16. Robbie

"Tell me everything." Spags angles the blades of his skates, kicking snow up onto my toes as he slides to a stop. "Are you engaged? Was the sex fantastic? Can I be a groomsman? Oooooh or your officiant? Where's the ceremony? What about Lake Como? Isn't that where all the famous peeps go? Or Vegas. Vegas is always an option. And…"

Did I say Spags was growing on me? I was wrong. He's still prattling away and I take my glove off to press my fingers to my temple, hoping to stave off the brewing headache.

"This isn't an appropriate conversation," I say, adding a frown for good measure. Spags' smile just gets bigger.

"Au contraire mon Ami. Like that? I learned that phrase from a French Canadian kid at the world juniors."

"Do you know what it means?" My lips twitch as I try not to smile.

"Something about no bullshit. So, in all seriousness, how was your date?"

I think about pressing my lips to Vera's cheek; her turning to catch my mouth in a kiss goodbye this morning. We'd stayed in one bed, her tucked against my bare chest and our legs intertwined. How she rocked her hips back to mine and my cock had nestled into the cleft of her ass. How I'd fumbled for a condom as she lifted her thigh and positioned me right at her entrance.

If last night had been a fuck, this morning was something else. A slow rock and pulse toward the finish line, her dragging my hands up to cup her breasts in a possessive hold. How she sighed my name as her pussy clamped down on my cock, dragging us over the edge together.

"Aha!" There's a hockey glove in my face, and a finger aimed at my nose. "That's a smile. Spill."

"No," I say, but I feel myself smile again and Spags cackles. "Focus kid."

We have one day left until scrimmage and the teams are evenly matched. No matter how much fun I'm having with Vera, I'm here first for these young athletes. I would have killed for extra coaching from any NHL player at their age. Something to let me know my dream was in reach, as opposed to people constantly trying to keep my feet planted on the ground just in case of disappointment.

"Hey Oakes," it's Brad waving me over to the away bench, a tablet clutched in his left hand. He's not dressed to be on the ice and I want to roll my eyes. This is his first year with us and he only seems to focus on players from his district and ones with flashy skill. He's not a bad skater. Maybe over time he'll learn that the best way to get these kids amped about the game is to join them, giving them demos and examples instead of barked orders, or he'll burn out and go to another team and rinse and repeat until he retires.

Spags wrinkles up his nose and rolls his eyes as I skate my way over.

"Think any of these boys have what it takes to go pro? Or are we wasting our time?" He uses his middle finger to scroll over the screen and I can just see the tiny headshots of each player, along with their stats.

"Wasting our time?"

I will not beat this man over the head with my shoulder pads. Probably.

"That's why you're here, right? Funneling them into juniors? Earmarking them for recruitment?" He laughs. "I know we say it's just for skill-building, but come on, they don't send the big guns for that."

Black spots dance in the corners of my eyes and there's a ringing in my ears.

Maybe I will not beat this man with my shoulder pads.

"No," I frown.

This is a skill-building camp. No one sent me. I'm here for myself because I know I would have killed for this kind of opportunity as an inexperienced player. I'm here because I can. Because other than keeping up with my workouts and spending time on the ice, I have a large swath of time where I'm not contracted to be anywhere. And I have the funds to not worry about work during the offseason.

"Damn, that's a real shame." Brad shrugs. "I thought for sure you'd have your eye on Marlowe, especially after I gave him a talking to about his girl."

I have to replay his words in my head to be sure I'm hearing him right. First, because yes, I do have my eye on Marlowe, except I have nothing to do with the draft or the USHL, so it means very little. Second, he didn't need a talking to. Nora was a non-issue.

"Excuse me?"

Brad chuckles. The sound scrapes down my nerve endings and I grind my teeth together. "Yeah, I pulled him aside and reminded him that his dream couldn't afford any distractions. No matter how pretty. Reminded him that if he bagged that NHL contract, he'd have girls breaking down his door to do things for him."

The rink swoops around me and for a moment everything goes mute, before sound rushes back in on a roar. Will Marlowe is a talented skater. He's also a minor. As is the girlfriend that sits in the stands. This cockroach smirking in front of me is the one who told me she had a tough home life. To reduce her to nothing more than the sexual things she can do for him… to imply that a kid who could be recruited— still as a kid —should look forward to sexual perks? That is not acceptable in my rink or in my program.

"Brad," his name tastes rancid in my mouth. "I want you out of my rink. Now."

This time his laugh wavers. "Come on, man, I did you a favor. I know he's dragging today, but someone had to do it. At least I know the kid. Have a relationship with him."

I see red, my hands cramping from how tightly I have them fisted. I haven't been paying enough attention, I've been too distracted by my woman, and now I've let this absolute shit stain spend unsupervised time with our players. And no, I do not count his little toady as adequate supervision.

"I want… you out… Of. My. Rink." Watching his face turn ice pale with each of my words is almost better than joint orgasms. "Not only is your attitude toward all these players completely unacceptable, but your words and actions are abhorrent and inexcusable." My voice drops lower and lower. "I want you out of my rink and out of my sport. I will be filing a complaint with your school district and league."

"You can't be serious," he says, spittle dripping from his lips as he splutters.

"As a fucking heart attack. Get out."

This time he puffs up his chest, clearly finding some sense of bravado. I don't care that I'm not a brawler, that my team employs other enforcers. I guarantee I can mop the goddamn rink floor with this asshole. Without even breaking a sweat.

"You can't get rid of me. You need a second coach and you only have assistants."

"We can handle the kids. Jack is twice the coach you can ever dream of being. At least we have their best interests at heart. Now leave or I'll escort you out myself."

Brad goes, muttering curses under his breath and slamming the door to the locker room. I don't breathe right until he's gone and Spags skates up next to me.

"You up for this?" I ask him.

He shrugs. "Guess we'll find out. There's only the rest of today and tomorrow's scrimmage. You did the right thing."

I know I did. I can feel it in my bones, but there's one more thing I have to make right. The teens are due back on the ice any minute now, but I don't want to put this off until the end of practice. Brad was wrong about so many things, but he was right about two. Marlowe has it in him to make it in the pros. And he was dragging today.

"Can you get them started for me? I have to handle something."

Spags nods and gives me a thumbs-up. "You got it, Dad. Go talk to Marlowe."

I wait for him by the rink entrance. The teen is usually the first on the ice, leading the pack. Today he's one of the last.

"Will," I call his name as he tries to duck his head and slink past. "Let's chat."

He holds back as the rest of the players take the ice and then follows me back into the locker room. The testosterone funk is strong in here, bad enough that I try not to breathe through my nose.

"What's up, coach?" He asks, sitting heavily on one of the metal benches. "Sorry, my head's not in it today. I'll do better." He leans his weight forward, bracing his hands on his thighs, and goes to stand.

"Where's Nora?"

The kid freezes, a deer caught in headlights.

"Dunno." He says, shoulders slumping. "Doesn't matter. I'm here to play."

"Are you?"

The kid winces and, dammit, this is coming out like a lecture. It's not supposed to be like that.

"I want to tell you a story," I say, sitting on the bench next to him. Our shoulders are almost touching, but I'm facing the opposite bank of lockers. I thought it would make us both more comfortable. "That okay?"

He nods, keeping his gaze straight ahead, refusing to look at me.

"Are you familiar with the name Vera Novak?"

He shrugs again. "I dunno. Isn't she a model or something? I think Nora follows her on Insta." His ears pink up under his helmet.

"She is," I nod. "And a long time ago, when I was about your age, she was my Nora."

That gets his attention, his head snapping up so fast I worry he gave himself whiplash.

"She was my best friend, and my girlfriend, and while I think her home life was a lot better than Nora's, she came to all my practices and all my games."

Marlowe drops his chin in the tiniest nod of understanding.

"I liked having her there. I knew how to find her immediately in a crowded arena, no matter what she wore or where she sat. I thought I played better when she watched. I was also a lot like you. Talent pouring out my ass, and scouts studying my games, and so for a while it was fine that she was always there."

Marlowe jumps to his feet, showing more energy than I've seen all day. "Look sir, you can spare me the lecture. Coach B already talked to me about it. She won't be back today or tomorrow." Under his breath he adds, "or ever."

I stand up too, clapping my hand on his shoulder.

"You're misunderstanding me, Will." I duck my head to meet his gaze. "I thought I needed to let mine go, for both our sakes. Or at least I told myself that. The real reason I broke up with her was because I thought I had no choice. Not if I wanted to really make it in this sport. Hockey needed two-hundred percent of my focus. There was no room for anyone else. And do you know what happened?"

"You got drafted," the kid glares at me. "You know, I think you're making the exact point you said you weren't trying to make. Can I go now?"

"I never got over her." I say, even as he shrugs off my hand and tries to push past me. "I tattooed her over my heart. I thought of her before every game, and I never found someone else. Not for over sixteen years."

"But you did eventually?"

I shake my head. "No, I just got another chance. With her."

Will frowns, looking every inch the kid he is. "Are you shitting me? Vera Novak is here? In central New York? That's who your date was with? How did I miss that? I need to tell…" he loses steam, face going blank.

I nod.

"Look," I say, "I'm not great with words and stuff, but the point is that I thought I had to let her go and I never really did. I assumed ending our relationship would put all of my attention on hockey. I assumed that was what I needed to go pro. But the truth?" I meet Will's eyes. "The truth is that I'll never know if it was true."

"I don't understand," Marlowe says, but he's not rushing to get out the door anymore.

"I'm saying I already had my juniors invite before I broke things off. And after I ended things with her, I definitely didn't think of her less. Would I have still been drafted if we'd given it a shot? Would she still have traveled all over the world for runway shows and photo shoots? I don't know. I'll never know. My point is, don't let someone else decide for you and for her."

"It's just a high school relationship. It's not like it would have lasted, anyway." He says, turning away from me, but I catch the way he carefully shuts down his emotions, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Is that what you think? Or what someone told you. Plenty of high school relationships don't work out, you're right." I shrug. "But plenty do."

"So you're saying…"

"You don't have to break up with her to play good hockey." I hear him suck in a breath at my words. "And she's allowed to be at our practices and tomorrow's scrimmage. As long as you want her here."

"But Coach B said—"

"Coach B is no longer a part of our program. He overstepped when he told you what he did. You do. Both of you do."

"I…I don't know what to say." Marlowe's face is flushed and his eyes look shiny wet.

"You don't have to say anything," I tell him. "Take five minutes, think about what I said, and then come out with your head in the game. You and Nora can decide what happens next together."

I swerve around him, heading back to the ice and the rest of the teams, but I turn at the door and peek at Will Marlowe. His gloves are on the floor, his phone is in his hand, and his fingers are punching at the screen. A small smile on his face.

The locker room door closes behind me.