Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

THIERRY

Gerry got to the arena the next morning, unsure of what was going to happen when Molly walked in during their stretches and practice. He had cookies scheduled to be delivered to her today and thought about picking up a bouquet, bringing it himself, and leaving it in her office, but he didn’t want to be too pushy regarding something so fragile as what was beginning between them. He thought about getting her roses, but that implied something really serious beginning.

It was for him – but he wasn’t sure about her.

She could be awfully prickly sometimes, and that was why he was waiting to see how things went between them. If she showed up and started biting his head off, then he didn’t want to be left standing there looking like some lovesick fool.

If she showed up for work and was the same person he saw last night, the same beautiful woman he enjoyed kissing, then he wanted her to have a little something special that made her think of him – and the cookies were Italian rainbow cookies. He loved those things when Vinny snuck him a few before a game and knew the cherry vanilla taste was divine.

Walking in to the locker room to drop off his stuff – he hesitated. There was a small card in his locker. He quickly glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone noticed or was looking at him before opening it. He saw the feminine handwriting and swallowed as he read the simple note.

I had a nice time – thank you.

Molly

It wasn’t much. It sure wasn’t emotional or mushy, but it meant the world to him. She must have arrived early, slipped in here before some of the guys arrived, to stash it in his locker. The fact that she had done something so unexpected really moved him, and he couldn’t wait for the delivery to arrive now – he couldn’t wait to see her.

Pulling out his phone, he sent a simple text message.

Good morning.

Do you have any plans this weekend?

Gerry nearly giggled in excitement at seeing the three dots appear on his phone screen so quickly, realizing that she must have been waiting to see what he would say or do. He liked that she was excited about them, about starting some sort of relationship with him.

I don’t know – do I have plans?

Yup.

I guess we should talk.

Over dinner?

“Yo, Loverboy,” Coeur interrupted, throwing a towel at his head. “Are you suiting up today, or do y ou need a few moments alone?”

Gotta go – see ya soon!

Tossing his phone in his locker, Gerry yanked his skates out and turned to look at the guys who were watching him – all smiling.

Gloating.

“What?”

“Guess she’s gonna take it easy on us now?”

“No,” Gerry replied, bristling at the idea of them supporting the relationship simply to get off easy on the concentrated routines that she had each of them focusing on. He wasn’t using Molly and sure didn’t want that to get back to her – that would obliterate any fragile relationship that was beginning between them. “That’s not how this works, Bouchard.”

“And how does it work… Loverboy ?”

“Lay off, you two,” Lafreniere came to his defense. “Why don’t you two goobers find something else to do – or better yet, instead of exercising your mouths, apply yourself on the ice.”

“What our physical therapist assigns each of us – is between you and her. We are just talking. It’s not to give you an easier day or for her to go easy on you. It’s because she’s nice.”

“Beetlejuice is nice?”

“Shhh!” Gerry hissed nervously. “I never called her that – you did.”

“It was funny,” Boucher chuckled.

“Tais toi,” Batiste interrupted in French, coming to his defense and telling the other guys to shut up. “You don’t need to start problems for Thierry…”

“Exactly .”

“Just talking, huh?” Coeur grinned – and Gerry turned away to finish getting ready to head toward the rink.

“Yeah, we’re just talking. She’s nice, okay? Maybe she’ll go easy on you now or…” and his voice trailed off in horror as Giroux slapped him hard on the side, knowing deep in his gut that something was wrong. The silence around him was deafening, almost like the room had collectively sucked in their breath – waiting.

“Coach Mike is on the ice, waiting for you,” Molly said, her voice clipped and cool enough to send a chill down his spine.

Gerry’s stomach churned. The fragile connection they’d started to build felt as if it might shatter under the weight of this moment. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Molly was already turning away, leaving him to wonder if he’d just lost her before he ever really had her.

He’d seen the flash of hurt in her eyes. It was fleeting, a mere moment, but it struck him like a physical blow. That look, the one that seemed to say I thought I knew you, made his stomach churn with guilt and panic. He wanted to rush after her, to call her name, to demand how long she’d been standing there, silently watching, absorbing words that weren’t meant for her ears.

Had she misunderstood what was being said? Did she think he had been a part of the careless, cutting remarks? The thought was unbearable. She had to know the truth.

She had to.

Gerry ran a hand through his hair, frustration and self-loathing bubbling just under the surface. He hadn’t made it a secret how things had started between them—tentative, shaky, built on the unsteady foundation of mutual skepticism. But they’d been starting over, hadn’t they? He’d worked hard to show her the real him, the one beneath the bravado and insecurities. They’d spent hours peeling back layers, exposing raw truths, and sharing pieces of themselves.

Just last night, he’d told her about his deepest fears—the doubts that kept him awake at night, the nagging insecurities about his place on the team, his future, and whether he was good enough. She’d listened, her quiet strength and unwavering support anchoring him in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

In return, she had opened up about her dreams—her career aspirations, her family, the life she wanted to build. They’d laughed, shared stories, and forged a bond that had felt almost unbreakable.

Almost.

Now, though, that bond felt fragile, like glass fractured from a sudden blow. Was it shattered completely?

His chest tightened as his angry gaze snapped to Couer and Boucher. They sat frozen, guilt and shock painted clearly on their faces. They looked like a pair of kids caught raiding the cookie jar, but the gravity of the situation made Gerry’s temper flare hotter.

“She heard you,” he ground out, his voice low but brimming with fury.

Neither man answered, but the way their gazes darted to the floor said enough. They knew. They knew, and it was eating them alive.

“She heard you,” Gerry repeated, louder this time. “She heard you mouthing off, calling her names, and implying that I’m using her to go easy on the team. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Thierry, brother, I’m sorry,” Coeur said quietly, his voice laden with regret.

“Dude, I never meant for…” Boucher started, but Gerry cut him off, his voice sharp and unrelenting.

“You’ve never had it rough,” Gerry snapped, the words searing the air like a whip. His anger spi lled over, a volatile mixture of frustration and hurt. “You two have the looks, the brains, the body, and the contracts that we all want—yet you’re a pair of ungrateful nitwits who don’t care about anyone or anything but yourselves.”

Both men sat there in stunned silence, with no defense to offer, and no excuses that could undo the damage.

“She’s helping us,” Gerry continued, his voice softening but losing none of its intensity. “She’s helping Lafreniere, she’s helped me , and she’s doing all of this, giving her best, despite us whining, griping, or snapping back at her for pushing us so hard. And I…” His voice faltered, his throat tightening as he admitted the bitter truth. “I’ve been the worst of it.”

He paused, the weight of his words hanging heavily between them. It hit him then how hateful he’d been, how unfair. And still, despite it all, she’d agreed to dinner. She’d given him a chance. How had he let things spiral so far out of control?

“Things have to change around here,” he said finally, his voice steady, each word like a vow. “We have an image to uphold. It’s not just something for the fans—it’s for us. We need to be better, treat people better, and be the best we can be—not weasel our way out of hard work by insulting someone, calling them names behind their back, or implying something so awful as to say that I’m using her.” His voice dropped to a whisper, the weight of his shame palpable.

Coeur and Boucher exchanged a glance but said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“I’m going to go find Molly and explain,” Gerry muttered, shoving back his chair and rising to his feet.

“Coach is waiting for us on the ice,” Giroux reminded him, laying a hand on his shoulder. His tone was gentle but firm. “And you might want to give her ti me to cool off. I know I would if it was Becca…”

Gerry froze, his fists clenching at his sides. Every fiber of his being screamed to run after her, to make this right. But Giroux had a point. Molly deserved time—time to process, time to breathe, time to decide whether she even wanted to hear him out.

And that thought, more than anything, terrified him.

A few hours later, Gerry was in the weight room, methodically punishing his body as if the strain could somehow ease the turmoil churning in his mind. The metallic clink of weights and the low hum of voices in the background served as a constant reminder of where he was—surrounded by his team, his comrades—but feeling completely isolated.

Sweat dripped down his temple, soaking into his shirt as he powered through another set, jaw clenched tight with the effort. Each rep was a silent battle, not just against the weights but against his frustration—frustration with the situation, his teammates, and, most of all, himself.

He kept one eye on the ice skating simulator, waiting impatiently for Giroux to finish up so he could throw himself into something even more punishing. The other eye, however, was drawn elsewhere. No matter how much he tried to focus, his gaze kept drifting to Molly.

She was across the room, seated on the mats, stretching with Lafreniere. Her movements were fluid, purposeful, every action deliberate and precise. She wasn’t just stretching; she was demonstrating, teaching, guiding, with an energy that commanded attention.

She was grace personified.

Every tilt of her body, every extension of her limbs, spoke of strength, discipline, and a quiet inten sity that Gerry couldn’t look away from. Her ponytail swayed slightly as she shifted positions, and he felt a pang of guilt pierce through the haze of his frustration. Strong. Determined. Professional. And here he was, stealing glances like some lovesick teenager while she carried on without a clue of the turmoil he was in.

“Like this,” she said, her voice clear and instructive as she demonstrated a stretch for Lafreniere. She extended one leg forward, her movements so precise it was like watching a dancer in slow motion. Then, with a fluid rotation, she raised her leg to the side, letting her hip pivot naturally. “Rock in slow, controlled movements to get that tendon and ball socket to stay moving, lubricated, and stretched. If you don’t stretch properly after practice or a game, you’ll stiffen up.”

Gerry couldn’t help but anticipate a cocky remark from Lafreniere—it would’ve been just like him to insist that he did stretch, like all of them did. But Molly’s presence seemed to command a different kind of respect. She wasn’t just showing them the motions; she was showing them the purpose behind the motions. Her focus, her precision—it was a lesson in itself.

It wasn’t just about doing the movements. It was about intention, effort, and control.

Just like her.

Gerry shifted his grip on the weights, staring down at the barbell with a grimace. Molly wasn’t the type of person who would be swayed by empty gestures or hollow words. She wouldn’t give her heart to someone who didn’t earn it. Flowers or pretty words wouldn’t cut it. She needed meaning behind the actions. She needed to see the thought, the care, the effort someone was willing to put in—not just for her, but with her.

That was why he’d chosen the Italian cookies after their date last night. It hadn’t been random; it had been intentional. A small gesture, maybe, but o ne he’d hoped would show her he was paying attention, that he cared enough to notice the little things.

Now, watching her move with such quiet grace, his chest tightened. He wasn’t sure if it would be enough. The fragile connection they’d begun to build was hanging by a thread after the mess with his teammates’ big mouths. He wasn’t sure if it could withstand the damage, but he knew one thing with absolute certainty: if it wasn’t over, if he still had a chance, he’d do whatever it took to fix it.

He owed her that much.