Page 56 of Wrong Score

She crosses her arms, tilting her head and stares at the blank space I’m referring to. “Hmmm. You might be right, but I can’t afford something like that right now.”

She turns and heads for the small kitchen that opens up to the living room.

“You’re doing alright though I assume? Living alone in a one-bedroom apartment close to downtown isn’t cheap.”

She reaches for two glasses in the cupboard and fills them with water and then walks back over to hand me one.

“I’m lucky, I didn’t mean to suggest that I don't make enough. Getting this promotion has a small pay increase, but my salary is no Head Coach for the Seattle Hawkeyes contract,” she smirks with a glint in her eye and then takes a sip of her water. “But don’t change the subject, you’re here for one reason only. You have a secret birthday wish to spill and I haven’t forgotten.”

“I’ve noticed.” The humor fades slightly as I lower my voice, suddenly aware of the weight of what I’m about to say. “Alright. My wish…” I hesitate, both of us turning from staring at the wall and face each other. I glance at her lips before locking eyes with her again. “If I were the type to make wishes, Rowan, mine would’ve been for a chance. Just one good, proper chance. No interruptions, no other people involved. Just you and me, to see what it could be like. Maybe more than once.”

Her eyes widen slightly, and for a second, I worry I’ve overstepped. But then her expression softens, a flicker of something vulnerable and open crossing her face.

“A chance for what?” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

“To do this without all the distractions,” I admit. “To see what you and I could be without anyone or, in my case, hockey, getting in the way. No Drew, no games, no one else… just us.”

The air between us thickens, her gaze locking on mine like she’s trying to read every unspoken word beneath the surface. My heart pounds in my chest, louder than the quiet hum of the building around us.

“And you were just going to keep that little wish all to yourself?” she asks, stepping closer.

“I thought you were too stubborn to wait ‘til midnight to find out,” I say, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth despite the nerves gnawing at me.

“Guilty as charged,” she murmurs, taking another step. She’s close enough now that I can feel the warmth radiating off her, her eyes searching mine. “Well, now that you’ve made your wish, Coach… what’s next?”

I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I reach for her hand, tracing her fingers lightly before letting my thumb rest over the back of her hand. “This,” I whisper, leaning down slowly.

Our lips meet softly at first, a tentative kiss that feels like a question, an offering. Her hand slides up to my shoulder, pulling me closer as I deepen the kiss, pressing her gently against the wall.

Time seems to slow, the world narrowing to the quiet rhythm of her breath, the soft press of her body against mine. For the first time in my life, hockey’s place in my world might have a true contender.

Chapter Twenty

Rowan

It's been a week since Bex kissed me in my apartment and tonight the Hawkeyes are playing another home game. I make my way to my seat watching the crowd light up with anticipation for the game. My breath catches when I see it—a large Hawkeyes jacket draped over the back of my chair. The bold, embroidered nameCoach Bexon the front chest pocket leaves no doubt as to who left it. On the seat itself is a heated blanket powered by a small battery pack and a Stanley thermos, still steaming with what smells like hot apple cider.

I sink into the chair, pulling the blanket over my lap and immediately slipping into the oversized jacket. The warmth surrounds me, and so does his presence, as if he's here with me despite being on the other side of the rink. I cradle the thermos between my hands, sipping the cider, letting its heat soothe me. This is the warmest I’ve ever been at a game. I’m usually concerned with my professionalism, but tonight, just this once, I can’t deny my heart beating a little more rapidly for the premeditated thought that Bex put into making sure I’m comfortable.

This wasn’t a spur of the moment decision. This took planning—it was intentional and meaningful, and also, one hundred percent practical.

He didn’t leave flowers and chocolates.

He left a blanket with batteries he probably brought from home. The jacket isn’t one I’ve ever seen him wear which means he probably brought that from home too. And the cider? Well, the stadium doesn’t sell it, and this has a spice and caramel added like the spiced cider down the street at Serendipity's.

"Don’t look now," the woman next to me whispers conspiratorially, leaning closer. "But Coach Bex hasn’t stopped staring at you since you walked into the aisle."

I glance up instinctively, and there he is. His hazel eyes lock onto mine even as Ezra leans toward him, pointing at something on the clipboard he’s holding. Bex doesn’t even glance at what Ezra’s saying. He’s staring right at me, his gaze steady and unmistakable.

My breath hitches. I mouth,Thank you, hoping he understands. The corner of his mouth twitches, the smallest acknowledgment before he shifts his attention back to the clipboard, but I can feel the weight of his gaze linger even as I look away.

The game starts strong. The Hawkeyes dominate the first period, scoring twice. The crowd erupts with every goal, a wave of cheers and chants rolling through the stadium. I lose myself in the rhythm of the game, texting Hans during the break to let him know I won’t be around to help with Sherlock next week since I’ll be traveling with the team.

As the second period approaches, I notice a movement beside me. Someone slides into the previously empty seat, but I’m too focused on the rink to pay much attention. The coaches file back into their box in front of me, and my eyes naturally drift to Bex.

Except Bex isn’t looking at me. His eyes are fixed on whoever is now sitting beside me, and the sharpness in his expression sends a chill down my spine. He looks... furious.

“Bex doesn’t seem happy to see me,” a familiar voice says, pulling my attention to my left.

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