by Lynda Aicher
“She told me to stop thinking so hard on offensive.” He glanced up and caught the dubious lift of Coach O’s brows. “It wasn’t quite that simple, but basically I was so focused on improving my offensive game that I was overthinking the plays. I was ignoring my instincts, which slowed down my reflexes.”
“Huh,” Coach Gregg huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “I could’ve told you that.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Didn’t I?” He frowned, lips pursing in challenge. “How about every time I told you to get your head out of your ass and play?”
Dylan chuckled. “I guess my brain didn’t click into what you were trying to say.”
“So what did Yates say that worked?” Coach O asked.
Dylan took another deep breath and ran the two men through the mental exercise Samantha had done with him. “I have the recording of it, too. I’ve listened to it many times and agree with what she pointed out. Hearing my responses was more effective in this instance than watching myself make the exact same play. It wasn’t the moves themselves that were wrong, but how I was approaching the offensive plays that was holding me back.”
And hearing her voice over and over was a deranged form of torture he kept inflicting upon himself.
Both coaches were frowning again and Coach O was absently stroking his goatee. The light scratching of bristly whiskers was the only thing that broke the silence. Dylan had left his phone in the locker room; otherwise he would’ve pulled up the audio file and played it for them.
“It’s her psych degree, isn’t it?”
That was the last thing Dylan expected Coach O to ask. “I guess so. She has plans for a master’s in sports psychology.”
“I’d wondered why she wasn’t getting a sports management degree. Now I know.” Coach O sat forward. “So you two haven’t used the ice time in a while. Does that mean you’re done with her help, or are you working on your head game somewhere else?”
“We’re done.” In more ways than one. “I think I’m good now.” Right. He’d pretty much ditched the idea of there ever being a them, but forgetting her was easier to say than do.
“We’re going to play around with the lines over the next few weeks. Trying out different pairings during practice to see how it works.” Coach O studied Dylan.
The effort to keep his expression neutral had his leg bouncing again. This time it was a vent for his rising excitement. “Okay. Let me know what you need from me, and I’ll do my best to meet it.”
“I wouldn’t expect less.” Coach O picked up a folder and opened it. He shot a meaningful look to Coach Gregg then set the folder down. “Management will be contacting your agent within the week. The Glaciers are impressed with your improvement and we’re all interested in keeping you with the team for a long time. We hope you feel the same way.”
“Good. I’ll let Jeff know.” Dylan took the information with a calm front that belied his wild urge to whoop and shout his success. Nothing was decided, and contract negotiations could take ages to finish. He trusted his agent to get him the best possible deal, but it was up to Dylan to keep his game hot.
Coach O waited a moment before nodding at Dylan’s lack of further comment. Everyone held their cards close to their chest during contract negotiations. It wasn’t personal, just like any trades the organization made. It all came down to business. Numbers, salary caps and team strategy—both short and long term—played a role in where players ended up. In the end, he was a commodity.
“Go see Doc about the drug tests, then get that hip taken care of. He’s looked at it, right?”
“Yup.” Dylan stood, anxious to heed Coach O’s dismissal. “It’s nothing to worry about.” He didn’t need anyone stressing over his hip before the contract was signed.
He was down the hall and around the corner before he slumped against the wall, hands braced on his knees. Holy shit. His pulse raced now that he’d let go of the stranglehold he’d held on his reactions.
It was so close. Everything he’d worked for.
All he had to do was hold his game together and keep playing like he had been. He could do that. Damn, he should really thank Samantha.
His derisive snort echoed down the hallway. Samantha. He wanted to celebrate this victory with her, swing her around and revel in his achievement. And what would that get him? Her prolonged silence was proof she wasn’t going to give on her convictions. She was a stubborn, strong, irritating, scared, kind, beautiful woman he had to get over.
He shoved away from the wall and strode to Doc’s office. Like he’d always predicted, dealing with women—especially one as complicated as Samantha—required energy he didn’t have to spare.
Chapter Sixteen
There it was again—the smell. Sam inhaled long and slow, the slightly musty dry scent of the ice filling her. Calls and barked orders, along with the distinctive slice of metal cutting over ice and the slap of sticks hitting the puck, trickled down the tunnel from the rink. They wrapped around her to pull her deeper into the past.
For the first time in a while, she left the resentment and envy behind and let the good memories flow in. The years spent at her dad’s side, learning everything she could from him about hockey. The camaraderie and the security of knowing where she belonged whenever she was dressed to play. The freedom of flying down the ice, the rest of the world a blur.
She’d always believed she could accomplish anything when she had her skates on. When had she lost that belief? Or had it only existed on the ice?
She opened her eyes and let the memories fade. Not the feelings though. Those she clung to instead of shoving them aside, resenting them like she’d done for months. That wasn’t the person she wanted to be.
Couldn’t go on being.
She’d spent hours thinking about Dylan’s parting words. Weeks reflecting on the last year and all that had changed. Both within and out of her control.
She’d withdrawn from everything that had brought her joy and at the time she’d thought she was filling her life with other things. That moving on meant leaving hockey completely. Hindsight showed how wrong she’d been. Abandoning hockey had only hurt her and her life. She’d cut out the one thing that brought her joy and had turned into a bitter, jaded person who’d shoved everyone away.
She sniffed and blinked back the tears that stung her eyes. She’d only let a few silent ones out since she’d walked away from Dylan. It’d been the right thing to do, given the state of her mind. There was still no clear path to a romantic future for them, but maybe they could still salvage something—if she could let go of her baggage.
There was no erasing the past. She could only push forward and resolve to do better in the future. Make amends and embrace the blessings she had.
The instant quake of panic that curled from her chest to her stomach was an old friend. One she was working to sever. A cynical chuckle puffed out at that thought. A work in process—that was her.
Her emotional upheaval the last few weeks had left her empty but no longer lost. It was past time to make another change in her life. A correction really. One she needed more than her degree, or independence or possibly even food.
This one fed her soul.
The familiar piercing tweet of a whistle triggered more memories. She’d heard that exact pitch literally thousands of times. Stop play. Change directions. Go. Those were the three main interpretations of the sound. Her brain automatically processed the intended meaning like a Pavlovian response. So ingrained she didn’t even think before her muscles responded.
Her smile grew in slow increments and filled her internal emptiness with purpose. That was exactly what she was doing with her life.
Stick clenched tightly in her hand, she proceeded down the padded walkway and emerged from the tunnel into familiar territory. Nostalgia threatened to slow her down until she inhaled and absorbed it. She’d led her team to two consecutive collegiate championships in this stadium and received numerous awards for her skills on t
he ice in her four years playing there. Those were things to be proud of, not begrudge.
She stepped into the bench box, ready to start again. “Hey, Coach,” she called to the lanky man currently scowling at the ice. A day’s growth of stubble covered his normally clean-shaven jaw, and a worn Gophers baseball hat proclaiming the team’s national victory two years ago was tugged low over his brow. A whistle dangled absently from between slightly parted lips, in wait to be blown again. “Something wrong?”
Coach Ford whipped his head around, a smile lightening his entire expression. The whistle dropped from his mouth to dangle on the string around his neck. “Sam. Good to see you.”
She shook the extended hand of her former college coach. “It feels good to be here.” A warmth filled her as she realized how true that was.
He studied her, and she forced herself to meet his eyes. She’d ignored his open invitation to stop by and help the team for seven months, so she couldn’t fault him for scrutinizing why she was suddenly there.
He motioned toward her stick and skates. “Hanging around for a while?”
“If it’s all right with you.” She hadn’t donned her full gear—that wasn’t her place anymore. But she was ready to hit the ice if needed. Like every coach was. Not that she was a coach, but she definitely wasn’t a player anymore.
His slow nod was accompanied by a half smile. One she’d learned to recognize as approval. “Get over here and tell me what you see.”
Her deep exhalation was one of relief as he turned back to the women on the ice. She leaned her stick on the back wall and fisted her shaking hand. Nerves—that was all. Excitement, even. A rush for something different. Something she could do if she let herself.
She blew out a breath and opened her mind. Let in the possibilities and shoved out the resentment that tried to invade. She had no room for it here.
She stepped over the bench and focused on the players. The two assistant coaches were on the ice, one leading the offensive, the other the defensive. There were two full teams plus a goalie at each net, twelve women working together to best each other.
Her brain kicked into gear instantly, analyzing. The warm glow that had started to replace the ache expanded through her chest. The mental load of worry she’d been lugging around floated away while she focused on something within her control.
She could figure this out. See the openings, the errors, the possibilities that would make a play or shut one down. It was a different sort of puzzle that only needed to be shifted around to see the picture.
Four plays later, she leaned toward Coach Ford and told him what she thought. His eyes narrowed, lips clamping tight through the next play before he lifted his whistle. The note blew sharp in her ear and the play came to a stop on the ice. For her though, it was definitely a go.
*
“Hey! Long time, no see,” Britney called.
Sam grinned and slapped the hand of another of her former teammates. “I know.” She didn’t bother to give excuses. It didn’t seem like anyone wanted them.
“I’m up.” Britney pointed to the open pool table in the corner, three others waving her over. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Sam waved her off and sat back in her chair. The table of ten was littered with leftover meals and half-empty glasses. Joining some of the team for dinner and to watch the Glaciers had been good. Healing. It was another step forward, and one she was going to repeat.
“Do you think we have a chance at the national title?” Cody asked.
Sam swiveled in her seat, gaze glancing over the flat screen before she eyed the senior winger. Built wide and tough, her spiked hair and multiple ear piercings camouflaged the woman’s softer side. “If you keep playing like you are, definitely.”
“And that’s such a politically correct pile of bullshit.”
Her laughter burst free in a loud, belting roll that flowed from an almost-forgotten place within her. “Sorry,” she choked out around the last of her drawn-out chuckles. “I’d forgotten how much I missed this.”
Cody’s brows shot up. “What?”
“This.” Sam waved her hand around the table. “Hanging out with everyone. Talking crap and dishing it too.” This was the bond and belonging that held a team together.
“Then why’d you stay away for so long?”
“Good question.” With way too long of an answer. Sam rolled her shoulders and let the past go before it could intrude. “Tell me something.”
Cody straightened, preparing. “What?”
“Do you think you can win the championship?”
“Hell yes!”
“Then my answer doesn’t matter.”
Cody slumped back, scowling, which had Sam smiling again.
“Hey!” Megan had snuck up behind her and landed a playful slap to the back of her head. “Look at you mingling with the lowlife.”
“Shut up.” Sam gave Meg a retaliatory nudge as the other woman slid into the empty seat on her other side.
“Riley has it in the breakaway,” the sportscaster said, his voice rising above the noise. Sam jerked her attention to the game, heart skipping. “He drops it back to Hauke. He shoots. He scores!”
“Yay!” She burst to her feet, fists raised high in celebration. The restaurant was packed and the crowd went wild, but she couldn’t drag her eyes from the screen. The close-up of Dylan—wet bangs sawtoothing across his forehead under his helmet, smile wide, eyes shining with triumph—stole her breath and pinched her heart.
She missed him so damn much.
“What a great play,” Meg said once the cheering had died down. “Riley’s been on fire for weeks.”
“He has,” Sam agreed. There was no real justification for the pride that expanded her chest. It was still there though and only seemed to grow as he continued to improve.
“It’s like watching an entirely different player,” Meg said.
“You think so?” Sam sipped her water, her heart doing another flip. “How so?”
“What do you mean, ‘how so?’ You know exactly what I mean.”
Sam shot her friend a side glance and smiled. “Humor me.”
Meg narrowed her eyes, studying Sam before she shrugged and popped a peanut into her mouth. “His transition game is excellent now and he’s making smarter decisions both with and without the puck, which has made him more effective in all three zones.” She rose out of her seat as the Glaciers took a shot that was knocked away. She sank back down. “But it’s the confidence in his game that’s made the biggest difference. He’s playing more aggressively but doing it smart.” She grinned at Sam. “How’d I do?”
The eager cockiness on Meg’s face made it impossible not to return her smile. “Not bad. So what do you think caused the change?” She was digging now when she should let the subject go.
“You tell me,” Meg said, her focus back on the screen. “You’re the one who likes him.”
Sam jerked back, mouth open.
Meg raised a brow, her knowing smirk poking at Sam.
“Shit!” A round of groans rumbled through the bar, along with more curses. Sam looked to the TV, using the convenient escape to catch her breath. The Blackhawks were celebrating on the ice, which meant they’d just scored, tying the game.
“So…” Meg let the word drag out as she leaned in to Sam when the ruckus died down again. “Is there anything going on between you and Rylie?”
“Why would you ask that?” She could finally admit to herself that she liked him, but was she ready to say it aloud?
Meg glanced at the screen then back at Sam. “Call it a hunch.”
Sweat collected down across her nape, and she crossed her arms over her chest to keep from fidgeting. “Maybe,” she finally said, heat overtaking her face.
“That’s cool,” Meg said, speaking just loud enough for Sam to hear. “And I won’t say anything.”
She glanced at the woman who could claim the title of bestie. “Thanks.” They’d spent most of last year practic
ally joined at the hip as roommates and teammates while they played for the national team. There wasn’t much they hadn’t known about each other’s daily lives back then.
Meg shifted a little closer. “Is that what’s been bothering you?”
She glanced at her friend, indecision churning in her chest. She missed Meg and the closeness they’d shared. Here was a chance to get some of that back. “Would you date one of them?” She flicked her chin at the screen.
Meg’s eyes widened a fraction, her smile slowly spread. “Are you dating him? This is better than I thought.”
“We’re not dating,” she quickly corrected Meg. Because she’d run away…
“Really?” Meg slumped back, frowning. “That’s too bad.”
“Why?”
“Name the last guy you dated.”
What? She scrambled to remember a guy in her past who would qualify. Unfortunately, she drew a blank.
“See,” Meg crowed. “You can’t name one.”
“So I’ve been focused on other things.” Her defensiveness boiled up from the touchy spot that’d been prodded too much lately. “Who’ve you dated recently?”
“If you hadn’t disappeared this year, you’d know I’ve been seeing someone since early fall.” Meg stared at the television, fingers making absent swipes up and down her glass. The unspoken hurt came through loud and clear.
“Really?” Shit. Guilt had a sharp, bitter taste that Sam had become too familiar with lately. “That’s great. Who is it? Do I know him?”
“Probably.” Meg wiped the collected condensation off her fingers, a smile playing at her lips. “He plays hockey for the Gophers. Geoff Singer.”
“Is it serious?” How had she not known? Easy—she’d ignored her friends all year.
“I guess,” Meg said. “For now. That’s all I’m concerned about.”
Sam honed in on that. “What about when you graduate this spring? What year is he? Has he been drafted? What about your plans?” These were all variations of the things that hammered at her.
