Forbidden love for my hockey coach

Chapter 2

Wren POV

They need me.

That's the first thing I remind myself as my neighbour from this morning strolls in, a cup of coffee in one hand, the other tucked in his pocket. Someone else must have offended him already this morning. Or maybe that scowl is just permanent, stitched onto his face.

Either way, I am finished.

You are not finished, Wren. They need you. They gave you a scholarship. It cannot be that bad.

Still, I run through the one million and one reasons they could send me packing, right back to where I started. For one, this man saw my bra, thrown carelessly over the couch in my room. And I am not going to embarrass myself further by dwelling on what happened this morning.

The coach who has been running me ragged since my first day at school smiles at the man who just walked in. And somehow, I sense there is bad blood there, because my neighbour answers with a stiff, forced smile.

"Calloway," the coach calls, waving me over. "Come here for a minute please."

Again, it cannot be that bad. It doesn't matter that he is dressed like a coach. Maybe he's some kind of… student coach. Yes. He looks far too young to be coaching a collegiate hockey team. Which coach even looks like that?

The ones I know from back home all look like their wives chase them out of the house early in the morning, no offence to them. I love them, but their fashion sense needs serious help.

Or needed, seeing as I am not going back there anymore.

That thought drops a small weight on my mood as I cross the ice and reach the edge, pulling my skates off.

"This is Ezra Whitlock," he says, gesturing to my neighbour. Whitlock doesn't bother with any pretence of friendliness. The scowl on his face only deepens as he looks me over and takes a sip of his coffee at the same time.

Still unwelcoming.

And honestly, Whitlock is intimidating. He towers over me without effort, looking down at me from somewhere above my head. Regular people would probably shrink under that stare. Maybe I should too.

But I don't need his approval. I don't need him to like me. I only need one championship game. One. And they need me to get there.

"Coach Whitlock is the coach for the women's hockey team here at Thornfield College."

Okay. Damn it. I do need his approval.

"I thought you were going to coach me personally. I saw on the website that… you're Osric Doyle, aren't you?"

"It's Coach Doyle," he corrects, though unlike Whitlock, his tone actually sounds warm and pleasant. "And you're right. Last year, I was up for Head Coach. But the board hired someone more… qualified for the job."

There's a bite in his tone. Not my business.

"You're in good hands with Coach Whitlock," he adds. "Trust me."

I do trust Coach Doyle. He's the one who helped me sort out my apartment downtown and pushed all my papers through before I even arrived. Now, the one person I don't trust is standing across from me, looking at me like I just splashed water all over his neatly pressed outfit.

"Coach Whitlock, Wren here is our transfer from Ashwick. You know her reputation. Best collegiate hockey player in the country, center dominator, never lost a game. She's the future of the National Hockey League. Everyone knows it."

I shift on my feet, uncomfortable. I won't lie, hearing my achievements listed out like that doesn't feel bad. I still hold records across the country, at least until the next championship comes. But all of that changes once they find out the truth.

"I don't think we need to go over what happened at Ashwick and why she transferred," Coach Doyle continues, and I feel my shoulders drop with relief. "The school has agreed to keep her private affairs away from the kind of attention she draws. But we're honoured to have you here at Thornfield, and we believe you will lead us to a championship."

This isn't the sort of thing you say to a new addition to the team, not with the other players already breaking their backs for a spot. Still, I nod, hands clasped in front of me, the picture of humility and good manners.

"But if it was a fight, understand that fighting is not tolerated here at Thornfield College, and as much as I would want to stand up for you, my hands would be tied. The school won't think twice before showing you the door."

Coach Whitlock lets out a huff under his breath, but other than that, he just stands there, drinking his coffee and glaring at me. It's better this way. I don't have to speak to him. I only hope Coach Doyle is the one calling the plays, so I won't have to deal with Whitlock more than I absolutely must.

But just as that thought settles, it gets worse. Coach Doyle stretches and says he'll leave Coach Whitlock and me to talk. I want to beg him to stay, watching him head for the door.

Once I hear it shut, I turn back, reluctantly, to Whitlock, a man I already can't stand. Who must have seen my goldenman lying on my bed when he barged into my room.

Damn it.

"I don't want you here, Calloway," he says, no soft landing to it, like the words have been sitting on his tongue all morning. "I'm not Osric. I don't buy that long list of credentials he seems to have memorized."

I drop my eyes to the floor, biting the inside of my cheek to stop myself from saying something that will get me sent home before the day even ends. But in my head, I'm shouting every curse word I know, letting him go on and on about needing to know why I really left Ashwick, and how he thinks it probably has something to do with drugs.

Or indecent acts.

Everybody does it. How is me using a dildo such a big deal?

"You favor your right side," he says, tilting his head like he's studying a puzzle he's determined to solve. "You hesitate before every hard stop. And you play like someone who's terrified of something, not someone who's just settling into a new school."

My stomach tightens.

"I don't know what you're hiding, Calloway," he says, stepping close enough that I have to tip my chin up to hold his stare, "but I intend to find out. And when I do, you won't like what happens next.”