Page 6 of Coaching Prince Charming

I went to my room upstairs. Most of the occupied rooms faced the backyard, but Ron and I were given one of the rooms on the other end of the house, facing the front. We had a view of the campus, one house in a line of many.

The room was pretty big. I could see what things I would move around to make space for my imaginary piano. With annoyance zinging through me, I marched to the window, opened it, and sat over the frame with one leg dangling outside. A part of the front deck’s roof extruded a little under my hanging leg. With my guitar on my knee, I plucked the strings loudly.

“You’re going to fall out,” someone called from a distance.

My nose wrinkled, and I repeated the tune louder. As the hackler neared the house, I realized it was Coach Partridge. Nate. All my life, he had simply been Nate. He was the star winger to others, but to me, they were all just Dad’s buddies from when I was small. I rode this guy’s back when I was a kid. “I’m really not,” I shouted back.

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Nate said, pausing a pace away from the lawn. He had to squint against the sun shining directly into his face. The brightness of the sunlight suited him. Even from up here, I could see he was a tall man. His brown hair was cropped short and textured in a way that I could distinguish the locks. The sides were faded so high that a good part of the sides of his head was shaved smooth. I knew that if he were to grow his hair, it would look almost the same as Beckett’s thick, wavy locks. “Got a particular reason for pushing your luck?”

“I’m not an adrenaline junkie looking to get high if that’s what you’re asking,” I said. I could speak a little more quietly now that Nate was nearer. I ran my fingers over the strings as if to accompany my words.

Nate lifted his hand to scratch the back of his head. The short-sleeved, well-fitting T-shirt revealed his stiff biceps, muscles contracting as he moved his arms. “You’re giving me anxiety, Carter.”

I snorted but stopped myself when his hand moved away from the back of his head and gently rubbed the area above his pecs. His broken and healed collarbone. I threw my leg back inside the house and set the guitar on the floor before leaning over the window. “Are you looking for Beckett?”

“Yeah,” Nate said. “Uh, thanks for…not falling out.”

I laughed out loud. “Wait there. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

I was sure Nate inhaled sharply to tell me not to bother, but I was gone before he could say a word. I found Caden in their room, who told me Beckett was in the shower. I wasn’t sure why that made me giddy, but I decided to entertain Nate in the meantime.

As I stepped out of the house, Nate was still standing a foot away from the lawn. “Come inside, Coach. Beckett’s gonna need a minute.”

Nate narrowed one eye against the sun and hesitated. “Ah, I don’t think I should…” He stepped forward. “That’s your space, guys.”

“And I’m inviting. It’s scorching there,” I insisted. “I’m pouring a glass of cold water.” Leaving the door open, I walked back to the fridge and filled a tall glass with ice before pouring water over it. By the time I was done, Nate was still hesitating, and I wondered if I would have to go outside to drag him. I was perfectly comfortable doing that, seeing how he’d carried me on his shoulders in Dad’s pool when I was six.

As I took a step toward the door, he showed up. He was a towering presence in any room, especially since I was not particularly tall. I was ever so slightly above average in most ways that didn’t matter and very below average in one way that mattered to a lot of people, but it felt good to stand near a man of his size.

With the kitchen island between us, I pushed the glass across and folded my arms on the counter, leaning in. Nate seemed like he was made of tension, but it appeared in the shape of masculine gruffness. He gripped the glass that was wet with condensation and had a few long sips before setting it back on the counter. His biceps bulged with disproportionate exertion. “Thanks,” he said in a deep, quiet voice.

I was perfectly comfortable in the silence that followed, unlike our guest. He looked around, turning his head left and right, letting me take the full view of his profile. My gaze dropped to his shoulders. They were broad and round, a perfect example of an athlete’s physique. He was still working out, no doubt. It made me wonder what his stomach looked like. It sparked images of his bare back the way it existed in my imagination.

“Nice place,” he said. “Do you like it here?”

“It’s only been a couple of weeks,” I said. “But I do. So far.”

“I bet the crowd can be a little too much, huh?” Nate looked into my eyes. His were dark brown, smoldering like hot coals. He was all seriousness and broody looks. It took away nothing from the appearance that had had him on the magazine covers as the world’s sexiest man several times throughout his long career. Some of those had come out long before I could be a judge of such things, but others had come out at the perfect time to solidify this crazy, fluttering feeling in my stomach.

I would never admit this to anyone, but I still had the most recent cover. It was upstairs, and it featured Nate Partridge partially dressed in his hockey gear, except that his torso was all bare flesh, and the look on his face was pure determination, like he would leap off the page and grab you by the throat, then make you his plaything.

Instinctively, my feet moved until my thighs pressed together behind the counter, rubbing against each other.

“I didn’t know you could play guitar,” Nate said, his tone a little more relaxed.

It’s my favorite thing in the world, I thought. “It’s nothing. Everyone needs a hobby.”

Nate raised his eyebrows skeptically. It figured. He was like my dad in that way. I had never known him to have an interest beyond hockey. Sometimes, it felt like they were all part of a cult. The dedication they displayed was otherworldly. Some admired it. Then again, those who admired it blindly had never been strong-armed into following the same path.

“Are you still in touch with my dad?” I asked idly. It had been a long time since the last visit, but Nate still played after Dad had left the NHL.

“We talk,” Nate said, shrugging. It was such a straight-guy gesture that it nearly made me chuckle.

“I used to see you so much more often,” I said.

Nate shook his head. “You know how it is. Life gets in the way. Truth be told, I don’t think there’ll ever be a time when we’re not in each other’s lives.” He meant my dad, but the words sounded way too good not to savor for a moment.

“He’s really worried that I’m not pulling in my weight at drills,” I said.

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