Shot on Goal: Seattle Sockeyes Hockey (Game On in Seattle Book 11) Page 7

  He was making tracks to the parking garage when one of the trainers motioned for him to go into Coach’s office.

  Ah, shit.

  Reluctantly, he opened the closed door and entered. A couple of the assistant coaches and Gorst sat around a table. The assistants wouldn’t look him in the eye. Not a good sign. Gorst studied his tablet, not looking up.

  Nobody needed to tell him the team was down two games. He’d been playing like shit and doubted this was a meeting to compliment him on his exceptional play.

  Looking up, Gorst smiled grimly and gestured toward the only available chair. “Have a seat, Drew.”

  Drew’s stomach clenched, but the fact that he felt something was in a weird way a good thing. Hockey had to be important to him on some level. Or was he too weary to deal with his coaches’ disappointment after a brutal road trip.

  Drew preferred to stand but decided not to rock the boat and sat.

  Gorst blew out a long breath, consulted a few more things on his iPad, and pinned Drew with one of his patent you’re-in-deep-shit glares.

  “You’re probably the most talented young player in the league, Drew. You have loads of natural ability, but you’re barely scratching the surface. You depend on your talent to compensate for where you’re lacking elsewhere, only hockey at this level is an entirely different animal, and talent isn’t enough. I’m worried about the intangibles. Your heart doesn’t seem to be in the game anymore. I’m not sure where it is, but it wasn’t in that arena for the last two games. We needed you to play your ass off and your heart out. You played one good period in Game 1, but it went downhill from there.”

  Drew licked his dry lips and said nothing. He couldn’t dispute the truth. He knew what was coming, just not the extent.

  “Jasper has impressed us these past few months. He’s improved by leaps and bounds. His skating was his weakness, but in the short while he’s been working with Marina, we’ve seen incredible improvement.”

  “Jasper has been working hard,” Drew conceded.

  “We’re moving him to the first line and putting you on the second line.”

  “But Smooth and Coop and I have worked together for four years—”

  “They’ve approved this move. This is the NHL. You don’t keep your position without continually competing for it and earning it. You want back on the first line? Prove it? Show us something we haven’t seen this year.”

  “But—”

  “The decision is made. Flint is on the first line for the next game. I want you to setup a time to work with Marina at least three days a week.”

  “I’m the best skater on this team.”

  “Physically, you are. I want to see the passion, the love of the sport. We’ve tried every coaching trick we know to help you. We thought the playoffs might be the key. It appears they aren’t. We aren’t blind, Drew. We know the pressure you’re dealing with, and honestly, I’ve considered banning your father from the remainder of our games, but that’s putting a Band-Aid on a gaping wound. I’m your coach, not your psychologist. I’ll help you where it’s appropriate, but the only person who can truly help you with your personal issues is you. What I have seen is a marked improvement when you’re skating for fun, such as during Marina’s sessions. While it’s a long shot, she might be able to tap into your indifference. Perhaps a different approach to skating will give you a fresh perspective. It may not be much, but it’s all I’ve got. You’ll be doing that figure skating exhibition with her at our Season Ticket Holder Appreciation Night.”

  “I already told her no.”

  “Ethan wants the two of you, and that’s that.” Gorst stood; he was done talking. The other coaches followed suit, leaving Drew no choice but to do the same.

  “Good night, Drew,” Gorst said, still wearing that same grim smile. In fact, they all wore a similar forced smile. They didn’t like this any more than Drew did.

  Drew walked from the room, holding his head high, his shoulders squared. He was in shock. He’d been on the first line since he’d picked up a hockey stick. He’d never been anything but a first-liner. Even his rookie year, he’d played first line with Smooth and Coop.

  Being delegated to second string hit him harder than he thought it would, yet he also wondered how much was wounded pride. It’d be all over the news in a day or two. When he didn’t start in the next game, the speculation and rumors would fly.

  Then there was his father. He couldn’t begin to imagine what’d happen with him. He’d already had words with Ethan last night, though Drew didn’t know what the context was. And Dave. God, he didn’t want to think about Dave. If he were here, his brother would be scowling and gearing up for his own lecture to rival their father’s.

  Either play your heart out or get out. There’s no room for halfway in hockey. You’re either all-in or not in at all.

  Yeah, that’s what Dave would say. Dave had been an all-in guy. Drew wasn’t sure what he was.

  Drew stopped in the empty corridor that led to the parking garage and leaned his pounding forehead against the cool concrete wall. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in and out. He’d gotten himself into a fine predicament. Being demoted to second string and being forced to work with Marina three days a week were a recipe for disaster and frustration.

  “Hey.”

  Drew jumped backward and spun around.

  Coop emerged from the shadows, startling the shit out of Drew. The asshole must have been lounging near the doorway like a cougar ready to strike.

  Coop silently assessed him, his dark eyes missing nothing, yet giving nothing away.

  “It’s rough, but I can’t dispute their decision,” he said.

  Drew nodded, unable to speak around a lump in his throat.

  “A piece of friendly advice?” Coop’s eyes narrowed, showing his usual intensity in everything he did. A guy like Coop probably couldn’t fathom Drew’s disinterest in hockey and life.

  “Sure, go ahead.” He’d had about all he could take, but Coop wouldn’t be denied so he might as well man-up and listen.

  “You need to decide what you want to be when you grow up. While you’re at it, get a set of balls, and tell your father he doesn’t get a say in your life, now or ever. I know he’s putting a guilt trip on you, and it’s negatively affecting your game. Don’t let him get under your skin.”

  “It’s all good. I have my dad under control,” Drew lied.

  “Like fuck you do. You’re not fooling any of us. Ethan is about to ban your dad from the arena for the playoffs, and that’ll be ugly. Set some boundaries. Don’t force the team to do your dirty work.”

  “It’s—it’s more complicated than you can imagine.”

  Coop assessed him for a long moment then he nodded thoughtfully. “Your personal life is your business as long as it doesn’t affect the team. We’re worried about you, but we’re more worried about the playoffs and winning the next game. We need you. All of you. I want you back on the first line, but that decision is out of my hands. Whatever happens will be entirely based on your performance or lack of.”

  Without so much as goodbye, Coop strode off, leaving Drew to contemplate his future, both immediate and long-term.

  He couldn’t go home. Stafford would be there as soon as his flight landed. He could drop in on Bronson, but he didn’t feel like hanging with him tonight. He wanted to be alone, to lick his wounds and sort out these conflicting feelings. Did he care about hockey? Did he not care? With all the interference from his father, he couldn’t separate his lack of passion from his father’s constant emotional beat-downs and guilt trips. Now they’d thrown Marina into the mix, muddying the waters even more. His feelings for her confused the hell out of him. One moment, he craved her body, and the next, he wanted nothing to do with her. If he had a choice, he’d get as far away from her as possible. Wanting Marina resonated with disloyalty to his mother and Stacy.

  Frustrated, he walked aimlessly along deserted city streets. He wandered for hours and fin
ally trudged back to the parking garage, but he didn’t go to his car. Everyone had left for the night. The parking garage was empty with the exception of few cars. He figured people had gone together to drown their sorrows and would come back for their vehicles in the a.m. after they’d sobered up.

  Fishing his ID from his wallet, he opened a side door and entered the locker room. He flipped on a row of lights, sat down, and pulled on his skates. The irony of skating for relaxation wasn’t lost on him.

  Drew plodded down the corridor, skates clunking with each step on the rubber mats. He hesitated at the tunnel opening after hearing the swish-swish of someone else’s skates.

  Marina.

  He wasn’t surprised. In fact, if he were honest with himself, he’d been half hoping she’d be here.

  He slipped onto one of the bleacher seats and watched. She was in the zone and oblivious to him as she executed a flawless program, which, in his limited experience, was world championship quality. But then, she’d been a world champion and an Olympic medalist. She’d thrown it all away with one bad decision. While here he was, unable to get past his guilt enough to set boundaries and make a decision for himself instead of everyone else.

  Get some balls…

  Decide what you want to do when you grow up…

  He wished he knew. He only knew that what he was doing right now wasn’t cutting it.

  A guy didn’t compete successfully in professional hockey with only half a heart.

  * * * *

  Breathing hard, Marina did her final bow to an imaginary audience, glowing with pride over her near-perfect execution of her long program. Maybe it was a little dysfunctional to pretend she was still competing, but she’d always had an overactive imagination and truly enjoyed her fantasy performances. No harm, no foul. No one had ever witnessed this particular oddity of hers. Skating in the zone gave her pleasure and imagining a competitive scenario drove her to try harder.

  She froze when the applause of her imaginary audience faded and she heard a lone person clapping. Not her imagination; someone had witnessed her routine. She did a slow one-eighty on a single blade.

  Across the arena, Drew sat on the lowest set of bleachers.

  Damn him. What was he doing here?

  He should be licking his wounds with the boys or fast asleep. Not spying on her. Why the hell couldn’t this man leave her alone?

  She skated toward him, unfairly furious.

  “Are you stalking me?” She spat out the words, feeling bristly at this invasion of her privacy while knowing he had as much right to be here as she did.

  One dark brow shot upward, and he threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I came to skate—alone. And here you are once again. Do you live here or something? Like a troll under a bridge?”

  She stiffened and shot him her haughtiest glare. “More like a ruined figure skater under the bleachers.” She waited for his reaction as she stopped ten feet from where he was sitting with his elbows on the top of the boards.

  “Good one.” He grinned back, though she noted his smile wasn’t reaching his eyes.

  “I’m finishing up. You can have the place to yourself.”

  He frowned and stood, walking stiffly through the door in the boards until his skates hit the ice. He glided easily up to her.

  She stared up at him. He was probably a foot taller than her five-foot-one. At her size, she could’ve been a gymnast, but skating had always called to her. Her mother had been a good amateur figure skater and had instilled her love of skating in Marina.

  She skirted past him, but he reached out an arm and stopped her. Something in his eyes made her hold her tongue. He looked so lost and sad. She couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. But there was more. A burning need. A deep passion. A reluctant recognition of how much she got to him.

  Just like he got to her.

  “Don’t go.”

  “Why not? You don’t want me here.”

  He stared at his feet for a long moment. “They took me off first string.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” She genuinely was. He’d had a hard time of it lately, and she knew what that was all about. Been there, done that. Lost a gold medal in the process.

  “I’ve been ordered to do that figure skating exhibition with you.”

  She suppressed a smile. “You have? What about your macho reputation?”

  He chuckled. “I don’t have a macho reputation. I’m not a fighter.” He looked away again as if trying to think of the right word. “Maybe if I did this thing with you, I’d find something to love about all this again.”

  “All this?”

  “Yeah, skating, hockey, the pressure, the high expectations. You know.”

  “I do.” She wasn’t sure he had the interest in seeing this through to the bitter end. “I need someone who’s willing to work at it.”

  “I don’t know about willing, necessarily, but I’ll give it a shot.”

  At least he was honest. His hazel eyes were decidedly brown tonight. She recalled they were greener when he was emotionally vested in something. Doing a pairs routine with her was a requirement, and Drew was known for going with the flow and not making waves. He didn’t want to do it, but he would, like a dutiful team member.

  “But will you put a piece of your soul into the performance?”

  He gaped at her as if she’d lost her ever-loving mind. “My soul?”

  “Yes, your heart and soul,” she amended.

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Marina, I haven’t put my heart and soul into my life or skating since my brother died. I’m going through the motions day by day.” He stared hard at her, and she saw a glimpse of the pain behind the curtain and recognized it for what it was. The deep pain of a loss that had never healed. She had that same loss, compounded with the knowledge she let down everyone who’d ever cared about her.

  “I know how it feels to lose someone.”

  He nodded.

  “But instead of wallowing in the pain, use it to your advantage, fuel your desire with your pain. Make those who are gone proud of you.”

  “Not possible. I’m not good enough.”

  It was her turn to gape dumbfounded at him. Where did he ever get that idea?

  He ran a hand over his face as if erasing the last few things he’d said. When he met her gaze again, his impenetrable mask fell firmly in place once again.

  “Let’s get to work. When do we start?”

  “Now.” Marina hesitated for a moment and reached out a hand. He took it. Holding his hand was like allowing him to cradle her eggshell heart and praying he wouldn’t break it. He was damaged, and so was she. Two damaged people didn’t make for a good pair in figure skating or life, but she wasn’t talking about life here, just a simple figure skating program. Surely, they could manage that.

  She skated slowly around the rink, and he followed her lead, matching her stride for stride. “Good,” she said with a smile. “We have to stay in unison. On three, drop hands and turn a half-turn, doing the same thing backwards. One. Two. Three. Now.”

  Drew turned easily and grasped her hand again. He was fun to skate with and caught on fast. By the end of their first practice, he had mastered waltz jumps, not to mention side-by-side backwards and forwards skating. He was a more talented athlete than she’d realized. He had a good handle on toe loops, and she suspected they could’ve done some simple pair spins.

  She skated over to the boards, and he followed. He wiped his sweaty face on a towel from a duffle sitting on the closest bleacher. She looked up at him, and he grinned. This time it reached his eyes. Maybe Ethan and the coaches knew better. Maybe figure skating was what Drew needed.

  “That was more work than I imagined.”

  “You’re a natural,” she said.

  “No surprise there. My mom taught me to skate, and she’s great at the technical stuff.”

  “Your mom did? Not your dad?”

  “He was still skating in the NHL. Mom was coaching, a
nd she’d take me with her. When I got older, I’d go straight to the rink after school. You could say I grew up inside an ice arena.”

  Marina smiled up at him. “Me, too. Funny that we never met, considering I was training with your mother.”

  “I was playing hockey away from home by then. I wasn’t around much during my teen years. They were wrapped up in their careers, too.”

  “I know.”

  “Water?” He held up two bottles of water and offered her one.

  “I’d love one. You come prepared.”

  “Always.” He laughed, and he had a nice laugh. His face lit up, and he looked like a different, happier person. Her heart thudded happily, basking in the warmth of his smile. She wanted him. Oh, how she wanted him. Like a good drug, she’d take away his pain, and he’d take away hers, if only for a few hours.

  “Admit it. You had fun,” she said.

  He nodded, still grinning. “Yeah, I did, just don’t tell the guys. They need to think I’m begrudgingly doing this.”

  “I won’t breathe a word, but eventually, they’ll find out.”

  “Yeah, and so will my parents.” The thought appeared to depress him. She resisted the urge to hug him tightly and make all the bad things go away. She couldn’t. They had a professional relationship. Nothing more.

  She was his coach, damn it. And she needed that job. Needed to prove herself. Sleeping with him would be a death sentence—and a fate that became harder and harder to fight.

  She lifted her head and saw desire flare. As if reading her mind, he moved closer, his gaze locked with hers. Butterflies fluttered inside her belly, and her body sent pulses of heat to her female parts. She was getting lost in eyes that were a brilliant green now, forgetting why this was a bad idea and not caring.

  He moved closer, bent, and tilted his head. Their bodies were almost touching. He needed to kiss her. She had to feel his lips on hers. She’d had boyfriends in Europe, but they’d been more convenience, rather than guys who made her feel like nothing else mattered on earth but the two of them.

  He licked his lips, drawing her gaze to those kissable lips, his strong jaw, his broken-a-time-or-two nose. He might not be the best-looking guy on the team, but to her he was the sexiest.