Page 5 of Pucking Christmas Triplets Surprise

"You just threw a tantrum like a spoiled little girl, soprincess." He quips; the sound of amusement rolls over his words, and it takes everything out of me not to growl again.

"I'm frustrated. I can't seem to..." Right in front of him, I pause with only the glass separating our gazes. He has the most amazing cerulean eyes I have ever seen. They look like a stormy ocean, and my core clinches at the thought of me caught in his fury or passion. I bet his opponents on the ice drop to their knees in mercy under his gaze.

"What?" His eyes narrow, and the storm eases through the eclipse of his black eyelashes. He sounds mad, but I can tell bythe twitch in the corner of his lip that he is teasing me. "Get tight enough?"

"No, I'm not trying to do the Biellmann spin. I’m doing a scratch turn." I murmured. I haven't been able to be on the ice since the accident last winter, about three weeks after the Winter Showcase, where I first met Coach Jackson.

The accident where Dylan dropped me and I crashed into the ice, my head cracked out, twelve stitches, a concussion. I was in my bed back in Minnesota with my mother for six months. She'd kill me if she knew I was back on the ice.

"You're scared of the ice, now?" He shrugs.

"I have never been scared of the ice."

"Okay." He nods, one of his plush pink lips poking out. "So go do your scratch turn."

I roll my eyes. "Oh fuck off."

"Excuse me?" The stern rasp in his voice heightens as he leans so close to the glass he is almost hanging off the seat.

"You just saw me fail, and you're demanding more of me?"

"If you're not afraid of the ice, do it again." He challenges.

I burn so hot my ears feel like they're on fire. Scoffing, I turn on my heels to skate to the other side of the rink.

"Don't skate away from me!" He growls, the creak of metal from the benches ringing through the arena.

"You're not my coach!" I bark back, my skates slicing against the ice, creating an off-beat rhythm from my huffing as I make a b-lineto the lockers.

Who the hell does Coach Jackson think he is? I am not on his team of dumb hockey jocks knocking into each other on the ice. I am an Olympic-bound athlete. He's just a washed-up NHL player in fucking Maine, a coach for a D2 school, might I add, not even in the top twenty.

My anger burns away any bite of the cold from my falls. My skates clink against the concrete as I wind down to the locker rooms. My mind is still running wild.

"Coach is wrong, Josie," I whisper, my hands running over the raised scars along my forearms. "You were born to be on the ice. You aren't scared."

I yank at my laces, feeling the rough leather bite into my fingers as I wrestle with the skates. My hands are trembling, and my fingers are numb from the cold and fight. My muscles taunt with failure, another terrible practice where I feel further away from myself.

The skates won’t come off fast enough, making it worse and forcing something resentful to boil inside me. I yank harder, finally wrenching one of them free, and I can’t hold it in anymore. I hurl them across the room, the dull clatter of them hitting the lockers echoing in the space.

There is something satisfying about watching the skates clatter to the ground as if they mean nothing. I slam my other foot to the ground, yanking the second one free, and my breath comes in ragged, angry bursts.

My feet throb as they meet the cold air, raw and stinging, but it’s nothing compared to the fire raging in my chest. The thick and suffocating silence presses down on me as if the whole room is mocking me, reminding me of everything that slipped away.

Alone in the cold, sterile locker room, the skates lay abandoned—useless—just like me. A slow clap echoes through the space, startling me. I spin around, my eyes landing on Coach Christopher Jackson, staring at me with a bored expression.

"You got it out of your system?"

I painfully pull my bottom lip into my mouth. My nostrils flare, and my knuckles curl into numbing a ball of anger. I step forward, eyes narrowed in on his glowing blue eyes. "Didn't I tell you to fuck off?"

He scoffs, rolling his neck on a deep breath. "I heard you; I just didn't think you would say it to my face."

"Why not?" I roll my eyes, placing both hands on my hips, a nasty smile on my face. "Because you're the big bad NHL veteran coach?"

"No, because I’m fifteen years your senior."

"Is that supposed to mean something?”

"It means you should respect me." Coach Jackson growls.

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