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Vaughn is called in to speak with Coach before me. While I wait for my turn, I search the internet for anything on Isla I can find. She must still have me blocked on social media, because I can’t see anything there. Same with Willa.
There is a ping regarding her graduation from the University of Washington. However, the dates don’t align. When she started there, she had enough credits to graduate in three years. Seems it took her four anyway.
After that, she took a job at a Seattle based women’s football team. That’s all I can find. Her digital footprint is nearly nonexistent. Well, what I can see of it anyway.
It was a shock when Greta introduced us. Sure, I expected to see her soon enough, since I’ll be playing for her dad again. But I hadn’t even considered she’d be here today. Nor did I consider her mere presence to bring me such a guttural reaction. Seeing her made the yearning that has been dormant for so long now sit up with renewed attention.
Isla’s more beautiful now than I remember. Her body womanly, her look less casual with her dark hair pulled back neatly and dressed in something other than yoga pants, which was always her go-to. And she carried herself with a stoicism I don’t remember from before. Or maybe it’s aloofness. Whatever it was, it was hot as Hades.
Just looking at her sent my body into a bloody inferno. It always did; that was never a problem. Distance was.
And my utter stupidity.
Isla was always stubborn as hell. It’s doubtful that’s changed, so the chance of her forgiving me is slim as shit.
Coach is going to be a problem too, I’m sure. No way that man doesn’t hate me as much as his daughter does.
I get it. Hell, I deserve it. Fucking over Isla was never something I wanted to do. She probably wouldn’t believe me now, but I did love her. In hindsight, there are so many things I’d change from the time I was drafted to the time Isla dropped my dumb ass. The problem is that even the things I would change wouldn’t eliminate the distractions I had. They sure as fuck wouldn’t change the fact that I was a horny dickhead who had the world at my feet and no experience with how to handle that.
My first step would not have been moving in with Tor. He’s not a bad guy, but if ever there was a man determined to never commit, it’s him. There were always people at our apartment. Women and booze aren’t easy to ignore when you’re a nineteen-year-old kid who just landed in the pros.
Then there’s Trina.
The office door opens, and Vaughn walks out.
“Your turn, player,” he says with a nod.
He and I are acquainted, but I wouldn’t say we’re friends. The way he eyed up my ex-girlfriend earlier tells me we won’t be easy buddies right away. He read more between me and Isla than I care for him to know. Our past isn’t fodder for the guys she’s going to have to work with.
Stashing my cell in my pocket, I give my fingers a quick wiggle to clear the nerves. Coach Cole is the closest thing I ever had to a father figure. His opinion has meant more to me than even he probably knows. When he took notice of me as a scabby kneed kid with only a spark of potential, it made my world.
How did I repay that? I broke his daughter’s heart.
He’s going to have words about that, for sure.
I knock and wait for the gruff voice on the other side. He takes his time. Because of course he does.
“Enter.”
“Hey, Coach,” I say, stepping through.
“Close the door,” he commands and waits for me to follow instructions. He’s standing just inside, not sitting at his desk across the room like I had expected. It’s a big office with floor-to-ceiling windows covering one wall. The sunlight brings a false sense of brightness into the room that’s heavy with his dark ire. “I’m going to say something that has nothing to do with the team first. It’s off the record, you understand?”
He's an impressive man, standing an inch or so taller than me. He still has that goalie build from his professional days. When I was very young, he terrified me. Each time I got on the ice at camp, I expected the worst. Most of the coaches I played for in peewee were gruff, abrasive, brutish types. Coach Cole is different. He’s reserved. Quiet until his fuse blows, which doesn’t happen often, but when it does… well, like I said. It’s impressive.
I never gave him a reason to unleash that temper on me when I played for him. And when I started dating Isla, I got to know him well enough to understand him. He cares about his players at a level I’ve never seen in another coach. Not even in Boston. I learned not to be afraid of him.
Today, I am.
“Yes, Coach.”
The fist that hits my jaw surprises me, though I don’t know why. It shouldn’t, all things considered. Besides, we’re hockey players. This is how we resolve shit. With anyone else, I’d instinctively throw one back.
But I deserve this. So, I take it like the man I wasn’t the last time I saw him. Coach may be a couple decades older than me, that doesn’t mean he can’t throw a punch with the best of them. It staggers me back against the door, and I barely catch myself before falling to the ground.
“After we dropped you off at the airport, I promised her you two were going to be okay. That’s for making me a liar to my daughter,” he says, then lands another hit about an inch higher. “That’s for hurting her. You do it again and I’ll fucking bury you. Understand me, kid?”
“Understood,” I tell him, flexing my jaw to make sure nothing is broken. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
