Page 64 of On Ice

Torres sets up for a one-timer from my pass, but I put it slightly behind him. Shit. The puck skips off his stick, and slides harmlessly wide.

“Sorry, kid.” I circle back for another try, cursing under my breath. “My bad.”

“No worries, Cap.” He grins through his cage. “I’m used to sloppy play from Mills.”

“I heard that, rookie,” Mills calls from the bench.

We switch to special teams work. I take my usual spot at the point on the power play, trying to quarterback the first unit. Torres sets up for the one-timer, Mills works the half-wall, Jackson and Deck battle for position down low.

“Movement, gentlemen.” Coach paces the bench. “Make them chase you. Create lanes. Riley, you’re over thinking everything. Relax.”

He’s not wrong. But relaxing is easier said than done when your instincts are screaming that everything’s wrong in the world. But I force myself to focus, to find the seams in the penalty kill’s coverage. The next one-timer from Torres squeaks past Noah’s blocker. Small victories.

“Water break.” Coach blows his whistle. “Two minutes.”

The team clusters around the bench, grabbing water bottles. Once we’re hydrated, we finish with battle drills: one-on-one fights for the puck along the boards.

Deck catches me with a solid check that rattles my teeth. “Sorry, Cap. Didn’t mean to catch you that hard.”

“No worries.” The shit I’m dealing with in my life, a hard check is nothing.

“Good work today,” Coach says when he finally gathers us at center ice. “Power play’s looking sharper. Penalty kill needs work on rotations. Hit the showers then get some rest. Riley, stick around a minute?”

My stomach sinks as the guys file off, shooting curious glances. Of course it’s inevitable that Coach will have some things to say. I disappeared without a word, and even if I had a reason, he needs to check in with me.

Coach waits until we’re alone, then he beckons me closer. I respect Coach. He’s a former player turned coach. That means he gets what we go through on a personal level. He’s in his early 50s, with salt-and-pepper hair and a stocky build that speaks tohis days as a defenseman. Despite his gruff exterior, he’s deeply invested in his players’ success, both on and off the ice.

“Your mom on the mend?” he asks gruffly when we’re alone.

“She’s doing much better, sir.” I force a smile. “Thanks for asking.”

“Good. Good.” He shifts uneasily. “You know it’s not my way to butt into my player’s personal lives,” he begins. He looks a little uncomfortable, but he’s a bulldog so he keeps going. “I was surprised to learn how close you are to Mr. Barone.”

I feel my cheeks heat, but hopefully he’ll just chalk my flushed face up to the rigorous practice that just ended. “It’s nothing serious,” I say, praying maybe that will discourage him.

It doesn’t.

He clears his throat. “There are no formal NHL rules explicitly forbidding a romantic relationship between a player and a team owner.” He grimaces. “Unlike coaches or management, who have direct influence over player performance and ice time, owners are more removed from daily team operations. Usually. Barone is around more than most owners.”

“Right.” I know he’s dying of curiosity about me and Luca, but I obviously can’t be honest with him. I need to figure out a way to tell him stuff without actuallytellinghim anything.

“But even if there are no actual rules against it, such a relationship could raise serious concerns about special treatment.” He holds my gaze. “The other players might start feeling resentment.”

“Did someone complain?”

“No.”

I frown. “Have I asked for any special treatment?”

“No.” He looks a bit sheepish.

“Well, I don’t plan on asking either.”

Being who he is, Coach doesn’t back down. “Still, there could be those who suspect you’re being treated better, even if you’re not. You’re the captain of the team. You need to lead by example.”

“I’m not sure how who I date sets a bad example for how to play hockey.”

He shrugs. “That depends on who you’re dating. The guys might think certain things because the guy you’re with is Barone.”

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