The Forbidden Puck: The Coach's Daughter is Off Limits

Chapter Two: You Were Saying?

Riley

I had done exactly one thing in my entire life without my father's approval, and I was determined not to mess it up.

Figure skating.

It was my secret rebellion, planned and saved for in silence. While my father graded papers and muttered about "frivolous pursuits," I watched old Olympic routines. He wanted debate team, honor society, a direct path to law school.

I wanted the ice.

For two years, I trained in secret at the public rink across town. I paid for lessons with money I saved from tutoring kids in calculus, a fact he never knew. I auditioned for the university's skating team without telling him, and I didn't say a word until the acceptance letter was in my hand.

Today was my first official day.

"Excuse me, sorry."

I squeezed through the crowd clogging the hallway outside Thompson Arena, my gym bag thumping against my leg.

The noise from inside was a physical thing, a deep roar that vibrated in my chest. I should have been heading to the figure skaters' locker room for orientation, but I'd promised Marvel I'd catch the end of his game.

Falcons versus Eagles. The big rivalry. My boyfriend had been talking about this game for weeks.

Five minutes, I told myself. Then I'd run.

I pushed through the heavy double doors just as the sound exploded into a deafening cheer.

Good. The game was still on.

My eyes flew to the scoreboard. Falcons 4, Eagles 3. Four minutes left.

"Marvel!" I whispered, scanning the ice for his number-22.

"Riley?"

My stomach flipped over.

Three rows down, arms crossed over his chest, eyes locked on the game, stood my father.

"Dad?" I made my way down the concrete steps, forcing a smile that felt too bright. "You're here?"

Of course he was here. He was the Falcons' head coach. This was his life. I felt stupid for not expecting him.

He didn't smile. Just gave me a brief, business-like nod before turning his attention back to the ice.

I let out a quiet breath and looked for Marvel.

There he was. Number 22, moving with a grace that always surprised me. Fast, smooth, completely in control. He cut left, dodged a defender, and I lifted my phone. I had to get a picture.

I framed the shot just as he pulled his stick back, every muscle tight and ready.

Then someone crashed into the frame.

Number 17.

The Falcons' captain came out of nowhere. His stick snapped forward, and with one clean, ruthless move, he stole the puck right from Marvel's control. One second Marvel had it. The next, he was stumbling, off-balance, as number 17 blew past him.

I lowered my phone, my breath catching in my throat.

He moved like a storm. Aggressive.

Unstoppable. His own teammates seemed to clear a path for him as he charged the Eagles' goal. The goalie crouched, but it was too late.

The crack of the puck hitting the net was sharp and final.

The arena erupted.

Falcons 5, Eagles 3.

When the buzzer sounded a minute later, it was over. The Falcons swarmed their captain, lifting him onto their shoulders. The crowd was chanting, shaking the old rafters.

"Collins! Collins! Collins!"

Ray Collins.

My father's favorite. The golden boy.

As if he felt me staring, he turned his head where he sat on his teammates' shoulders. His gaze, dark and intense, found mine across the crowded bleachers. It held for one second. Two.

I looked away first, a hot spark of irritation flaring in my chest. There was something about the way he soaked in the worship, like it was his birthright, that grated on me.

Too arrogant.

When I looked back toward the visitors' bench, the Eagles were already filing off the ice, heads down.

Oh, no. Marvel.

"Ignore the final score," my father said beside me, a note of pure satisfaction in his voice. "That was championship-level hockey."

"Marvel played well, too," I murmured, already gathering my bag.

My father started talking about defensive strategy, but I wasn't listening. Marvel hated losing. He'd be dissecting every mistake, furious with himself.

I needed to find him.

"I'll meet you for dinner later," I said, cutting him off gently. He just nodded, his mind already on his winning team.

The visiting team's locker room was down a narrow, damp-smelling hallway on the east side of the arena. I'd been here before. Marvel always came out this way.

I waited outside the heavy door, shifting my weight from foot to foot, practicing my lines in my head.

It's one game. You were amazing. That goal in the second period was perfect. Next time.

The door finally swung open.

A player stepped out, still in full gear, his helmet on. Relief washed through me.

"Hey," I said softly, taking a step closer. "You okay?"

He didn't answer. Just stood there, his back to me.

"I know you're upset, but you played so well tonight," I continued. The words tumbled out in a rush. "That breakaway in the second period? I thought for sure you had it." I reached out and touched his arm. "And you don't have to measure yourself against their captain. You're better than him anyway."

He went completely still.

"Better than who?"

A deep, unfamiliar voice answered. It wasn't Marvel's.

I watched, my heart freezing, as he turned slowly. He lifted his helmet off in one smooth motion.

Dark hair, damp with sweat. A sharp jaw. Eyes that weren't Marvel's warm brown, but a piercing, cool gray.

Ray Collins.

My hand snapped back from his arm like I'd been burned. I stumbled back a step, my fingers knotting together.

He just looked down at me, that intense gaze taking in my shock, my embarrassment. A faint, unreadable smile touched his lips.

"You were saying?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

Humiliation burned my cheeks, quickly followed by a wave of pure annoyance. I hated that I'd been caught off guard. I hated the way he was looking at me, like I was a funny little puzzle. I opened my mouth, ready to tell him exactly what I thought of arrogant hockey players who eavesdropped, when the Falcons' locker room door burst open behind him.

Laughter and the smell of sweat spilled into the hall. Three of his teammates, still in their gear, piled out. One of them, a guy with a buzz cut, spotted me and grinned.

"Whoa! Aren't you Riley?" Buzz Cut said, slinging an arm around Ray Collins's shoulders. "Coach Hartwell's daughter, right? Saw you in the stands."

Another player, taller, chimed in. "Aren't you being unfair? You're our coach's kid. Shouldn't you be, I dunno, cheering for us?"

All their eyes were on me. I felt like a bug under a glass. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, forcing my voice to be calm. "I might be the coach's daughter," I said, looking at the taller player. "But I'm not officially supporting any hockey team."

It was a stupid, defensive thing to say, but I couldn't take it back.

Ray Collins hadn't moved. He was just watching me, that same analyzing look on his face, as if my every reaction was a play he was studying.

"Riley."

The new voice was tight. Strained. I knew it well.

I turned.

There, a few feet away, his gear bag hanging from one hand and his face a mask of cold, clean anger, stood Marvel. My boyfriend.

His eyes moved from my flushed face, to Ray Collins standing so close to me, to Ray Collins's smirking friends.

The silence in the hallway was suddenly very, very loud.