Page 58 of Offside Attraction

He stepped out of his truck, already yawning, and opened the back door to grab an energy drink. He was going to need caffeine to make it through coaching and then practice. All he wanted to do was get on the ice. To forget the stew of mixed emotions simmering in his gut and toss around a puck.

All day Sunday, he’d wondered if he should bail on the Founder’s Event next week. Not just because he’d be missing practice, but because of . . . everything. Ultimately, he couldn’t feel good about it. Not because he was doing it for Rhonda. After the other night, the worst thing he could do was see her again when he was trying to disentangle himself.

But somewhere along the line, he’d started to believe in Reviact. He wanted her to meet with Mallory. Claire had actually gone to her appointment and picked up her prescription. He hadn’t seen that kind of follow through in years. Add to that the fact that she hadn’t called yet, and the faintest glimmer of hope sparked in his chest.

He should’ve snuffed it out instantly. It hurt too much to keep hoping for something better and watching it fizzle out. But pretending he accepted her situation? That required a regular infusion of fooling himself.

That was the problem with love. He couldn’t flick it on or off. It was like herpes. Lying dormant no matter what treatment he used, ready to flair up and make him look like an idiot.

He crossed the snowy parking lot and pulled open the door to the rink. A wave of warm air washed over him as he pushed through the storm doors and wiped his boots on the mat. The familiar smell of the rink filled his nostrils—part rubber, part ice, part machine. He took a deep breath, letting it settle in his lungs. This was his escape. His sanctuary.

He waved at the staff and wound his way down the stairs to the benches and laced up his skates. The scrape of blades, the echo of pucks hitting the boards, the laughter and shouts of the kids warming up—it was a symphony he never got tired of hearing.

He skated out and scanned the rink, mentally taking note of each kid out there. His brow furrowed when he didn’t see Ethan. That kid was always there early. Jordan skated back to the bench and grabbed his phone from his coat pocket. No messages. He tapped out a quick text.

Hey. All good?

He waited a moment. If it took longer than thirty seconds for him to respond, he’d start calling hospitals. Phones had become these kids’ fifth appendage.

The three little dots blinked on the screen, then disappeared. Finally, a message popped up.

Ethan

Not feeling well.

Jordan stared at the words. Bullshit. Ethan had shown up in October when he hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours with the stomach flu. He blew out a breath and shoved his phone back in his pocket, then skated to the centre of the rink.

He clapped his hands and started calling out drills. The rest of the kids snapped into action, and Jordan skated over to where Greg was standing against the boards. "Think you can run both groups?" Greg looked up, giving him a questioning look. Jordan nodded toward the stairs. “Something’s going on with Ethan."

Greg's eyes widened, then he nodded. "Yeah, sure. Go."

Jordan turned on his skates and made a beeline for the gate. His blades cut a clean path, and he stepped off the ice. It wasn’t his job to babysit. But something wasn’t sitting right with him about the whole situation.There was that latent virus, flaring up again.

He'd never had a coach who gave a shit about his personal life. It was all about performance, stats, and wins. But maybe that was the problem. Maybe if someone had given a damn about players off the ice in his generation, he wouldn’t keep collecting players who were struggling to find themselves in their mid-thirties.

Jordan took off his skates, grabbed his coat, climbed the stairs, then pushed through the doors of the rink and crossed the parking lot. He hustled to his truck, his skates slung over his shoulder, and dialed Ethan’s mom. When she didn’t answer, he tapped out a quick text letting her know he was checking in on him. She responded immediately saying she wasn’t home, but he was more than welcome to stop by. Good. He didn’t want any weirdness where that was concerned.

He strapped on his seat belt and pulled out of the lot while looking up directions for Ethan's house. It wasn’t far. Jordan plugged the address into his maps app and followed the blue line. Ten minutes later, he turned into the neighbourhood and pulled up to the curb in front of their white bungalow. He put the truck in park and sat there a moment, trying to figure out what he was going to say. Maybe if he’d picked up chicken noodle soup or something, he would’ve had an excuse to show up out of the blue.

Jordan took a deep breath, then opened his truck door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He walked up the front steps and knocked on the front door. After a few moments, he fully expected to have to leave and drive back to the rink empty-handed, but then he heard footsteps on the other side. The door swung open.

Ethan stood there, his eyes widening in surprise. "Coach? What are you doing here?"

Jordan looked him up and down. Totally normal. "Wanted to check in on you.” Jordan shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

"I told you, I'm not feeling well." Ethan stood there, his hand still on the doorknob.

"Yeah, you look like you're on your deathbed." Jordan raised an eyebrow.

Ethan sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Look. I just . . . I needed a break, okay?"

Jordan nodded slowly, then motioned to the street. "You want to go grab a coffee or something? I'm freezing my ass off out here."

Ethan hesitated, then shrugged. "Sure, I guess."

“Text your mom. Make sure it’s okay.”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “I’m seventeen.”

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