow."

"Will you stay?" The question came out more vulnerable than intended. "Not for... I just sleep better when you're here."

She hesitated, and I could see her internal battle – the careful boundaries we'd maintained for months warring with the shift that had just occurred. Finally, she kicked off her shoes and curled carefully against my uninjured side.

"Just sleeping," she warned. "You're injured and I have an early practice."

"Just sleeping," I agreed, already drowsy from painkillers and the rightness of her weight against me.