Page 10 of On Thin Ice

But Stryker?

He’d done the exact opposite.

He’d thrown himself into the spotlight and made himself impossible to ignore. Daring people to say something, to challenge him, to knock him down just so he could show them he’d always get right back up. Like he had to prove—to himself, to the world, to his parents—that nothing could touch him.

It made sense now. The over-the-top personality. The need to be seen. The way he pushed, provoked.

It had irritated the hell out of me. It still did. But now, at least, I understood him a little bit better—even if I didn’t necessarily want to.

Coach shifted in his chair, resting an elbow on the armrest as he studied me. Not impatient. Not annoyed. Just watching. Measuring my reaction.

But if he was waiting for me to say something, he’d be waiting a long damn time.

After a moment, he continued. “I spoke with the kid’s coaches at Thackeray when we drafted him. There were … rumors, let’s call ‘em, about his family and how it affected him on the ice.”

That caught my attention. I sat forward slightly. “And?”

Coach tilted his head, considering me for a beat longer before exhaling. “And they assured us that while he can be excited, eager to please?—”

I snorted. That was certainly one way to put it. “Arrogant little fuckhead” was what I would have said.

Coach leaned back again, his expression shrewd. “As I was saying … with a bit of mentoring and a steady, positive influence, his talent’s limitless.”

I huffed out a laugh, rubbing a hand over my face. Yeah. I saw exactly where this was going. “So what, you want me to be that good influence?”

“I want you to mentor him.”

My stomach dropped. I stared at Coach for a beat, waiting for … I didn’t know what. Absolution? Indication that he was kidding?

He gave me nothing.

“You’re serious,” I said flatly.

He arched a brow. “Do I not look serious?”

I clenched my jaw so hard it ached, my fingers tightening on the armrests.

He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his desk. “Bell’s talented, no question. But helacks discipline.”

I huffed out a humorless laugh. “And you think I’m the guy to fix that?”

“Today’s antics aside, I think you’re one of the most grounded guys on this team.” The corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smirk.

I snorted. “Are you calling me boring, Coach?”

He let out a breath, something close to amusement flickering across his face. “I’m saying you’ve got discipline. Restraint. Hell, if there’s one thing you’ve mastered, Harrison, it’s self-denial.”

My body went rigid, blood rushing in my ears. For a single, suffocating second, it felt like Coach was looking right through me—like heknew. Like he’d somehow cracked open my chest and seen every secret I’d spent years hiding.

No. No fucking way.

I stared across at him, my pulse pounding in my ears, waiting for sometellthat would confirm those words had been deliberate. But there was nothing there. Just the same steady expression I’d seen a thousand times before.

I forced a grin, my cheek muscles fighting me the entire way. “Didn’t realize that was a good thing.”

Coach leaned back in his chair. “It is when the rest of the guys are out partying and spending money like it’s burning a hole in their pocket. When they’re making dumbass decisions, you’re one of the few who keeps his head on straight. You show up, put in the work, and don’t let distractions pull you under.”

The tension in my shoulders eased—not completely, but enough. I forced myself to nod, swallowing against the lump of fear in my throat.

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