Chapter Nine

Bex

The sound of my skates scraping against the ice fills the quiet rink as I take another shot. The puck slams into the back of the net with a satisfying thud.

Practice ended over an hour ago but after the team all left I couldn't sit still in my office.

The weight of everything.

The team, the season, my family wanting me to finish out my contract next season and come home… and the unsettled conversation constantly going around in my head about her. It all feels especially heavy today, like a puck lodged in my chest that I can’t shake off.

Rowan Summers.

It’s maddening how she’s managed to get under my skin. Every time I think I’ve got her figured out, she goes and does something else that sets me off. My head’s a mess, and I’ve been avoiding her, focusing on the one thing that’s always made sense to me—hockey.

Another slap shot, another echo through the empty rink. It’s not enough.

“Looks like you’re trying to murder that puck,” Sam’s voice calls out from the bench.

I glance over, seeing him leaning casually against the boards. He’s wearing his usual black Hawkeyes windbreaker, and a pair of trousers.

“Need to work out some frustration,” I grunt, sending another puck flying toward the goal.

Sam watches for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly before he speaks. “She’s got you all twisted up, doesn’t she?”

I pause, resting the stick against my knees, breathing hard. “It’s not just her. It’s the team. The season. Everything’s on the line.”

Sam steps onto the ice, his movements steady and deliberate, each stride gripping the slick surface with the confidence of years spent navigating it. “I get it. But you’re not just angry at her, Bex. You’re angry at yourself, too.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “What’re you on about?”

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I see it in you. The way you look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Hockey is everything to you, just like it was to me. And we both know that it costs us more than we care to admit.”

His words hang in the cold air between us, and I know exactly what he’s referring to. Sam’s ex-wife left him when she felt that hockey was the real love of his life, not her. They couldn’t make it work, and though Sam doesn’t say much about her, I know he’s never moved on.

“It wasn’t the same for me and Lily,” I say, shooting another puck into the net, the sound more hollow this time. “I cared about her, but I didn’t love her like she deserved. I broke her heart because I couldn’t love her more than the game.”

Sam nods, his eyes distant. “And that’s where we’re different. I still love my ex-wife, always will. But that didn’t make a damn difference when it came down to choosing between her and the game. Hockey… it consumes you. But I know I made the wrong decision. I should have picked her. I should have given Penelope the childhood she deserved."

"But Penelope turned out brilliant. She seems happy. You managed it alright," I say.

"Maybe, but hockey never made me whole. When Caroline refused to move to Seattle, I should have made a better choice and kept my family together."

I grip my stick tighter, the tension in my chest not letting up. “Do you regret it?”

“Every day,” Sam admits, his voice quieter now. “And if I could do it over, I don't know what I would do. Being on this side of things, it’s easy to say that I might have made the wrong choice, now that my skating days are over, but had I done it before I accomplished everything I wanted to in the sport… I might have resented letting my window close on my career. That’s the thing, Bex. The game—it’s always going to demand more from you than anyone else ever will. The question is, how much are you willing to give and when is it time to move on?”

I look down at the ice, the question echoing in my mind. How much more can I give before there’s nothing left?

"How much are you willing to give it?" I ask.

"I've given the sport more than its fair share. Now it's time to give Caroline back the time I took from us."

Did he just say what I thought he did?

"You're getting back together with your ex-wife?"

A lopsided grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. "It's a little too early to tell, but I'm going to spend the off-season back home trying to convince her to take me back." He chuckles. "I promised Phil that I'd give him one more year to make sure that Penelope is ready to take my place. She's going to need a strong head coach by her side, which is why I'm curious how many more years you're willing to give this franchise."

Before I can answer, Sam’s gaze shifts, and he gestures toward the players' tunnel. “Looks like you’ve got company."

I follow his line of sight and see Rowan standing there in a pair of skates and a smart black dress that stops at her calves, designed for the office and not for a skating rink. At the very least, she's wearing some puffy jacket that looks like Penelope's. The skates look like Penelope’s too. I wouldn’t be surprised if Rowan skating out here was the new Assistant GM’s idea.

She wobbles slightly as she tries to step onto the ice. She looks completely out of place but determined.

Sam smirks and claps me on the back. “Be nice. She’s here for a reason, and if she’s got questions, you might as well practice answering them. There will be press at the gala in a couple of days anyway. And think about what I said. Maybe you've given the game enough years of yourself.”

I sigh as Sam heads back toward the bench. I skate slowly toward Rowan, watching as she hesitates before taking a tentative step onto the ice. She wobbles as she skates onto the ice. She’s trying to hide her nerves but I can see it in the slight shake of her ankles and her stiff posture, her eyes locked on her skates and the ice below her. My guess is she’s never ice skated before.

I skate up to her with ease, my hockey stick still in my hand. “What are you doing out here? You're a reporter covering a hockey team, but you don't know how to skate?”

She glares up at me, peering through her long dark eyelashes. "I'm a sports journalist— I cover more than just hockey, and as shocking as this might be to you, knowing how to ice skate was not part of the job requirement."

"Maybe it should be," I mutter under my breath.

"We all start somewhere, Coach Bex. I doubt you came out of the womb dressed in full hockey gear."

My mum would laugh at that. In fact, I think there's a lot about Rowan that my mum would like. They have a similar fiery personality.

"Actually, I did." I shoot back.

She rolls her eyes and makes a tsking sound with her tongue. "Figures."

She wobbles again and attempts to bend her knees and straighten out her arms on either side of herself in an attempt to gain better balance.

My hands flinch forward as if prepared to reach out and grab her before she falls like I did on our flight, but she stabilizes on her own. Just as well. The last thing I need is an excuse to kiss her again.

“You’re wearing a dress out on my ice. Don’t you own anything warmer?”

She blinks at me twice as if my question doesn’t make logical sense. “I’m at work. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously as a female in my field. Besides, I’m not here on a social visit. And why do you care what I wear? Penelope wears less than this when she skates and I doubt you’ve ever commented on it.”

She makes a point. I’ve never once commented on Penelope’s figure skating apparel before. But Penelope doesn’t wear a lot because she needs the freedom to move around. Rowan can barely skate out here at all.

“I don’t care what you wear. You just look cold, that’s all.” I say, glancing up into the stands to see if we have an audience of one… Penelope Roberts. But when I glance around, it only confirms that Rowan and I are alone together.

“Since when do you care what temperature I am,” she asks, a glint in her eye.

"I don’t,” I say quickly, not wanting to admit that I unwillingly notice her temperature every time I glance back during practice, witnessing the tip of her nose turning red and her knees bouncing to keep warm. “Now why are you out here anyway? Practice is over, and if any of the players are still here, they're in the gym lifting weights. If you want interviews, you should have gotten here earlier."

"I came to see you," she says.

"You came to see me? Why?" I ask, narrowing my eyes slightly, suspicion creeping into my voice.

She glances around the rink as if to make sure that we're still alone.

"We're going to be working together for a couple more months, and rumors are already swirling around the franchise about how much we don't get along. I thought we could come to an understanding."

She’s not going away, that I realize.

I reach out my hand for her to take. If we have to talk, at the very least, I should get to hit a few pucks. She is, after all, encroaching on my time.

Her eyes flick up to mine, a mix of uncertainty and distrust. Does she really think that I'd let her fall on her ass after what happened on the plane?

"Where are you planning on taking me?" she asks.

"Just over there," I say, pointing to where a bucket of pucks is sitting. "You're interrupting my shooting practice. The least you can do is let me hit some pucks while you try to convince me why gossip around the franchise matters. It's never been a secret that we don't get along."

This is as close to cooperation as she’s going to get and she knows it. After a moment, she reaches out, gripping my hand with her black gloves.

The feeling of her warm cotton hand fitting right inside of mine like it belongs there is unnerving.

We skate together, slowly, toward the spot where I’ve been shooting pucks. She stumbles a bit, and I hold her steady, trying not to think about how natural it feels to help her like this. To have her out here on the ice with me. To have her invade the space I usually go to clear her out of my head.

"Where did the skates come from?" I ask, though I’m sure I know the answer.

I’d like to know who to personally thank for this intrusion.

Rowan glances down at the skates I'm referring to as she glides slowly next to me.

"Penelope had an old pair, and we wear the same size. Lucky don’t you think?"

"Lucky… right," I say, knowing that there’s no “luck” involved when Penelope decided to stick her nose in it. What is she up to?

She clears her throat as we stop. I let go of her hand once I'm sure she's stable on her own. “I wanted to talk to you about this job. About why this is so important to me.”

I stay silent, pulling another puck from the tipped-over bucket with the end of my hockey stick, and then wind up and hit it. The puck makes a loud thud noise as before, the sound ricocheting off the walls of the rink. In the corner of my eye, Rowan jumps at the loud crack. It's a lot louder out here than it is behind the plexiglass.

I slide another puck into position and wait for her to continue.

“I know we’re never going to be friends, and that’s fine. I don’t expect us to get along, but this job means everything to me. It’s my career, my way of proving myself and it's the only thing I have for myself."

The only thing she has for herself?

I want to ask her exactly what that means, but she continues, and the less I know about Rowan, the better.

"And after the Hawkeyes win the Stanley Cup. You’ll see much less of me. But until then, I don’t want to be enemies anymore.”

I let her words sink in, the honesty in them disarming me. For the first time, I see the one attribute that Rowan and I both share. We're both dedicated to our careers. I'm just still not sure what lengths she'll go to keep hers.

"You're asking for a truce?"

I stare down at her, the ice reflecting off her big blue eyes, causing them to shimmer.

There’s something disarming about her, something that makes it hard to keep my walls up... but I can’t let myself fall for her, not when my team is on the line.

"Yes, a truce. For the sake of the team and the championship, so that both of us can do our jobs."

I think for a second. I don't know if she's trying to pull one over my head, so she'll have to earn a truce.

I hand her my hockey stick. “If you can sink this puck into that net, you’ve got yourself a truce.”

I skate around to her back to help guide her into position.

"Sink the puck?" Rowan looks over her shoulder at me, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “And if I miss?”

“If you miss, no truce,” I say, reaching around from behind her to adjust her grip on the stick. Her scent lingers in the air between us, subtle but distracting, and the way her body fits between my arms feels dangerously natural.

“But like I told you before,” I murmur, my voice low. “We’re not enemies. I just don’t trust you. Not yet.”

Her eyes meet mine, something unreadable in them, but I force myself to look away, focusing on the puck. She draws a deep breath and lines up the shot, clearly out of her comfort zone. My hands grip her hips, positioning her body into place, feeling her heat through the thin material of her dress.

For a split second, I almost want her to make the shot–to force us to play nice–to address what is or isn’t happening. But then I know better. It’s a bad idea that will likely end badly.

Rowan winds back and hits the puck. The puck flies off to the right, missing the goal by a long shot.

Her shoulders slump, disappointment etched on her face, the brightness in her big blue eyes dimming just slightly. I should feel satisfied that the bet worked out in my favor, but there's a part of me that wonders what would happen if we agreed to a truce.

"Well, I guess that settles it," she mutters, handing the stick back to me. “No truce.”

I grip the stick but don’t pull away. Her effort was decent, and for someone who’s clearly out of her element, she tried, I'll give her that. “You gave it a fair shot,” I say, my voice softer than I intended.

Rowan shrugs. “Guess I’ll just have to work on my slap shot. Maybe I’ll beat you next time.”

She says it with a touch of humor. I pause, watching her for a moment longer.

“You can try again,” I say, gesturing toward the ice. “But be sure you’re ready next time. I won’t go easy on you.”

Rowan’s eyes sparkle with the challenge, her confidence returning. “Oh, I wouldn’t expect anything less, Coach.”

I pull the stick back, sliding another puck into position for myself. As I line up my next shot, I glance over at her, standing there on the ice, wobbling but determined. She may have missed the shot, but she’s far from defeated. There’s something resilient in her, and despite everything, I’m starting to see that.

I take the shot, the puck sailing cleanly into the net with a loud thud. Rowan doesn’t flinch this time, and that makes me grin. She’s learning.

As I skate over to her and extend my hand to help her back to the player's tunnel.

Do I trust her enough for a truce?

No, not yet. I can’t afford that. Not with everything at stake.

I still don’t have an answer for the hallway whisperings and concerned looks shared between Reeve and Rowan.

"Thanks for helping me back. I need to get going. I'm meeting Tessa and Brynn for dress shopping for the gala."

I nod, releasing her hand as she steps off the ice. For now, the truce may be off, but something tells me this isn’t the last time we’ll be standing here, facing off on my turf.