Page 82 of The Pucking Player

“PR stunt?” Coach’s laugh could strip paint. “That’s what you called it, right? Just for show?” He kicks one of the photos, sending it spinning across the floor. “Looks pretty fuckingrealto me.”

My chest constricts at the images. Sophie’s smile. The way she fit against me. The trust in her eyes that I’m currently betraying.

“Tell me something, O’Connor.” Coach steps closer, close enough I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw. “Was this your plan all along? Seduce my daughter while playing the field with pop stars? Add another notch to your bedpost?”

The accusation hits like a blindside check. “It’s not like that.”

“No?” His eyes could freeze hell over. “Then whatwasit like? Because from where I’m standing, you’re the same player you’ve always been. Just found yourself a new game.”

“Sophie’s not a game.” The words rip out before I can stop them.

“Sophie is mydaughter!” His roar bounces off the walls. “Mybabygirl! And the thought of your sleazy hands anywhere near her makes me want to?—”

He breaks off, fists clenching like he’s imagining them around my throat.

I should keep my mouth shut. Should let him think what he wants. It’s safer for everyone if he believes I’m exactly the dirtbag he thinks I am.

But the words spill out before I can stop myself.

“I love her.”

My declaration hangs in the air between us, raw and real and completely fucking stupid to say out loud.

Coach’s laugh is pure ice. “Love? You wouldn’t know love if it cross-checked you into the boards. I’ve seen how you ‘love’ women, O’Connor. Seen the trail of broken hearts you leave behind. And now, my daughter.”

He jabs a finger into my chest. “Starting today, you’re skating third line minutes. Every practice, you’ll stay late. Extra sprints, extra drills. I’m going to work you so hard you’ll wish I’d just cut you.”

I say nothing. What is there to say?

“And I’m talking to management about trade options. Maybe the Seattle expansion team needs a hotshot captain with commitment issues.”

“Coach, the playoffs?—”

“Oh, you’ll play. Can’t bench the Defenders star in the playoffs, can I?” His smile is all teeth. “But every minute you’re onmyice, you’ll earn it in blood and sweat. And if you so much asbreathein Sophie’s direction again,” He steps closer, voice dropping to a growl, “I’ll bury you so deep in the minors they’ll need a search party to find you.”

I should agree. Should nod and take the punishment. It’s what I need to do anyway, to keep her safe from Volkov.

Instead, I hear myself say, “That’s not your choice to make.”

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

“The hell it isn’t!”

Coach’s fist comes out of nowhere. I could block it. Should block it. But some part of me thinks I deserve the hit.

Pain explodes across my jaw. I stagger back, tasting blood.

“Coach!”

Finn’s voice cuts through the red haze. He and Dmitri must have just arrived for early practice. They rush in, Finn grabbing Coach while Dmitri steps between us.

“Blyad,” Dmitri mutters. “What is happening here?”

Coach shrugs off Finn’s grip, straightening his jacket. His voice is pure steel. “Practice starts in twenty minutes. Full gear, O’Connor. And clear your schedule, you’ll be running sprints until dinner.”

“Coach,” Finn tries, “playoffs are?—”

“The team needs a captain they can trust.” Novak’s eyes never leave mine. “Until then, we’ll see what kind of man O’Connor really is.” His smile is razor sharp. “Hope you’ve got good stamina,son.” He drawls the word menacingly. “You’re going to need it.”

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