Page 16 of Take All of Me

He shrugs, unbothered. “Nope, but I’ve watched videos of your father, and you were always right there—big brown eyes, wide smile. Your love for the game can’t be matched and having someone like that in charge? Yeah, I think you’ll be just fine.” His words stir up memories of rink-side days with Dad, my notebook full of plays clutched tight against my chest. I dip my head to hide the flush creeping up my cheeks, muttering a quick “Thanks” before heading toward the coach’s office.

I know this rink—every corner, every echo—but when I near the main office, I falter. The door’s ajar, and inside, an older man leans back in the chair while the dean speaks softly, words too low to catch. I stay just outside, spotting Holt off to the side, arms folded tight across his chest, eyebrows pinched like he’s ready to snap. I push a little closer, catching a fragment of the argument.

“I don’t need a fucking assistant coach. That’s what Holt’s for!” The man in the chair argues, throwing an arm out toward Holt.

Holt’s jaw clenches, his shoulders falling in defeat. “No, I’m theskillscoach. Maybe the strength and conditioning coach, but I don’t even get paid for that. Mason, youneedan assistant. Hell, you could use another full-time coach as far as I’m concerned.”

Mason laughs, a dry, dismissive sound. “Your little injury doesn’t stop you from using your voice. Why don’t you take up the position? I don’t need no little girl in here.”

My stomach drops, the sting of his words cutting deep. Holt throws up his hands, frustration boiling over, and yanks the door open, freezing when he sees me standing there. The dean sighs, shaking his head as if he knew that this confrontation would happen. “Holt, would you give her a rundown? I’ll finish with Mason.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

I don’t like being caught off guard here, leaning a little into the office to catch Mason glaring at me. “What’s going on?”

Holt gestures across the hall to the second coach’s office. “Not here.”

I follow him, legs moving on autopilot, my mind spinning. We step inside, my pulse picking up as I watch to see where he stands. I have nothing against Holt but being in a room alone with an Alpha isn’t my preference. Folding my arms tight across my chest, I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the small space—bare desk, two chairs, and a wall full of books, of memories.

Holt seems to sense my unease, cracking the door open and then steps back, leaving my path to the exit clear. It’s such a small gesture, but it’s everything, loosening the knot in my chest, making it easier to breathe. I meet his brown eyes, grateful, and he offers a faint nod, like he gets it.

“By the expression on your face, the dean didn’t really tell you the predicament we’re in here.” His words are tinged with frustration, such a different version of him than yesterday with Dakota or even this morning. “Mason’s officially the coach, but he doesn’t do jack shit. He’s a sit-in so the guys could keep playing. Their record over the last few years is awful and then I got recruited to come back and help, but it’s basically been me and them. Mason shows up most of the time, usually half out of it.”

I blink, processing, and frown. “I don’t get why they’d keep him on,” I say, “or why you wouldn’t apply for the job.” Ibite my lip, remembering what I overheard about his injury—something about a “little injury” that clearly wasn’t little at all. Guilt prickles, but Holt just shrugs, his gaze steady.

“Five or so years ago, I would’ve loved to,” he admits, running a hand through his dark hair. “Would’ve been the first thing on my mind. But I’ve got different priorities now, responsibilities. And if I’m being honest, I’m happier where I am—or, well, what I was hired for.” He parks his ass on the edge of the desk, his bad knee stretching out, and his eyes soften as he looks at me. “This team’s everything to me, Maya. I know it’s precious to you, too. It’s why the dean mentioned you.”

I shift, arms still crossed. “And where’s everyone else for the position?”

“There isn’t anyone else,” he says plainly. “Most people have lost the energy that used to come with the Northvale Hawks. It’s completely different than it was four years ago, nearly unrecognizable from when your dad was coaching. The energy’s… gone.”

“You couldn’t have been more than ten,” I point out. “How do you know what my dad was like?”

Holt gestures to the back wall, where shelves sag under the weight of old binders, folders, even a few dusty VHS tapes. “He’s a legend here. We’ve all watched his coaching videos, soaked up whatever we could find.” He nods at the binders. “He wrote everything down, but we couldn’t understand most of it. He doesn’t write plays the way most people do, and the little scribbles in the margins are impossible to decipher.”

I snort, a laugh slipping free despite myself. “Yeah, his handwriting’s atrocious,” I agree, picturing Dad’s chicken scratch, half-words and arrows only I could ever untangle. Then I pause, narrowing my eyes. “So you just wanted me here because of my dad?”

“No. The dean wanted you because of your fire. He hopes you can bring the Hawks back to what they were.” His words land soft, warming my chest, and I feel it—a spark of pride, of possibility, mingling with the weight of expectation. Holt stands, careful not to crowd me, and adds. “I wouldn’t be lying if I said your presence here is a mixture of hoping you can bring them back to their former glory and needing you as a failsafe. Mason’s flaky at best. We’ve had to forfeit a game or two because the asshole didn’t show up.”

That doesn’t make any sense. “You’re allowed to play as long as there is adult supervision on the bench. Which would be you or literally anyone as a stand in.”

Holt musters up a laugh, disagreeing with me. “Thatwasone of the rules but it got a little hectic a year or two ago before I started so now it has to be one of the coaches on the bench. A time or two, I wasn’t there and Mason didn’t show up.”

I nod, understanding the predicament. It helps that they want me here for more than that but I’ll have to prove myself.

Holt pats the table before standing to his full height. “I’ll give you some time in here, and then I’ll introduce you to the guys.”

“What’s the plan for today?”

“To see your coaching style. We’ll scrimmage and I’ll get a feel for how we work together. It’ll be a learning experience.”

“I’ve never actually coached before,” I admit, shifting my weight. “I thought I’d be assisting.” Holt’s expression softens, and he steps closer—not too close, but enough that I catch a whiff of his vanilla infused mahogany scent, immediately calming my frayed nerves. “And something tells me you’re going to be exactly what Northvale needs.”

The room falls silent as he slips out, my attention turning to my father’s old desk. I can still see myself perched here as a kid, legs swinging, while Dad pored over papers, muttering about breakouts and power plays. I always wondered if he left most ofhis legacy in this office—binders, notes, the heart of his coaching life—and it never felt right to ask for it, like I’d be claiming something too big for me to carry.

My hand drifts to the shelves, brushing a leather-bound book, and I pull it down, gasping as I blow off a layer of dust. Dad’s handwriting stares back—cramped, chaotic, unmistakable—and I grin, flipping to plays I remember sketching out with him, wild ideas born over hot chocolate and way too many marshmallows in this very room.

I tug down more books, each one a time capsule, until my fingers catch on a red binder tucked at the end, one I thought was lost in all the moving after he died. My breath catches as I ease it free, setting it on the desk with a soft thud. I open it, and there they are—my shoddy plays, scrawled in the same awful style Dad taught me, jagged lines and cryptic notes meant to keep them ours alone.“No one can ever steal your plays,”he’d said, winking. I trace a messy breakout pattern, my heart aching with the memory.

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