8. Emile

EMILE

Me: Can I see you tonight? Tell me to slow down if you need to, but I can't stop thinking about how badly I want to finish what we started last night.

Sara: You want to make me cream my panties? (shocked emoji)

Me: Maybe… (devil emoji)

Sara: Tempting and also not too fast. I'm ready to explore my firsts with you. But can I take a rain check? I have my first shift at your sister's restaurant tonight.

Me: I'm not sure I can go a whole day without seeing you. How about I pick you up when I'm done training and we can have a late lunch? I'll make sure you're ready with plenty of time to be ready for the dinner service.

Sara: You really can't get enough of me, huh? (winking emoji) Fine. Late lunch it is. Just don't make me late for DuPont's. I really want to make a good first impression on your sister.

Me: She's gonna think you're great. But I'll have you there on time. Promise. See you at 2?

Sara: Deal. See you then (love heart emoji)

I chuckle at her messages, the smile lingering on my lips as I put my phone away.

"DuPont!" The coach walks into the locker room as I pull out my mouth guard.

"Yes, Coach?" I straighten up, hoping he didn't catch the dopey grin on my face from texting Sara.

His eyes narrow at me and his mouth presses into a thin line. "I need to talk to you, son. In private."

I nod, a knot forming in my stomach. The way he said ‘son' felt less like a term of endearment and more like a prelude to a lecture. I make sure the blades of my already laced skates are securely covered then follow him into his office, where the walls are lined with framed photos of his past victories. He gestures for me to take a seat.

"What's on your mind, Coach?" I ask, settling into the stiff leather chair that squeaks under my weight.

Coach Belanger stands tall behind his mahogany desk. For a man in his late forties who hasn't played hockey himself for almost a decade, he still cuts an imposing figure with his slightly grayed brown hair, and piercing blue eyes that are currently locked onto mine. I fight the urge to shift uncomfortably.

"Emile," he begins. "I need to ask you why I found this in my house." He leans down and pulls a jersey out of his drawer. My jersey. Well, the one that Natalie gave to Sara that has my number on it.

"Uhhh," I start, not sure how to explain how Sara ended up with it without making things sound like a high school drama. The last thing I want is to jeopardize my position on the team—or worse, my budding relationship with Sara—because of a misunderstanding.

"Coach, it's not what you think," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Sara borrowed it from my sister during our last game. Natalie had a spare, and Sara said wanted to show her support for the team, that's all."

His lips curl into a frown, and he leans back, eyes narrowing further as he processes my words. "Support for the team or support for you, Emile?"

I swallow hard. "Both," I admit, the truth slipping out before I can stop it.

Coach Belanger's frown deepens, the lines on his forehead furrowing even more. He sits down and taps his fingers rhythmically on his desk as he fixes me with a stern look. "I don't know what's going on between you and my daughter, but it needs to stop. Now."

My stomach drops. "Coach?—"

"Don't start me, kid. I'm not in the mood. You've got a promising career ahead of you, so I'm telling you, as your coach and as Sara's father, to stay away from her. You're here to play hockey, not to date my daughter."

I clench my jaw, frustration brewing. "With all due respect, sir, my personal life is none of your business."

"It is when it affects the team," Coach snaps. "You're a rookie, Emile. You've barely got your dick wet in this life, and I will not sit back and watch my daughter get hurt when your ego takes over and you're fucking everything with two legs and a pretty face."

His words hit me like a slap. I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm.

"I understand your concern, Coach, but I'm not that kind of guy. I'm in love with your daughter, and…I can't walk away from that."

My declaration seems to echo in the silence of the office, causing Coach Belanger to give me a stern, contemplative look. After a long pause, he leans back in his chair with a sigh.

"I'm going to pretend like I didn't just hear that," he finally says, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he's fighting off a massive headache. "You're excused, Emile."

"No." I shake my head, indignation tightening my chest. "You can't just dismiss this. Sara and I... we're both adults. We can make our own decisions. And what we want is each other."

Coach Belanger stands up, his eyes blazing with protective fire. "You're right. You're adults. But if you can't separate your personal life from your professional commitments, then maybe you shouldn't be playing for this team."

I open my mouth to argue, to call him a hypocrite, but he silences me when he barks, "Now, get on the ice before I bench you for the rest of the season, rookie!"

Feeling like I've just been sucker punched in the gut, I rise from the chair, clenching my fists to stop them from shaking as I leave his office. The cold air of the rink hits me like a wall, but it's a welcome distraction from the heat boiling inside me. I need to focus, to channel this frustration into my performance.

The moment I step onto the ice, the familiar glide of my skates soothes the sharp edges of my anger. But it doesn't erase the image of Coach Belanger's furious face or the sinking feeling in my gut when he ordered me to stay away from Sara.

I push off hard, the ice scraping beneath my blades as I join the rest of the team for drills, speeding around the rink like a man possessed. Each stride is a release of pent-up energy, my muscles burning with the need to prove myself. The sound of skates carving into ice and sticks clashing melds into a cacophony around me, but all I can picture is Sara's soft smile and those expressive dark eyes.

"DuPont, focus!" Coach Belanger's voice cuts through the haze, irritating me further. With a grunt, I nod sharply and grip my stick tighter, trying to shove all thoughts of Sara and where we go from here into a compartment somewhere deep.

Luc skates over, his easy grin shifting into a furrow of concern when I don't return his smile. "Everything OK, Emile?"

"I'm fine. Coach is just riding me, is all."

Luc gives me an understanding nod, but doesn't push further. Instead, he claps me on the back. "Then let's show him what we've got today."

We line up for the scrimmage, and I focus on the puck drop, my eyes locking on the rubber disc as if it's the only thing anchoring me to reality. Coach blows the whistle, and the puck hits the ice with a crisp slap. I surge forward, my muscles firing on instinct.

The speed and intensity of the scrimmage is just what I need, a perfect storm to channel my frustration. My breath comes in sharp bursts as I maneuver around players, my eyes locked on Luc, who's skating toward the net. He's always a step ahead, reading the play like it's written out for him.

I see the opening, a narrow window to thread the puck through. My heart pounds as I react fast and launch it…with far too much power. Fuck.

Luc moves to intercept as the puck rockets toward him. The moment he realizes my puck is wild, he tries to adjust his position, but it's too late. The puck strikes the side of his knee and he crumples to the ice, the crack of his helmet echoing through the rink.

The scrimmage halts abruptly, and I'm skidding to a halt next to Luc before my mind can process what's happened. The stadium lights glare down at us, making everything feel hyper-real.

"Luc! Are you all right?" My voice comes out in a rush.

Luc groans, pushing himself up with one arm. "Fuck me. That felt like I got hit by a freight train," he mutters, wincing as he tests his knee.

"I'm so sorry."

Coach Belanger descends upon us, taking one long, hard look at Luc before turning to me.

"DuPont! What the hell was that?"

I swallow hard, the burn of shame rising in my throat. "I didn't mean to?—"

"Didn't mean to? You just took out the fucking captain of the team! You're supposed to be paying attention fucking out there!"

"I know. It won't happen again."

He shakes his head before calling out to get the medic. Luc is still grimacing, but he waves a hand dismissively. "I'm fine, Coach. Just a fall. I'll get back up in no time." His voice is strained, and the medic is already hurrying over with his kit.

Coach turns back to me, his face still stern. "Emile, go cool off on the bench."

The words hit me like a slap, and I nod, feeling the weight of my mistake settle deep into my gut. Luc's eyes meet mine for a second, and he gives me a tight nod, a silent reassurance that he's not holding it against me. But Coach's order is clear—I'm off the ice.

I skate over to the bench and strip off my gloves and helmet before I slump onto the wooden seat, burying my face in my hands. What a way to screw things up, Emile.

"Bad day, huh?" I glance up to find Calvin sitting at the far end of the bench, his grizzled face etched with a mix of sympathy and understanding.

"It's not even noon, and I've already managed to take out our captain," I mutter, resting my elbows against my knees as I lean forward.

"Yeah. Tough break with Luc," he says, nodding to where another member of the medical team is now bringing a stretcher onto the ice. "What'd he do? Hurt your sister, or somethin'? They're engaged, right?"

I look at Calvin, the faintest hint of a wry smile crossing my lips despite myself. "Yeah. They are. But no, nothing like that. Luc and I get along fine. Just a bad pass, I guess."

Calvin leans back. "No one really likes sittin' here on the bench. But when you've spent as much time here as I have of late, you start to notice things. Like…the difference between a bad pass, and a young hockey player with an axe to grind taking that energy out on the puck."

I narrow my eyes at Calvin, but I recognize the truth in his words. "You think I'm out here hacking away because of something other than hockey?"

Calvin shrugs, tapping his fingers absently on the backrest of the bench. "Wouldn't take a genius to draw that conclusion."

I let out a long sigh, leaning my head back and staring at the rafters of the arena. "Yeah, maybe you're right." The image of Sara's face flashes in my mind. I can't get her out of my head, and there's no way in hell I'm letting Coach warn me away from her. She's mine.

Calvin shoots me an arched eyebrow. "So, what's the deal, rookie? Girl problems?"

I nod, chewing on the inside of my cheek. "You could call it that. But it's not the girl who's the problem. It's her dad."

"Isn't it always? I swear, I had more run-ins with my ex-father-in-law than I did with my own wife when we were married. Never could respect the way I earned a livin'…" He lets out a bemused sigh, shaking his head before he turns back to me. "Way I see it, you've got two choices. Either let it mess with your game, or find a way to handle it like a pro."

I glance at him. "And what would you suggest, oh wise one?"

Calvin chuckles, leaning in closer. "Oh, I don't know about wise. But if I were you, I'd be thinking about how to show Belanger that you're serious—about the game and the girl. Show him you can handle both without letting either one suffer. Treat both with the priority they deserve."

I nod slowly, considering his advice before I pull my head back and lock eyes with him. "Wait. Who said Coach had anything to do with it?"

Calvin smirks, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. "Oh, come on, Emile. You think the guys don't talk? You think our friends and family in the VIP seats don't as well? Everyone saw the coach's daughter wearing your number during the last game. Next thing, Coach calls you into his office and chews you out. Then you come onto the ice like a bull in a china shop being forced to tip-toe around. The math is mathing here. Especially since everyone knows Coach Belanger is more protective of his daughter than a goalie guarding the net in a last-minute power play."

"I... yeah, OK. You got me." I run a hand through my hair, feeling the back of my neck heat up. "But it's not just about the jersey, man. It's about... everything. I'm falling for her. Big time. Like, I feel connected, you know? But the way Coach is talking..."

Calvin's smirk softens into something more akin to sympathy. "Yeah, I get it. Coach is a tough nut to crack, but he wouldn't be if he didn't care. So you gotta be smart about it. Play it cool, stay honest with your girl and keep your head in the game. The rest will work itself out."