Page 9 of On Thin Ice

A few guys glanced my way as I yanked my blue Aces hoodie over my head and stood. The second I met Coach’s gaze, my stomach tightened. Nothing good ever followed when he called you into his office wearing that annoyed-looking expression.

I followed him down the narrow hall leading to the staff offices. The air back here always felt a bit colder, the hum of the overhead lights a little louder.

Coach stopped outside his door, pushed it open, and gestured for me to step inside.

His office was utilitarian—functional, no frills, just like the man himself. A desk, a couple of chairs, the faint scent of coffee and fried food lingering in the air. The framed photo of him and his wife on a boat somewhere in the Caribbean was the only personal touch in the room.

Coach exhaled as he propped himself on his desk, arms crossing over his chest. “You wanna tell me what that was out there?”

I sank into the chair across from him, feigning innocence. “What was what?”

Coach’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Don’t play dumb. You lined Bell up from three strides out.”

“It was a clean hit.”

Coach held my gaze, letting the silence stretch between us for a few seconds before he shook his head. “Didn’t say it wasn’t clean.” He pushed off the desk and rounded it, lowering himself into his chair with a sigh. “It was, however, unnecessary.”

I wanted to argue. Wanted to say Bell deserved it, that someone needed to rein in his cocky bullshit, but I swallowed those words down because Coach wasn’t wrong. I’d never played like this before.

The fact that I had today? That was a problem.

He watched me, his expression unreadable. “I see you agree with me,” he said after a few long seconds.

I exhaled through my nose, dropping my gaze to the scuff marks on the floor. “Yeah,” I admitted.

Coach leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping idly against the armrest. His jaw worked like he was chewing on his words before speaking them. Then his gaze shifted toward the closed door as if making sure no one else was around to hear. “How much do you know about Bell?”

His question caught me off guard.

But I was equally sure an honest answer would catch him off guard even more, so I pretended like I hadn’t watched all of Stryker’s college games, read every article that mentioned him, and stalked his socials like it was my goddamn job.

“Just the basics,” I said with a slight lift of my shoulder.

Coach shifted in his chair, like he was weighing whether to say something or let it go. His mouth opened, then closed. Whatever was on his mind, it looked like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to let me in on it or not. Finally, he blew out a breath, dragging his hands down his face, tugging at his cheeks until his eyes drooped like a basset hound’s. “His dad’s a real piece of work.”

“How so?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

You’d think with all the time I’d spent obsessing over the kid, I’d know more about his family, but information about his relationship with them was hard to come by. The only pictures I managed to unearth were from when Stryker was still a little boy. Given how open he was about everything else in his life, I got the impression that wasn’t by accident.

Still, it had been easy enough to learn that his dad, Samson Bell, was some famous soccer star who’d made a killing playing in England before retiring and moving back to Ohio to raise his family. A couple of the articles I read said he’d hoped his only son would follow in his footsteps. I figured that explained the kid’s stupid ass name. I mean, why in the hell would you name your son Stryker otherwise, and with ayinstead of ani, to boot? So fucking ridiculous.

“I probably shouldn’t say anything,” Coach continued, his voice dropping slightly even though no one was around to overhear our conversation. “But between you and me, the guy’s a real hard-ass. He’s made a name for himself since retiring as a hell and damnation evangelical, if you get my drift.”

He gave me a pointed look that said everything his words didn’t: Stryker had the kind of family where coming out wasn’t just difficult—it could be dangerous.

The type of upbringing that left scars, even if you couldn’t see them.

And given how open he was about his sexuality?Fuck. That would have been a nightmare.

My stomach dropped as I envisioned what his home life must have been like, but I managed to keep my expression neutral.

I wasn’t necessarily a stranger to that kind of thing. I’d grown up in a town where slurs—both racist and homophobic—were regularly tossed around in the locker room, where no one batted an eye when a kid got called a “little fairy” for running his mouth. A place where the local diner had a Bible quote on the wall next to the specials board, and where my high school history teacher had once said, completely unprompted, that he wasn’t homophobic, but “didn’t see why gay people had to make such a big deal about everything.”

My parents never said shit like that, but I never saw them call other folks out on it, either. Never saw my dad correct one of his fishing buddies when one of them spouted shit they shouldn’t. Never saw my mom tell the ladies at the church bake sale to knock off the gossip about Mrs. Folger’s nephew, who “seemed a little off.”

Nah, my dad hadn’t said shit to his friends, but he’d said plenty tome.

So I did what I’d been forced to do—kept my mouth shut and my head down. Built a life so perfectly crafted that no one would ever think to look closer.

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