Page 63 of Wallflower
I might have to go along with this whole training-and-bonding-at-my-place plan, but I don’t have to like it. And this close to retirement, I’ve earned the right to not have to pretend. It’s taken three weeks to set this up, and the delays have all been mine, but I don’t rise to Coach’s bait.
Instead, I shake his hand and hold the front door open. “You’re the coach, right?”
He huffs out a dry laugh. “Good to know you don’t need another reminder.”
I lead him through the house to the kitchen and gesture toward the stools tucked under the island. “Coffee?”
“Please.” Coach pulls out a chair and takes a seat, then braids his fingers and sets them on the marble top. It’s his serious pose, and I remember it from our early Tampa days. “Look, Chord. I know we got off to a rocky start at the meeting earlier this month, but I meant what I said about bonding with the team before the season starts. You’re a good captain, and you’ve got the potential to be great, if…”
He punctuates the sentence with a meaningful look. We both know what went wrong last season and if it were anyone else, I’d change the subject right about now. But this is Bobby Campbell. I wouldn’t say he raised me—my mom and dad did that—but I was only a teenager when I was drafted to Tampa, and eighteen was too young for me to be out in the world without a solid, dependable presence in my life. Campbell was that person and the fact he’s sitting in my kitchen now conjures a forgotten, dormant drive to make him proud.
I blink away the picture of my father on the empty chair beside Coach—two giants of my early career who believed I could do anything. I’m not sure if sixteen years of experience and screw-ups make me remember those early days with more fondness than they deserve, but whatever this feeling is in my chest, it makes it easier to talk.
I slide a mug of coffee in his direction. “Do you know what it feels like to find out the woman you’ve been dating for a year has been cheating on you with the guy traded to your team to replace you?”
Coach shakes his head and wraps his hands around the steaming cup. “You don’t know he was there to replace you.”
I raise one brow. “I’m pretty but I’m not stupid, Coach. Spencer Cook’s stats mirror my own at his age. He’s an asshole but he’s a strong player, and he’s got a solid seven years left in him—at least. He’s going to spend that winning games.”
Coach grimaces but nods.
“Emma was screwing him for months before I got word of it, and at least three of my boys knew about it. I was their captain, and they didn’t say a fucking word.”
He raises his eyes before lifting his chin, blinking at the heat in my voice before dropping his shoulders with a sigh.
“I’m sorry Calgary let you go. I’m sorry things ended the way they did. But you had four good years at Tampa before you were traded, and the first half of your contract with Calgary was stellar. Then you got hard and, yeah, you got hurt, but I’d hate to see pain and rage be the only things you bring with you to the Fury.”
I set down my coffee and release a heavy breath. “If you’re asking me to forget it ever happened, you’re asking too much.”
“I’m not asking you to forget. I know that fire is going to be the fuel we need to carry us to the championship. I know anger will serve us on the ice. I’m just asking you to apply it the right way and at the right times. I’m proud of the team we’ve put together this year, but it won’t work if you’re not putting your captaincy above your personal problems.”
“Meaning?”
“These aren’t the boys who screwed you over, Chord, and they deserve your trust until proved otherwise. It may seem like I’m asking a lot for you to give them a chance, but the truth is we’re not going to win shit if you’re not leading them the way you should.”
“And what way is that?”
Coach shrugs one shoulder and lifts his cup. “From the heart.”
“Chord, I— Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t know you weren’t alone.”
Coach and I turn toward the sound of Violet’s voice. She hovers between the kitchen and the hallway, clutching her tablet to her chest and obviously unsure if she should interrupt. Her neck is a little flushed, and it reminds me of how she looked last night in her bed.
She let me touch her again, and she came a lot quicker this time, then we snuggled after, and I slept like a freaking baby.
That makes it three nights in a row. A fucking hat trick.
“Violet!” Coach gets to his feet and offers her his hand. “Nice to see you again.”
Violet spares me a quick glance as she hurries in to shake Coach’s hand. Pretty color tints her cheeks, and I’d bet half of this season’s salary that she’s thinking about last night, too.
“It’s good to see you too, Coach,” she says, “but I can come back later if you two need more time to talk?”
“No need for that.” Coach nods at the tablet in her hands. “Is that the schedule for today?”
“It is. Yes.”
She offers him the device, and he takes it, casting an eye over the screen. “Pool. Track. Gym. Rehab.” He hands it back with an approving nod. “The assistant coach and I have divided the team into first, second, third, and fourth lines, and you’ll rotate through stations. Chord, you’ll spend most of the day with Hayden Shore, Theo Reed, Jake Wilde, Max Breaker, and Weston Payne.”
