From Coaching Prince Charming

NATE

(An Unedited Preview)

Dull, throbbing pain in my left collarbone made me roll my eyes. Would it ever stop? It had been over two months since the goddamn accident, as everyone kept calling it. Accident. As if I would be clumsy enough to slam myself against the boards and break my collarbone. As if the collision had been some unpredictable act of fate. As if it hadn't had all the marking of foul play.

I clenched my teeth and shut the office door. Anger was rising from my stomach like acid, searing everything it licked.

Taking deep breaths, I counted to ten, but the higher the number got, the more agitated I was at the fact I even had to count. Stupid exercise, I thought, feeling like a sullen teenager all over again. I hadn't been one in nearly twenty years. Getting your life ripped apart will do that to you.

The silence filled the small office. Yesterday, I had brought in the trophies and accolades when the assistant coaches eagerly suggested it. They cluttered the clean, white shelves of my new office. A framed photo of my old team on the eve of our last national championship semi-finals hung on the wall to the left of my desk. To the right, a filing cabinet occupied the space uselessly, as if all of its contents hadn't been digitized a decade ago.

My predecessor hadn't been interested in interior design any more than I was. After retiring — in his proper time, I might add — old Coach Murray took away the few personal belongings from this office and left not a single proof he'd spent his life in here. I intended to do the same.

And soon, if there was any luck in the world.

Great job, Nathan, I thought as I sat into my chair. It was an old thing, worn out by my predecessor, never replaced. The springs poking my ass didn't bother me. I didn't plan to stick for too long. First day on the job, and you're already planning to leave.

I couldn't stop myself from shaking my head. I'd had way too much time to think in the last two months. The only problem was I wasn't much of a thinker. A career in philosophy had never been on my radar. All my life, I had been good at one thing and one thing alone. Hockey. But fate was cruel to me, taking that life away in the blink of an eye.

My fingers drummed against the nearly empty surface of the desk. One computer screen, a notebook, and a handful of scattered pens decorated it. And a framed photo of my ex-sister-in-law and her son, Beckett; my runaway brother's abandoned family and the only treasure in my life.

The drumming intensified. I couldn't keep my fingers still if my life depended on it. Even when the tips began to hurt, I kept tapping the desk. Harder. Harder until my heart was hammering in my chest with the perpetual anger that wouldn't go away. Harder until someone knocked on my door.

"Come in," I barked.

Harvey, a thirty-something-year-old assistant coach with a head of shaggy black hair and piercing green eyes, opened the door. "We're ready for you, Coach," he said in an all-business tone. It was an improvement. A week ago, he had barely managed to speak to me without stammering and looking at me with such wide eyes that I half believed I'd grown a pair of horns.

That was the curse of being one of the best-known hockey wingers in the country. Or, possibly worse, one of the infamous cases of a player in his prime losing everything to an accident.

I held my breath, my heart pounding without a rhythm, as my nerves worked to twist my guts. You were once the nation's darling, Nathan, I snapped at myself. You're not afraid of a bunch of teenage pups who want to chase a puck for a couple of hours. But things weren't so simple. These weren't just any teenage pups. These were the Arctic Titans. This team had filled the ranks of the NHL for years, and the responsibility for forging the raw talent and potential into greatness was now mine. Mine because of a string of unexpected bumps in several roads.

I'm not supposed to be here, I thought with a suppressed sigh. "Get the boys out on the ice," I said in a gruff voice.

Harvey opened his mouth in surprise, then cleared his throat. "They're out. We're waiting for you, Coach."

I shot him a frustrated glare, but my annoyance was with me, not Harvey. The guy was doing his job. And he was doing it better than I could hope to do mine. So I nodded. "I'll be right there."

In the weeks of preparation, I had kept myself away from the ice. I inspected the locker rooms, the hallways, the rink's exterior, a break room for the staff, and my office. In fact, I hadn't stepped on the ice since the evening a freak crash against the boards had ended my career.

Were I a younger man, there might have been a chance for a few more good years, but at thirty-eight, more and more people believed my retirement was long overdue. "He's lost his edge," they said. "And this just goes to prove it." I'd had no choice but to bow out, whether I liked it or not.

Drawing a deep breath, I pushed my chair away from the desk. These were the times when I wished we still kept bottles of whiskey in our desk drawers like some stock broker in the nineteen-fifties. I could use a drink to steady my nerves.

What it was that sent shivers down my arms, I didn't know. A bunch of players with high hopes and brilliant futures still ahead of them? Or the ice I had spent my best years skating on? Or the obvious mistake of accepting a job I didn't know how to do? Perhaps the answer was a little bit of everything.

I stood up like a soldier and marked after Harvey. We went down the hall and into the vast arena that was practically empty. The bright lights in the rink were a stark contrast to the hallway that had led us there, so I blinked twice before taking in the sight. The Titans, lined up in full gear, clacked their sticks against the smooth surface of the ice and hooted and cheered when I stepped out with a small procession of assistant coaches.

The Titans greeted me with admiration I no longer deserved. I wasn't the star winger. I was just a college coach, doing the job for the sake of keeping my sanity and waiting for this year to expire and the real coach to take over. Someone would come. Someone who knew what he was doing.

My muscles tensed as I looked around. Even the assistant coaches applauded and smiles decorated their faces. Three of them flanked me, there to ensure the job was done the right way. In fact, all I had to do was make the calls these experienced people put forward. I had to be the face of Northwood and its Titans.

"Thank you," I said lamely, my throat dry. "Thanks."

The cheers and clacking subsided. The boys were lined by seniority within the team, starting with my nephew, Beckett, who had been selected as the captain a year earlier. His right-hand guy and boyfriend, Caden Jones, stood tall next to him. I didn't recognize a few of them except from seeing them play around nine months earlier, and a couple were brand new. The new guys had been accepted on a hockey scholarship at Northwood when old Coach Murray was leaving, and another guy was officially taking over. The decisions had happened before my time.

I'd read their files, however, so I knew that one of the two was Carter Prince. Encountering his name on my computer screen had given me a bit of a shock. In fact, it made me feel old. As old as the fact that my nephew was a senior this year.

Carter Prince was my old buddy's son. Now, with helmets on, I was struggling to distinguish him between the two boys at the end of the line. But it felt like it was only yesterday that I had piggybacked him around Dana's backyard while my old friend worked the grill. We'd been young men back then, our careers still far ahead, our futures bright.

"Coach?" Harvey whispered.

I didn't realize my ears had been ringing until Harvey's voice reached me, and the buzzing faded. I cleared my throat and inspected the line again. Beckett wore a smirk I knew well. A few of the boys looked at me like soldiers looked at their general, and the last few were as wide-eyed as if Elvis had entered the building.

"I didn't expect such a warm welcome," I said, pitching my voice a little higher. "Ah…I'm Nate Partridge. Coach Partridge, I suppose." Or just Nate, I thought wistfully. Partridge was someone the world recognized, and that was no longer me.

"Here, here," Beckett called, and the rest cheered. He beamed with pride that made my stomach feel hollow. I could have strangled that boy.

I bared my teeth by instinct, forcing a polite smile on my face. "Thank you." Licking my lips, I turned to Harvey. "The drills?"

Harvey murmured a few sentences to remind me of today's agenda. I knew it. I'd devised it. And yet, my mind was coming up blank until Harvey whispered it to me.

I nodded my gratitude and looked at the boys again. Finding some sense of determination in myself, I steeled my voice and put my hands on my hips. "Alright, guys. I know you all had a long summer of growing soft around the edges. It's time to hammer you back to the boys who'd won two Frozen Fours in two years. And in order to do that, I need to assess each and every one of you. Consider this week your second trial. Show me what you're good at, but don't shy away from revealing what you're terrible at. I want to see where the flaws are." You're doing fine, I told myself as a shudder passed through my chest. Briefly, I outlined the drills I wanted to see today. Simple offensive and defensive moves all of them had to perform.

When I was done, I crossed my arms on my broad chest and watched the boys scatter around. All but two had gone through these drills as a team before, at least once, so I could trust them to know what to do. Even so, when my nephew began dictating the opening positions just as Harvey was starting to speak, I needed to get involved.

"Partridge," I called. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you will allow Coach Harvey to lead the way for now."

Beckett frowned at me with clear surprise on his face, his lips pursing into something dangerously close to a pout. "But this is how we always…"

"I don't want to hear it," I growled. "You'll let us do our jobs, or you'll watch the drills from here."

Beckett hesitated, almost as if he was stunned. "Yes, Sir," he said carefully, possibly after seeing the cold look of determination in my eyes.

That boy had pulled me from the brink of collapse this summer. I had been flirting with the idea of rushing into obscurity and drinking myself into numbness. Had it not been for him and Caden Jones, I would have been drunk already, I feared. But that was personal. Here, Coach Partridge and Captain Partridge were just that; the coach and the captain.

Harvey took over while I observed, and the drills kicked off. Beckett was a fine player if a little rash, and his boyfriend's smooth style on the ice complemented him very well. The two had already formed a way of cooperating that almost included a language only they spoke. Assisted by a quick, fierce young man, the trio was as close to a dream team as they could get.

"Avery Collins," said Margot, the second assistant coach on my team. "He's been on the rise for some time."

I nodded. I had noticed Collins out there when I had last watched the Titans play. That night still lived in my memory so vividly. In the closing minutes of the game, the Titans had scored their winning point, and erupted in such celebratory cheers that we all nearly missed the moment when Beckett skated across the rink and kissed Caden publicly for the very first time. It was the night he came out to me, fearing that I would think less of him because… I didn't know why. If anything, I admired him more for his bravery.

My throat tightened, but I narrowed my eyes and appeared absorbed in the drills.

Their goalie, Sawyer Price, was surprisingly small compared to some of his teammates, but he was quick and tricky, seemingly popping up wherever he was needed.

The big guy, Jordan Mitchell, was someone I knew from Beckett's childhood. The two boys had grown up as close friends, and in the days I spent around Beckett, I had noticed the steady and calm presence that Jordan had radiated even in his boyhood. When it was Jordan's turn, I realized that the steadiness had never left him. He was a tank-like force on the ice, but with precision and the sort of determination ocean waves had when chiseling the cliffs.

Ron Rigby came in to swap with Sawyer Price as the goalie. He was bigger despite being three years younger, but he was also more predictable. I saw room for improvement, especially if paired with Beckett's trio. The kid would have to keep losing in the drills until he recognized his weaknesses and worked out a way to predict the opponents' next moves.

Then came Carter Prince. The boy was built like a hockey player thanks to the years of practice and conditioning that came with being the son of hockey royalty. In full gear, he was a formidable force. There were bigger guys around him, of course, but Prince appeared ready to face any of them. Playing defense, he showed a great deal of potential. I often wondered if something like that was hereditary or if the kids had a choice.

I made notes for the players as they swapped through various combinations. The things that had been established with my predecessor were working well even today, but I wondered if a year of these tactics was long enough for their opponents to regroup and band against. You could only bait-and-switch so many times on the ice.

Two hours later, I thanked the Titans for their dedication and reminded them that in order to have a shot at greatness, their training didn't stop once they left the rink. Every ounce of alcohol they drank gave their rivals a razor's width of advantage, every gym session they missed pulled them further back. Privately, I reminded myself that these were college students who couldn't — and shouldn't; life was short enough already — be stopped or even persuaded that I was telling the truth. But a firm hand was necessary to keep them in line. A few of them might even outshine their coaches and fathers and such.

It wasn't until I was done debriefing with the assistant coaches that I sank into my worn-out chair and felt the tension leave my muscles. The door of my office was left open and small groups of guys were passing by on their way out. They all paused long enough to greet me or tell me they had long been my fans. It wasn't rational, but anger rarely was, to feel this annoyance with them for reminding me of the person I no longer was.

I wasn't sure who I was now. Who I was becoming. But that hockey star with hoards of fans had died on the ice the night I was slammed against the boards.

Absently, I rubbed the place where my collarbone had been broken. The memory of the sharp pain was vivid enough to put me back into the hospital bed.

The young man with honey-brown hair and warm brown eyes that seemed to always hold a spark of mischief paused at my door, murmuring something to his friend, who proceeded to leave. The smile that stretched across his face punched dimples on each side of his youthful face. "Coach Partridge?" he called, lifting one arm above his head and leaning against the doorframe. He had his duffel hanging from the other shoulder. The late August weather was so warm that I couldn't blame the kid for wearing a sleeveless T-shirt with long cutouts for shoulders and arms, baring the sides of his ribcage, and knee-length cargo shorts with flappy pockets. The summer tan on his face, arms, and legs was from the month spent in the Dominican Republic, which was my old friend's favorite kind of vacation. Dana Prince didn't go for new adventures once he found a thing he liked.

"Carter," I said.

The young man lifted his eyebrows playfully. "I was wondering if you'd recognize me."

I clicked around the screen for a moment, then turned it around. "I do have your file here."

"Not that photo," Carter cried in protest.

Quirking up one corner of my lips, I pulled the screen back. It was his yearbook's image, and Carter looked like a preppy kid headed for the Icy League. White shirt buttoned all the way, a dark blue blazer with a red seam, and a tie with inverted colors to match it, his hair styled neatly for the photo day unlike the post-shower mess he wore now, and a smug smile with the same mischivous look in his eyes. "It looks good," I assured him. Crossing my arms on my chest, I looked into his big brown eyes. "What can I do for you?"

Carter Prince lifted a finger. "If you have the authority to update the photo, I'd start there."

I shook my head regretfully. The truth was, I had no idea what my authority was beyond parroting what more skilled coaches like Margot and Harvey told me.

"Oh, well." Carter pulled his shoulders high into a mock-shrug, the T-shirts bottom edge dragging up above the low-hanging waist of his shorts and an inch-wide stip of his underwear. "I just wanted to say how happy I am that you're coaching."

"Truly?" I asked, my voice flat but not unkind. I didn't want pity from a guy half my age who had all the glory of hockey still ahead of him.

I wondered what Dana felt like these days. We hadn't had any serious conversations about retirement. He'd left the NHL four years ago. Even though he was a year older than me, the math suggested my retirement was still overdue. Dana had been facing similar questions about his performance, future, and longevity in the ranks of the NHL for a little while before announcing he would leave.

Was he looking at his son with the same sliver of envy? Or was I just a particularly shitty human?

"Truly," Carter said. He grinned, his teeth all a pearly perfection. "I don't know if I could have hoped for a better coach."

Neither of us knows if I'm even a passable coach, I thought. Shitty human or not, I wasn't about to unload this baggage on an innocent kid, no matter how much his easy smile was friendly and how loudly it was inviting me to open up. "That's kind of you." Even after I'd said the polite thing, Carter Prince was looking at me. Waiting. "How's Dana? I haven't heard from him in a while."

Carter flashed me another grin. "Dad's good. He was surprised when they announced you as much as I was. He said he didn't forget about the five bucks you lent him in nineteen-ninety-eight."

I threw my head back and laughed despite all the reasons not to. "Jeez. Way to make a guy feel old."

Carter was all cocky satisfaction. "He said it, not me."

"What's that adjusted for inflation, then?" I asked.

He blew out a breath of air. "Do you really think, if I was any good at math, that Dad wouldn't have pushed me to study astrophysics instead?"

Our gazes met, and Carter must have noticed sympathy in my look. It was uncontrolled. Dana was a great guy, but he could be demanding. And, much like vacationing in one place his entire life, he rarely considered options beyond those he had already decided on. Such as his son's future. It was lucky that Carter Price was awfully talented.

"It's a joke," Carter said.

I managed a short exhale through my nose and a nod.

Clenching his teeth and keeping the smile on his lips even after it had left his eyes, Carter lowered his arm from the doorframe. It was a tiny little mercy to not have to keep avoiding looking at the generous amount of flesh his ragged T-shirt revealed and the patch of dark brown hair on his armpit. "I, uh…I guess I'll see you tomorrow, Coach."

I nodded again.

When Carter left in the direction of the back exit, I inhaled a deep breath of air and held it in my lungs. But I couldn't even start unpacking the odd sensations that tingled all over my skin and the suffocating pressure that dropped onto my chest before my nephew swaggered into my office. "Coach?" he said.

I gritted my teeth. "Partridge?" My tone called his sarcasm.

Caden paused at the door while Beckett walked all the way to my desk and lowered himself into a chair. "Feeling alright?" Caden asked.

I nodded. On one hand, it was getting old to face all this concern. On the other, Caden was there, witnessing the hell I had gone through this summer. If anyone had the right to check in, it was this kid.

Caden returned my nod. "I'll wait outside."

Beckett looked at him over his shoulder. They exchanged a tender look from where I sat, and Caden headed out. When Beckett looked at me again, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I'm not here to throw a temper tantrum, it's just that…"

"Let me stop you right there," I said softly, lifting a hand. "I won't undermine your authority among the guys, Beck. You've done a fantastic job in the second half of the last season." That was enough to soothe my nephew's bruised ego, I gathered. "I mean for us to work together, but the very first thing we need to root out is any thought of preferential treatment."

Beckett frowned. He had been plagued by the gossip over nepotism since he'd joined this team. Until last year, he had made quite a few enemies over it. Being the closest kin to someone like me was like wearing a "KICK ME" sign on your back if you wanted to play hockey like a pro. Beckett had felt it more than enough times in the first two years of college. "So what? That was just for show?"

I shook my head. "I don't know how things worked with your previous coach, but we wouldn't dream of taking such liberties in the NHL. Your tactics worked in the past. They're welcome. But remember that we have a chain of command. Disregarding your coaches is the fastest ticket to getting too cocky."

Beckett lifted his hands in defense. "We normally had pretty standard formations for warm-ups."

"And you normally had a coach who already knew you all inside and out," I said. This was as close as I would come to justifying myself. Outside the rink, he was welcome to criticize me however he wanted. And he had. When I had been a moping mess, haunting my sprawling mountain home in nothing but a bathrobe and a generous shot of whiskey in my coffee, Beckett had sat me down and called me out on my bullshit. It had stung, but it had been the right thing to do. And it had woken me up to the fact that I still had to live my life. Even if it wasn't the way I wanted.

My nephew nodded.

"In here, I'm your coach. Harvey and Margot have the know-how and the authority. Anything you think any of us could do better, you should bring it up privately. I mean it. Feedback is welcome, so long as you don't disregard your superiors in front of the entire team. It might seem like the right call at that moment, but you're undermining the respect your teammates have for the coaches. It'll have a domino effect." My voice had hardened the longer I spoke.

Beckett straightened his back and sat still. "Understood."

I nodded once. "Go now. Don't let Caden wait for you."

"He's fine," Beckett said, cocking his lips into a soft smile. "How about you, Uncle? Are you really alright?"

"I wish everyone would stop asking that," I said lightly, but it didn't come out very reassuring.

Giving me a small salute and a smile, Beckett got up. "It's good to see you," he said before leaving.

For most of my life, I wasn't there nearly as much as I had wanted to be. It was ironic. I had been too busy rising to stardom after my brother had walked out on them. Julie, my former sister-in-law, would bring Beckett to my ranch in Texas or my home in the mountains for some guy-to-guy bonding. I'd taken care of them when times were tough, but I hadn't watched the kid grow up. I would see him a few times a year and he would seemingly be twice the height as the last time. And with a mouth on him!

Now I had a shot at being around, but Beckett was focusing on his future, and his life was already better for having Caden by his side.

It was a thing so foreign to me that I could hardly imagine what it felt like.

That stupid envy. Did it ever go away? They were young. They loved each other. They were beautiful together. And they lived in times that were far more welcoming to diversity. For an athlete, that was nearly unimaginable in my time.

Not that long ago, a queer athlete couldn't dream of a happy life. He couldn't hope for more than a string of discrete hotel hookups just to feel another human being next to him.

I should know.

I had let my life fly by without ever giving love a chance.