The Boy Who Checked Me First

Chapter 16: The Weight Room Confession

Jensen's version of team building is illegal in twelve states.

"We have trust issues," he announced at 6 a.m. weights, staring directly at me and Cole, who were standing a very professional, very wholesome three feet apart after our center-ice kiss yesterday. "Some of you think you can hide things from the team. Some of you think you can have private skates and private press conferences and private penalty box makeouts. So today, we build trust."

Park raised his hand. "Coach, is this about the bet -"

"No bets!" Jensen barked, too fast, which meant there was absolutely a bet.

He pointed at the small, windowless recovery weight room off the main gym — the one with one door, no windows, and a broken AC that only works if you kick it. "Maddox. Chen. In. You have one hour. You have a whiteboard. You have to come out with our new power-play breakout that actually works against Eastlake's trap. If you don't, the whole team runs suicides until someone pukes. If you do, I won't ask what Seattle emailed you about."

The team went dead silent. Then Park whispered, "Oh, we're definitely puking."

Cole looked at me. I looked at Cole. We both looked at Jensen.

"Coach, that's -" Cole started.

"Wholesome team building, Maddox. Get in."

He literally shoved us in and locked the door from the outside. The lock clicked. The team outside erupted in whispers and what sounded like money changing hands.

Through the door, I heard Park: "I got 20 bucks they come out dating."

Lena's voice, who should not have been in the men's weight room at 6 a.m.: "I got 50 they come out fighting and then dating."

Jensen: "I got my retirement that they finally admit it in there so I don't have to keep lying to press."

Cole kicked the AC. It sputtered to life, blowing lukewarm air.

"Okay," he said, turning to the whiteboard, all business, captain mode on. "Breakout. Eastlake runs 1-2-2, they pressure our weak-side D. If we -"

"Cole."

"If we swing low to high and you delay -"

"Cole, your dad texted me."

That got him. He froze, marker halfway to the board.

He turned slowly. "What?"

I pulled out my phone. At 5:12 a.m., while I was still asleep in Cole's hoodie again, a text from an unknown number with a Toronto area code:

Richard Maddox: This is Richard. Cole's father. Don't show him this. Meet me for coffee after weights? The diner by East Rink. 8 a.m. We need to talk about Seattle and about my son not throwing away 18 years of work for a locker room romance. Please. -R

I hadn't answered.

Cole read it over my shoulder. His jaw went tight. That muscle that only pops when he's about to fight or about to kiss me.

"He texted you? He texted YOU?"

"He says please at the end. That's new, right? The please?"

"Aria." He took my phone, stared at it like he wanted to throw it through the cinderblock wall. "He does this. He goes around me. He went around my mom for years to get me to switch AAA teams. He thinks if he talks to the girl, the girl will do the 'right thing' and leave."

"Are you the girl in this scenario or am I?"

"Not funny." But he almost smiled. He handed my phone back, careful not to touch my fingers. We'd been careful not to touch since yesterday's press conference lie. It was killing us.

"What did you tell Lavoie?" I asked quietly, sitting on a medicine ball. "About the Torrent invite? About me?"

Cole sat opposite me, on a bench press, knees wide, elbows on knees, so we were at the same level. The weight room was so small our knees almost touched.

"I told him you should take it," he said. "I called him after you ran off yesterday. I said if Torrent wants you for three days in December, they have to understand you're my left wing until the season ends in March. And that if they want to talk to you, they talk to Jensen and to you, not through me, not through my dad."

I stared. "You called Lavoie? For me?"

"You called yourself not my girlfriend on camera for an hour yesterday to protect my draft. You think I wouldn't call one scout?"

He said it like it was obvious. Like paying $5000 and fighting Volkov and getting locked in a weight room were all the same line item: Protect Aria.

"That's why he texted you," Cole realized. "My dad. Lavoie must have told him you got the Torrent look and I vouched for you. So now he thinks you're..."

"I'm a threat to your Seattle dream that you just turned into a Seattle-plus-Torrent package deal?"

"You're not a threat. You're the reason Seattle is still calling." He leaned forward, his hands clasped so tight his bruised knuckles went white. "Aria, when my dad left at 14, he left because he said hockey requires sacrifice and my mom was a distraction. He missed my first junior championship because he had a business meeting. He told me after I got my C at Whitmore that love makes you soft. That's why I..."

"That's why you closed your door after you kissed me."

"That's why I closed my door," he admitted, his voice rough. "Because for the first time since I was 12, I didn't care if I was soft. I wanted to be soft. With you. And that scared the s**t out of me more than Volkov's elbow."

The AC rattled and died. Sweat started beading on his forehead. On my neck.

Outside, Park yelled, "Are they yelling? I can't tell if they're yelling or - is that a medicine ball bouncing?"

Lena: "That's definitely not yelling."

"Oh god, they're doing it on the whiteboard," Park whispered, horrified.

Cole and I looked at each other and, despite everything, burst out laughing. Loud, helpless, echoing in the tiny room.

"We are so bad at being wholesome," I gasped.

"We are terrible," he agreed, wiping his eyes. He stood, grabbed the marker, and wrote on the whiteboard in huge letters: POWER PLAY BREAKOUT: GIVE PUCK TO CHEN. SHE SCORES. WE WIN. THE END.

Then underneath: AND TELL RICHARD MADDOX TO STOP TEXTING MY GIRL — COLE

My heart stopped. My girl.

He underlined MY GIRL three times, then seemed to realize what he wrote and froze, marker still in hand.

The door banged. Jensen: "Time! You got a breakout or do I make everyone puke?"

Cole didn't open the door. He looked at me, breathing hard, sweat dripping, his bloody lip healed into a pink scar that I'd kissed yesterday.

"Aria Chen," he said, quiet, just for me, not for the team betting outside, not for his dad, not for Seattle. "I have not been just your teammate since you checked me into the boards on day one and told me you didn't need a captain. I have not been just your roommate since you slept in my tux jacket. And I was not just your teammate when I kissed you in that penalty box."

I stood up. The medicine ball rolled away.

"What are you, then?" I whispered.

He stepped closer. In this tiny, sweaty, locked weight room, with Park taking bets outside, with his dad waiting at a diner to tell me to leave his son alone, with Seattle watching both of us.

"I'm yours," he said simply. "If you want me. I'm your captain, your roommate, your - whatever you want. Your boyfriend who is really bad at being wholesome and really good at falling for his left wing."

Outside, the team was chanting now: "KISS! KISS! KISS!"

Cole's hand came up, cupped my jaw, his thumb brushing that healing bruise on my lip, his eyes asking.

I answered by grabbing his sweaty Whitmore t-shirt and pulling him down.

We kissed. Not bloody, not for cameras, not because a crowd told us to. Soft, then desperate, then soft again. His hands in my messy ponytail, my hands fisted in his shirt, the whiteboard rattling behind him as he backed into it. The MY GIRL smeared across his back.

The door burst open.

Jensen, Park, Lena, Maria, and the entire team stood there, phones out, mouths open.

Jensen looked at the whiteboard, at us tangled against it, at Cole's hand definitely not in a wholesome place on my waist.

He sighed, pulled out his wallet, and handed Lena a twenty.

"About damn time," he said. "Now, can we please run a power play that doesn't involve you two making out in the penalty box, the youth rink, the press conference, AND my weight room?"

Park was screaming. Lena was filming. Maria was already posting with the caption BREAKOUT: SUCCESSFUL.

Cole didn't let go of me. He rested his forehead on mine, breathing hard, grinning that crooked, real grin.

"Coach," he said, without looking away from me, "we got a breakout. Give puck to Chen. She scores. We win."

Jensen looked at the board again. "That's... actually not terrible against their trap."

I laughed, dizzy, my lips swollen, his tux jacket still in our apartment waiting for me.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Same Toronto number.

Richard Maddox: Diner. 8 a.m. Please come alone. It's not what you think.

Cole saw it over my shoulder. His arms tightened around me.

"You don't have to go," he whispered.

"I know," I said. "But what if it's not what we think?"

He kissed my forehead, quick, in front of everyone.

"Then we go together," he said. "No more alone. Remember?"

Jensen clapped his hands. "Great! Romantic field trip after suicide runs! Everyone on the line! Maddox, Chen, you run first because you're late and in love and disgusting!"

We ran. Hand in hand, in a weight room that smelled like rubber and bad decisions and finally telling the truth.

And at 8 a.m., we walked into that diner together to meet Richard Maddox, who took one look at us — sweaty, holding hands, his son's scar on my lip and my bruise covered by his son's hoodie — and said,

"Aria. Cole told me you got Seattle Torrent. I didn't come to tell you to leave. I came to tell you why you should take it. And why my son should let you."