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“I had my eye on the prize, Coach.”
His expression swells with pride when he glances over at me. It’s a rare moment of praise from a hard-nosed man who is usually more comfortable leading with an iron fist. “Indeed you did, Burnham. And now, you’ve reached that goal.”
“I’ve made it to the NHL.” I state the obvious as I step into the box and sit on the bench. I take a moment to complete the sentence because I’m still out of breath. Lifting a towel, I wipe the sweat from my forehead and out of my eyes. “But I still have a lot of goals to reach in the league.”
“No doubt,” he murmurs. “Did the Hawks get you set up with a training schedule for the next few weeks?”
I nod. I already obtained Coach’s permission to be on the ice when needed. But we haven’t talked specifics about my schedule.
“You’ll be ready come August,” he states knowingly.
“I’m ready now,” I say.
He watches me for a few beats before he speaks again. “I know you’re destined for great things, Ollie. I’ve always known it.” He pauses for a second, and I get the sense he’s struggling to say something more.
“But …” I arch a brow in question.
“But just remember, there’s more to life than just hockey.”
It sounds strange, coming from a man whose world revolves around the sport.
My mouth drops into a frown, and he lifts a hand to mollify my reaction.
“You’re going to play eighty-two games each season. And over half the year will be spent on the road.” He glances away, as if he’s reliving the past. Coach played in the NHL for five seasons before he was sidelined by an injury. Then, he turned to coaching. “It’s a hard life, even for someone who loves hockey as much as you and I do. It becomes important to have something to come home to. A place to lay your head, a family that’s waiting for you …”
I’m shocked into silence as I listen to his words of wisdom. Coach isn’t one to talk about his personal life. I know he’s married; I’ve seen his wife at most of our games. And I think it’s his second or third marriage, according to the rumor mill, though I’m not sure how accurate that is. But I’m surprised to hear that he values that aspect of his life so much.
“I hear you, Coach,” I say.
I wait to see if he has any more wisdom to impart, but he stays silent. He has always been a man of few words.
He nods once, seemingly satisfied that he’s said his piece, and turns to leave, pausing just before he enters the tunnel. “I’m rooting for you, Ollie. I think you have incredible potential. Just make sure you don’t neglect the other areas of your life by always trying to keep hockey first.”
I don’t miss the hint of regret in his tone.
I tip my chin to let him know I hear him and watch as he disappears into the darkness. I wipe my face again and take a long pull of water from the bottle with his words swirling through my head. I glance around at the dark stadium seats. The energy of the crowd is always pulsating in this stadium when it’s full, but I love being in here when it’s empty too. It’s just me and my thoughts and the ice.
I grab my phone from my bag and glance at the screen, cringing when I see a missed call and text from Dallas. That girl just won’t give up. It doesn’t seem to matter that I never answer her or that the last time she saw me, I had Madison wrapped around my body. Immediately, I can feel Mads’s soft curves pushed against my chest and smell the vanilla scent of her hair. For a split second, I’m tempted to respond to Dallas’s message, if for nothing more than to get my mind off a certain blonde that I shouldn’t be thinking about.
I delete the text instead. I toss the cell back into my bag and run a hand down my face in frustration. All I’ve been able to picture for the past two days is Madison in that ridiculous excuse for a tank top. She would’ve been covered up better if she had just worn her bra or nothing at all. Something about the way the cotton clung to her body looked like a wet dream come to life. The material became translucent at the car wash. I could see everything, almost like she was standing there, naked. I noted every detail of the thin white bra beneath the tank. Her hardened nipples. The way her delicate gold necklace glistened in the sunlight, where it hung across her collarbone. The shorts that clung to those toned golden thighs. The water that beaded up on her skin, and when the wind blew, chill bumps would erupt across the surface.
I groan, and it echoes around the stadium. I’ve spent the past two days avoiding my place. Avoiding her. The little girl I once knew who traipsed around with my little sister in braids and pigtails is long gone. And in her place is this blonde goddess with a bangin’ body that I’m having a hard time ignoring.
But you have to. She’s Oak’s best friend. That automatically makes her off-limits.
The sight of her wet and panting at that car wash was my undoing. And the way she looked up at me with those cerulean eyes … it took every ounce of my restraint not to reach out and pull her into my arms. To kiss her pouty lips. To see if her nipples were as pink as I’d imagined them to be.
I forcibly push her image from my mind and rise from the bench. I head to the back to sit in an ice bath for twenty minutes and then shower quickly in the deserted locker room.
Still in full avoidance mode, I don’t drive back to my place when I leave the stadium. I steer the Bronco over to McMann’s house instead. There are two cars in the driveway when I pull up to the curb and park. I walk to the front door and knock as the sun fades behind the house.
“It’s open,” someone yells.
I push the door aside and see McMann and Sims sitting on the couch with controllers in their hands. McMann’s eyes flit to me and then right back to the screen. Sims tips his chin without looking in my direction. He’s moving his body as his fingers punch the buttons in rapid succession, and he yells in triumph at the television. Their other roommate, Will Richter, went home for the summer.
“Are you guys still playing Call of Duty?” I ask while dropping into a chair.
“We’re only on the fifth mission,” Sims says like that means something to me. I’ve never been a gamer.
