Page 25 of Charming Crosschecks

“She’s helping us,” Gerry continued, his voice softening but losing none of its intensity. “She’s helping Lafreniere, she’s helpedme, and she’s doing all of this, giving her best, despite us whining, griping, or snapping back at her for pushing us so hard. And I…” His voice faltered, his throat tightening as he admitted the bitter truth. “I’ve been the worst of it.”

He paused, the weight of his words hanging heavily between them. It hit him then how hateful he’d been, how unfair. And still, despite it all, she’d agreed to dinner. She’d given him a chance. How had he let things spiral so far out of control?

“Things have to change around here,” he said finally, his voice steady, each word like a vow. “We have an image to uphold. It’s not just something for the fans—it’s for us. We need to be better, treat people better, and be the best we can be—not weasel our way out of hard work by insulting someone, calling them names behind their back, or implying something so awful as to say that I’musingher.” His voice dropped to a whisper, the weight of his shame palpable.

Coeur and Boucher exchanged a glance but said nothing. There was nothingtosay.

“I’m going to go find Molly and explain,” Gerry muttered, shoving back his chair and rising to his feet.

“Coach is waiting for us on the ice,” Giroux reminded him, laying a hand on his shoulder. His tone was gentle but firm. “And you might want to give her time to cool off. I know I would if it was Becca…”

Gerry froze, his fists clenching at his sides. Every fiber of his being screamed to run after her, to make this right. But Giroux had a point. Molly deserved time—time to process, time to breathe, time to decide whether she even wanted to hear him out.

And that thought, more than anything, terrified him.

Afew hours later, Gerry was in the weight room, methodically punishing his body as if the strain could somehow ease the turmoil churning in his mind. The metallic clink of weights and the low hum of voices in the background served as a constant reminder of where he was—surrounded by his team, his comrades—but feeling completely isolated.

Sweat dripped down his temple, soaking into his shirt as he powered through another set, jaw clenched tight with the effort. Each rep was a silent battle, not just against the weights but against his frustration—frustration with the situation, his teammates, and, most of all, himself.

He kept one eye on the ice skating simulator, waiting impatiently for Giroux to finish up so he could throw himself into something even more punishing. The other eye, however, was drawn elsewhere. No matter how much he tried to focus, his gaze kept drifting to Molly.

She was across the room, seated on the mats, stretching with Lafreniere. Her movements were fluid, purposeful, every action deliberate and precise. She wasn’t just stretching; she was demonstrating, teaching, guiding, with an energy that commanded attention.

She was grace personified.

Every tilt of her body, every extension of her limbs, spoke of strength, discipline, and a quiet intensity that Gerry couldn’t look away from. Her ponytail swayed slightly as she shifted positions, and he felt a pang of guilt pierce through the haze of his frustration. Strong. Determined. Professional. And here he was, stealing glances like some lovesick teenager while she carried on without a clue of the turmoil he was in.

“Like this,” she said, her voice clear and instructive as she demonstrated a stretch for Lafreniere. She extended one leg forward, her movements so precise it was like watching a dancer in slow motion. Then, with a fluid rotation, she raised her leg to the side, letting her hip pivot naturally. “Rock in slow, controlled movements to get that tendon and ball socket to stay moving, lubricated, and stretched. If you don’t stretch properly after practice or a game, you’ll stiffen up.”

Gerry couldn’t help but anticipate a cocky remark from Lafreniere—it would’ve been just like him to insist that he did stretch, like all of them did. But Molly’s presence seemed to command a different kind of respect. She wasn’t just showing them the motions; she was showing them the purpose behind the motions. Her focus, her precision—it was a lesson in itself.

It wasn’t just about doing the movements. It was about intention, effort, and control.

Just like her.

Gerry shifted his grip on the weights, staring down at the barbell with a grimace. Molly wasn’t the type of person who would be swayed by empty gestures or hollow words. She wouldn’t give her heart to someone who didn’t earn it. Flowers or pretty words wouldn’t cut it. She needed meaning behind the actions. She needed to see the thought, the care, the effort someone was willing to put in—not just for her, but with her.

That was why he’d chosen the Italian cookies after their date last night. It hadn’t been random; it had been intentional. A small gesture, maybe, but one he’d hoped would show her he was paying attention, that he cared enough to notice the little things.

Now, watching her move with such quiet grace, his chest tightened. He wasn’t sure if it would be enough. The fragile connection they’d begun to build was hanging by a thread after the mess with his teammates’ big mouths. He wasn’t sure if it could withstand the damage, but he knew one thing with absolute certainty: if it wasn’t over, if he still had a chance, he’d do whatever it took to fix it.

He owed her that much.

CHAPTER 8

MOLLY

Seething.

That was a word Molly never imagined she would use to describe herself, but as she stood there this morning, fuming with every breath she took, it was the only one that fit. It was more than just irritation; it was a deep, smoldering rage that was slowly but surely boiling over. She could feel it building, like a pot left unattended on a hot stove—like percolating coffee, like something that was crock-potting away inside her, growing and thickening until it was practically scalding.

And the reason?

Gerry.

The very thought of him, of what he had said, of what he had done, made her insides twist with anger. To be called ‘Beetlejuice’—she was humiliated, offended, and enraged. That was bad enough, but then the truth came out: Gerry had given her the nickname. Gerry, the guy she had foolishly trusted, the one she had allowed herself to feel something for—he had named her after some ridiculous, out-of-touch character just to poke fun at her.

But it didn’t stop there.

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