Page 5 of Mile High Coach

“In college.”

“Oh,” I lean back in again, eyes on hers. “Iamflattered.”

I could ask her what she does, but the game is still paused on her screen, and I can’t stop my brain from zoning in on hockey. This close to her, the sharp, clean smell of her perfume is stronger. The sleeve of her black turtleneck is rubbing against my bare arm.

“So, what have you learned?” I ask instead, tipping my head toward the tablet.

“Hmm,” she taps, unpausing the game, and we watch together for a moment as the Blue Crabs skate back up the ice, that iconic sapphire hue less of a whir and more of a slow trickle. The Fire are outplaying us with effort. “Well, the standard things I learned from another video. Three periods, five players—plus the goalie—and try to put the puck in the net.”

“Oh,” I lean back, shaking my head, “so there’s nothing else I can teach you.”

When she laughs, it feels like a reward. “So, you’re a very casual fan.”

“You know the basics—what else do you want to know?”

She pauses, then angles the screen toward me. I recognize the moment immediately—in the second period, our first line in. John Canton is fighting for the puck against the boards.

“Okay,” she says, her eyes flicking to mine. “Help me out with this, then. Why do you think the Blue Crabs lost the Stanley Cup?”

Fucking classic—I was hoping for a question about offsides. Icing. The penalty box. Of course this woman would go straight for the jugular. I stuff back my sarcastic laugh and tip my head toward her, “Wouldn’t you rather know why the Fire won the Stanley Cup?”

“Isn’t that the same question?”

“Nah.” I should keep this light, gentle flirting, but I can’t resist the urge to talk about hockey. My fatal fucking flaw. “The Blue Crabs did more than lose the game—they abandoned it.”

“Really?” When she laughs, it’s a short, sharp sound, and at first, it catches me by surprise, but I realize it matches her in a way that feels intimate to understand.

“Just look at the guys,” I say, gesturing for her to start the film again, and she does. “Watch them—you can see it in the way they skate. It’s like they’d resigned themselves to losing the game.”

“But they’re up a point here—why would they give up?”

I open my mouth, think about it, and close it again.

For years—pretty much since I retired and took over this position—the Blue Crabs have suffered under the specific and frustrating curse of playing to the level of their opponents, with the consequence of losing more games than we should.

Tight, aggressive offense coming in and battering at us right off the opening face-off? We rally and assemble to pressurethem away from the goal. We fight for the puck and make good decisions. We’ve gone into so many games predicted to be the underdogs, only to put up an incredible fight.

The crowd loves those games, going wild.

But when we go up against teams we should beat with our sticks taped to our backs? That fire is gone. For some reason, our players make the collective, unconscious decision to dial it down, loosen it up, so our defense is more open, allowing way more shots than we should, and our offense is sloppy, making poor decisions.

Rather than coming out every game and playing the way they do in practice, it’s like they measure the other team and match up. And I’ve been trying to knock it out of them for many seasons with no luck.

“Is there no answer to that one?” she asks, her eyes darting to the screen. It draws me out of my thinking. I’ve been wearing the same grooves in my head every day since the championship.

We’re closer now, our arms firmly pressed together, and when I turn my head to look at her, it’s with only an inch between our noses. I have the wild, sudden urge to lean forward and take her mouth with mine, and the reckless, stupid idea that she might let me.

Before I can do anything—answer her or make a move—we’re interrupted by a voice overhead. “Now boarding for first-class passengers. First-class passengers, please proceed to the gate.”

When I pull away from her and start to stand, surprise flashes over her face. Turning, I glance down at her, already smiling.

“I’d love to continue this conversation at the front of the plane,” I turn my boarding pass toward her. “Seat A1.”

With that, I turn and walk away, confident that once this plane is in the air, Knockout’s going to come and find me.

Chapter 3

Lovie

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