“That’s what he told me too.” Kincaid opened the folder, and I caught a glimpse of what looked like practice schedules, ice time allocations, the organized chaos of planning around a playoff series. “I want you working with me directly. One-on-one, before team practices. Shooting drills, confidence building, getting you back to trusting your instincts.”
I came up with replies but didn’t use any of them.
“I’m the coach and I’ve been negligent.” His voice had that flat sound that meant the decision was made and arguing would be pointless. “You’ve got the skills, Russo. You just need to remember you’re allowed to use them.”
I looked down at my hands—the knuckles still raw from the bathroom fight, the nails bitten shorter than they should be because I’d spent two months anxious and hadn’t noticed I was doing it. “Okay. Yeah. That sounds good.”
“Good.” He didn’t close the folder. Instead, he shifted slightly in his seat, and I became aware of how close he was—close enough that I could smell whatever soap he used, something clean and understated that my brain was cataloging without permission. “Where are you living?”
I blinked at the subject change. “What?”
“Your apartment. Where is it?”
“Uh, Capitol Hill. Why?”
“Roommates?”
“No. Just me. It’s a studio.” I studied his face, trying to figure out where this was going. “Is there a problem with—”
“No problem,” he said, cutting me off. “I’m just trying to get a sense of your situation. Support system. Whether you’ve got people checking in on you while you’re recovering.”
That felt like a strange question coming from my coach, but I answered it anyway. “My family’s all in Chicago. I talk to my ma a couple times a week. Marco and Nicky when they’re not busy. But here, it’s just me.”
He was quiet for a moment, his eyes on the folder but his attention somewhere else. I could feel the weight of whatever he was thinking, the focus that made the air between us feel heavier than it should.
“Coach—”
“Your apartment,” he said, redirecting again with the smooth efficiency of someone who’d had practice avoiding questions. “Is it secure? Good locks, building security?”
I stared at him. “It’s fine. Standard Denver apartment building. Why are you asking about my apartment?” It was a bare box I’d never mustered any enthusiasm for.
He met my eyes then, and something in his expression made my breath catch. It wasn’t the professional assessment I was used to. It was something else—something that felt like concern except sharper, more personal, the kind of attention that mademy pulse pick up for reasons I absolutely could not examine on a team plane with half my teammates within earshot.
“Because three men jumped you in a bathroom two days ago,” he said quietly. “And until we’re certain there aren’t more people looking to make a point, even though we’re back home, I want to know you’re somewhere safe.”
My chest seemed to stop expanding. “I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can.” His voice had gone lower, making my brain short-circuit. “I’m asking anyway.”
The plane hummed around us. Someone laughed in the back—probably Taz telling a story. The flight attendant moved past with the drink cart. Normal sounds, normal things, except nothing about this conversation felt normal.
“The building’s secure,” I said finally. “Keycard entry, cameras in the lobby. And I’m on the third floor, so no one’s coming through the windows.”
“Good.” He still hadn’t looked away from me, and I was becoming acutely aware of how close we were sitting, of the way his knee was almost touching mine, of the fact that I’d woken up pressed against his side three days ago and my body apparently hadn’t forgotten.
I needed to say something. Anything that would break whatever this was before I did something stupid like lean closer or ask him why he was really asking these questions or admit that I’d been thinking about the way his hand had felt on my face every single day since it happened.
“My apartment’s fine,” I said again, because my brain had apparently given up on producing new material. “Really. You don’t have to worry about me.”
Something flickered across his face—too fast for me to read, gone before I could name it. “I’m your coach, Russo. Worrying about my players is part of the job description.”
Right. The job. Professional concern. Nothing more complicated than that.
“Of course,” I said, and made myself look back at my tablet even though I couldn’t focus on the footage anymore. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize.” His voice had gentled slightly, though the roughness was still there underneath. “You’ve had a rough week. I just want to make sure you’ve got what you need.”
What I needed was for him to stop sitting so close, stop smelling like whatever that soap was, stop looking at me like I was something more than just another player on his roster. What I needed was to get my head straight and my priorities in order and stop having completely inappropriate thoughts about a man who was my coach, my boss, and approximately thirty years older than me.
