“I bet.” He turned onto our street. “Listen, I know you’re exhausted, but I grabbed a really good bottle of wine earlier today. If you’re up for it, we could share it? Celebrate your win properly?”
I should have said no to that too. Should have gone straight to my apartment, showered, and collapsed into bed. But there was something appealing about not being alone right now, about having someone to talk to who wasn’t a teammate or family member, who didn’t have expectations about what I should be feeling. And it might take my mind off my unavailable coach.
“Yeah, okay. One glass.”
We parked and made our way up to the third floor. My body was starting to stiffen up as the adrenaline fully wore off, and I was moving more carefully by the time we reached our doors.
“Give me five minutes to grab the wine and change,” Odin said. “Meet you at your place?”
I nodded and let myself into my apartment, dropping my bag by the door and immediately regretting agreeing to this. I was exhausted. My back hurt. And I was pretty sure spending time with Odin when I was this emotionally raw was a terrible idea.
But I didn’t text him to cancel. I just stood there in my small apartment, staring at the unmade bed and the general emptiness of the space, until I heard a knock on the door.
Odin had changed into jeans and a sweater, and he was holding two bottles of red wine that looked expensive even to my untrained eye.
“Nice place,” he said, which was generous considering how bare it was.
“It’s temporary.” I grabbed two glasses from the kitchenette while he opened the wine. “I keep meaning to decorate, but I haven’t gotten around to it.”
“I’m the same way. My apartment doesn’t feel like home yet.” He poured generous amounts into both glasses and handed me one. “To your game-winner.”
We clinked glasses, and I took a sip. The wine was good—smooth and rich in a way that suggested it cost more than my monthly grocery budget.
We sat on opposite ends of my small couch, and for a while the conversation was easy. He asked about the game, about the team dynamics, about what it was like facing Chicago. I found myself talking more than I’d intended, the wine and exhaustion loosening my tongue in ways I’d normally be more careful about.
“You were incredible out there,” Odin said, refilling both our glasses even though I’d only meant to have one. “Truly. I know I don’t know all about hockey, but even I could see how much you’ve grown since Chicago.”
“Thanks. It’s been—it’s been a process.”
“Your coach seems to be a big part of that process.” His tone was careful, like he was testing something.
I took a second gulp of wine instead of answering, and he seemed to take that as confirmation of whatever he was thinking, and he topped my glass up again without asking.
“He cares about all his players,” I said finally, which was true even if it felt inadequate.
“But especially you.” Odin shifted slightly closer on the couch. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Dante. The way he watched you during warmups tonight. That’s not just professional interest.”
I fell silent, and before I realized, both our glasses were empty and he opened the second bottle. “You’re wrong,” I blurted out. “He’s made it very clear that there’s nothing between us except hockey.”
“Has he?” Odin’s hand landed on my knee, and I froze.
I stared at his hand, trying to figure out how to respond. The wine was making my thoughts fuzzy, and I was suddenly very aware that we were alone in my apartment, that he was sitting closer than he had been a minute ago, that this was heading somewhere I didn’t want it to go.
“Odin, I—"
“You’re beautiful,” he said, and his hand moved higher on my thigh. “Has anyone told you that?”
I set my wine glass down on the coffee table with enough force that some of it sloshed out. “I think maybe I should get an early night.”
“Come on.” His voice was still friendly, still easy, but there was an edge to it now that made my skin crawl. “We’re both adults. We’re attracted to each other. Why complicate it?”
“I’m not—" I stopped, trying to find words that wouldn’t make this worse. “I told you I wasn’t ready for this. That I needed time.”
“That was before you scored the game-winner in overtime.” His hand was still on my thigh, and when I tried to shift away, he moved with me. “Before you proved to everyone—including yourself—that you’re exactly as good as you think you are. You should celebrate that. Let me help you celebrate.”
“I don’t want to celebrate like this.” I stood up, which forced his hand off me, and put the coffee table between us. “I appreciate the ride home and the wine, but I’m tired and I need you to leave.”
He stood too, and something in his expression had changed. The friendly warmth was gone, replaced by something colder. “You’re really going to waste your time pining after a coach who’s never going to touch you when you have someone right here who actually wants you?”
