Forbidden love for my hockey coach

Chapter 3

Wren POV

Coach Whitlock decides to test me, even though Coach Doyle already did exactly that a few minutes ago. But I don't give him the satisfaction of knowing he's gotten under my skin. So I lace my skates back up and head into the rink.

He's still holding that stubborn cup of coffee as he walks in with me, setting cones around the faceoff circles in a zigzag pattern. "Blue line. Tight turn around the cone. Crossover. Backward skate to the hash marks. Forward pivot. Finish at center. Let's go."

I stand there staring at him.

"I don't believe I spoke French. Move."

Swallowing my words, I start moving, crossing one cone after another, following every single instruction even though my hips scream so badly I almost cry out. Still, I bite it down and keep going until the puck slams against the glass behind the net.

My breath leaves in sharp gasps as I straighten up and turn. Coach Whitlock is staring at his stopwatch.

"You coasted after the pivot."

I blink. "I scored."

"You coasted."

"But I still scored."

"Again."

Coach Whitlock puts me through a million techniques and drills until every part of me just wants to give out. Maybe I should have listened to the team doctors and quit the sport instead of dragging myself halfway across the country.

At least then I wouldn't have had to meet this stiff-necked man.

"Your turning is trash," he says as I skate to the edge to catch my breath. "You second-guess every move you make. You didn't play in Ashwick's last season, and the one time you did, you played poorly. When last did you even run? Do you want to know what I really think, Calloway?"

I don't answer, but he says it anyway.

"I think you've lost it. I don't think you're the woman Osric thinks you are."

These are things I already tell myself every single day since the last time I stepped into a rink for an official game. It shouldn't hurt me. Most days it doesn't. But still, something small nicks at my chest. And it makes me want to run and hide somewhere.

"I didn't play because I was told to sit it out." That's not a lie, but maybe it's not the whole truth either. "And I haven't lost it. You'll see."

He folds his arms across his chest, the coffee cup wedged somewhere in the middle of it. Despite everything, I notice he has really good arms, the muscle showing with every flex. It might have distracted me if I didn't already hate him so much.

"Thornfield College seems to think you're the one who can finally get us to the Championship."

I know. That's exactly why I chose the school. They offered me a scholarship straight out of high school, but I turned it down back then because I wanted something bigger, something with more reach and reputation. A school known for putting its players into the NHL.

And when I reached out to them again in my second year, they were more than happy to have me.

"I disagree," Coach Whitlock mutters, dropping his arms. "So if this is just some random detour for you, the girl who already has such a strong name in collegiate hockey that she can afford to waste her time playing charity for a school that's never seen the spotlight, if this is a chapter you plan to skip over once you reach your goal, I'm telling you to drop out now."

"Because this team is made up of students who work hard every single day trying to become better athletes."

"It's not my fault if being here throws them off."

"I never said that," he says, shaking his head. "They won't be thrown off. I know my girls."

I almost laugh.

……………………

By the time I leave the athletic building, thoroughly worn out and aching all over, I walk past the football field, full of boys in training. I keep my chin up, my long brown hair swinging over my shoulders, my spine straight.

I count to three in my head.

Just three.

"Hey," someone calls out. I stop slowly and turn to find someone jogging toward me. A few of the other guys have stopped their drills too, watching us. "You're the new girl, right?"

"News really does travel fast around here," I say, keeping my face somewhere close to bored.

"It's not a very big school," he grins, flashing his teeth like it's supposed to earn him something other than a toothache. "So… you're Wren Calloway. I've caught my sister watching your games more times than she'd admit, even though she swears she's better than you."

He leans in closer, and I hold my breath. "I don't think she is," he whispers. "But don't tell her I said that."

"Why would I? I don't even know her."

"Oh, you will." He grins again. "It's impossible not to. She walks around with a big C stitched to her chest."

Captain of the hockey team. Interesting.

"I'm Peter," he drawls, holding out his hand. I don't take it.

"Nice meeting you, Peter."

Peter doesn't seem bothered. In fact, his teammates are completely forgotten as I move to leave, and he falls into step beside me. "There's a party tonight," he says, turning to look at me while still jogging.

Someone whistles from behind us, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

"You should come. It's pretty exclusive, but if you're with me, you'll be fine."

"Why?"

"Quarterback," he answers, clearly pleased with himself. "And my friends are the ones hosting. You'll get to meet my sister too."

"Erm…"

"Please. I promise it'll be worth it, and I'll have you back at the dorms nice and early."

I don't correct him. I don't want anyone knowing where I actually live. Whitlock aside, of course. Nothing I can do about that now.

"Okay," I shrug. "Pick me up in front of the dorms?"

"It's a date," he yells.

"No, it's not."

"It is, Calloway." He says it like a promise, not a joke, like he already knows something I don't.

And later, when I finally step into that party, I'll understand exactly what he meant.