Page 53 of The Dating Coach
"Delacroix, you good?" Coach Jack leaned over, concern creasing his weathered face.
"I'm fine," I lied, tasting blood in my mouth. Everything hurt – ribs, shoulder, pride – but I could see her in the stands.Gemma sat with Mia and Karen, wearing my jersey, her face tight with worry every time I took a hit. The thought of her watching, of disappointing her by not finishing the game, hurt worse than any check.
"You're up," Coach called, and I vaulted over the boards before he could change his mind.
The ice felt different under my skates – less stable, more treacherous. But hockey had been my refuge for twenty one years, the one place where my body knew what to do without conscious thought. Even through the pain, muscle memory took over.
The puck dropped, and I won the faceoff cleanly, sending it back to Gabe. We cycled in their zone, patient despite the clock ticking down. My ribs screamed with every turn, every stop, but I gritted my teeth and focused on the play developing in front of me.
Then I saw it – a gap in their defense, their left winger cheating too far up ice. I called for the puck, accepting Gabe's pass and wheeling behind their net. Kowalski came charging, looking for another crushing hit, but I'd learned his patterns. At the last second, I spun away, leaving him to crash harmlessly into the boards.
The goalie had committed to the pass I'd faked to Frank. Top shelf, glove side – a shot I'd practiced ten thousand times. The red light flashed, the crowd erupted, and suddenly we were up 3-2 with ninety seconds left.
My teammates mobbed me, but all I could think about was not vomiting in my helmet from the pain. Henry must have noticed because he subtly supported me as we made our way to the bench.
"That was fucking beautiful," he murmured. "Now sit your injured ass down and let us close this out."
The final ninety seconds crawled by. Michigan State pulled their goalie, desperate for the equalizer. Bodies crashed and collided, sticks slashed, everything on the line. When the final buzzer sounded, I allowed myself one moment of relief before the medical reality set in.
Something was definitely wrong with my ribs.
In the handshake line, Kowalski sneered at me. "Lucky shot, pretty boy. Next time you won't get up."
"Scoreboard," I replied, squeezing his hand harder than necessary and enjoying his wince. "And there won't be a next time. We'll be in the playoffs while you're watching from your couch."
The locker room celebration felt distant, muffled by the pain radiating through my torso. I sat in my stall, gingerly removing gear and trying not to wince visibly. The adrenaline was fading fast, leaving behind a deep, throbbing ache that made breathing difficult.
"Jesus," Henry whistled, looking at my torso. Bruises were already blooming across my ribs, purple and angry. "You need the trainer."
"After," I said, nodding toward the door where I could hear voices gathering. "Scouts incoming."
The parade began as expected. Providence's scout entered first, all false concern and calculated interest. "Hell of a game, Delacroix. That hit looked rough – you okay?"
"Fine," I said automatically. "Part of the game."
"Good to hear. Love seeing that toughness, that dedication." His eyes glinted. "Though I have to wonder if you'd have taken that hit six months ago. Seems like you're playing with more... edge lately."
The implication was clear – was my "edge" because I was focused on hockey or because I had something to prove? Before I could respond, more scouts filed in, each with their own version of the same questions. Detroit wondered about my "commitment level." Colorado mentioned hearing about "outside interests" affecting my training schedule.
My father entered last, the scouts parting for him like courtiers. His presence filled the room, commanding and cold.
"Good game," he said, which from Victor Delacroix was practically a parade. "You showed them what happens when you eliminate distractions and focus on what matters."
"I played hockey," I said evenly. "Same as always."
"No," he corrected, voice sharp. "Tonight you played like someone who remembers his priorities. The scouts noticed. Providence is prepared to make a significant offer, but they need assurance that you're fully committed."
"To hockey?" I kept my voice neutral despite the fire building in my chest.
"To excellence. To the path we've built toward your entire life." His eyes hardened. "Not to architecture portfolios and complicated women who pull your focus."
I stood slowly, ignoring the protest from my ribs. At full height, I could look him in the eye – something that had taken me twenty-one years to manage.
"What if I told you those 'distractions' are the reason I can play through pain? That the woman you dismiss is whyI want to win – not for scouts or contracts, but because she believes I'm more than just hockey statistics?"
His jaw tightened. "Then I'd remind you that emotions are temporary. Careers are built on sacrifice. Your grandfather—"
"Liam?" Gemma's voice cut through his lecture like sunshine through storm clouds. She stood in the doorway, concern radiating from every line of her body. "Sorry to interrupt. Mia saw that hit and she's worried sick."
