Chapter 68: Luke

This chapter contains a warning xx

Luke

Saturday 6pm

⛸️

The rink is cold and quiet, the only sounds the sharp slice of my skates on the ice and the distant hum of the Zamboni’s engine. It’s just me, the ice, and her.

Coach Beverly stands by the center line, arms crossed, a small, knowing smile on her face. She’s in her usual track pants and a team windbreaker, her hair pulled back in a tight, no-nonsense blonde ponytail. She watches me complete the drill, a complex weaving through the cones she set up, and nods in approval.

“Again,” she calls out. “Faster. Lower your center of gravity. Think of it like you’re a predator stalking prey. You’re not just skating; you’re hunting.”

I push off, my legs burning. I’ve been at this for two hours now, well past our scheduled time. My lungs ache, but my mind is sharp, focused on every piece of advice she’s given me. We’ve talked about everything—my shot power, my defensive positioning, how to make myself visible to scouts not just during plays, but in the moments between them.

When I finally glide to a stop in front of her, chest heaving, she claps her gloved hands together once.

“Good. That’s the kind of intensity that gets you noticed.” She gestures toward the bench with her head. “Take a breather.”

I follow her off the ice, the rubber mats of the bench area feeling strange under my blades. I strip off my helmet and gloves, letting the cool air hit my blonde sweat-soaked hair.

“You’ve really elevated your game, Luke,” she says, her voice softer now, more personal than the coach’s tone she uses on the ice. “Something’s clicked.”

“Yeah,” I say, taking a long drink from my water bottle. “Everything’s just… good right now. School, Mercedes, my dad… it’s all stable. I think that’s helping.”

She leans against the boards, studying me. “It’s more than helping. It’s everything. Hockey isn’t just about physical skill; it’s about mental fortitude. Happiness, stability… that’s the foundation. It shows in your confidence on the ice. It shows in how you carry yourself.” She pauses, her eyes tracing the line of my jaw. “You’re becoming a man, Luke. Not just a boy who can play hockey.”

A warmth spreads through my chest at her praise. It feels different than when my dad says it. It feels… professional. Like she sees a future for me that’s real, tangible.

“The scouts are going to start looking at you seriously soon,” she continues. “The combine, the training camps… they’re not just about how fast you can skate or how hard you can shoot. They assess the whole package. Your physique, your endurance, your strength-to-weight ratio.”

She pushes off the boards and stands in front of me, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes.

“I need to see what we’re working with,” she says, her tone shifting again, becoming more clinical, more serious. “Take off your jersey.”

I hesitate for a split second, but it’s Coach Bev. This is part of the process. I peel the sweat-drenched fabric over my head and drop it onto the bench.

Her gaze is analytical, moving over my shoulders, my chest, my arms. “Good. Your shoulders are broadening nicely. Strong core.” She reaches out and presses two fingers firmly into my abdomen, just above my navel. “Tighten up.”

I flex, and a small hum of approval escapes her. “Excellent. Now, turn around.”

I do, and I feel her hands on my back, tracing the muscles along my spine. “Posture is key. You need to be able to absorb checks without losing your balance. Your back is strong.” Her hands move down to my obliques, her thumbs pressing deep into the muscle. “You need to work on your rotational strength here. It’ll add power to your shots and your checks.”

Her touch is professional, but it’s also… thorough. Her hands slide around to my sides, her palms flat against my ribcage. “Breathe in.” I inhale, and I feel her measuring the expansion. “And out.” I exhale. “Good lung capacity.”

She comes back around to face me. Her eyes are intense, focused. “The NHL is a different beast, Luke. They’ll want to see endurance. They’ll push you to your limits.” She places her hands on my biceps, squeezing gently, then moving down to my forearms. “You’ve got the build. The raw strength is there.”

Her hands move back to my stomach, her fingers splayed wide across my abs. This time, they linger. Her touch is lighter, less clinical. She looks up from my stomach to my eyes.

“You’re perfect, Luke,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “You have exactly what it takes. The physique, the talent, the drive… and now, the focus.” Her thumbs brush lightly against my skin, a barely-there caress that sends a jolt through me. “I’m going to make sure they see it. All of it.”

I just stand there, frozen.

My skin is tingling where her fingers were, a phantom warmth spreading through my torso.

I know this is supposed to be professional. I know she’s my coach, assessing me for a potential future.

But damn. The way her hands moved, the intensity in her eyes when she said I was perfect… it made me feel things I definitely shouldn’t be feeling for my coach.

A part of me is screaming that this is wrong, that I have a girlfriend, that this is a professional boundary. But another part, a louder part, is preening under the attention, under her praise.

I can’t show her that, though. I can’t let her see how that affected me. I don’t want to be weird about this. I don’t want to scare her off or make things awkward when she’s the key to everything I’m working toward.

So I force a smile, trying to make it look grateful and not flustered. I nod, hoping my voice doesn’t shake.

“Thank you for your time and advice,” I say, my voice a little too steady, a little too loud. “I appreciate it a lot. And… what you see in me, Bev.”

Her expression softens, the intense focus melting into something that looks almost like pride. She gives me a small, warm smile.

“Anything for my best player, Luke,” she says, her voice smooth as silk. She gestures toward the locker room with a tilt of her head. “Go get changed. You’ve earned a rest.”

I nod again, not trusting myself to say anything else. I turn and walk away, feeling her eyes on my back the entire time. I don’t look back. I just push through the door to the locker room and let it swing shut behind me, the sound echoing in the empty space.

Leaning against the cool metal of the lockers, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My heart is hammering against my ribs. I close my eyes, and all I can see is her face, all I can feel is her hands on me.

This is dangerous.

⛸️

The world inside Mitch’s car is a swirling kaleidoscope of neon streetlights and pulsating bass. Colors bleed into one another, the dashboard lights dripping down the console like liquid candy. Mitch is in the driver’s seat, his eyes wide and unfixed, staring at a particularly interesting crack in the windshield as if it holds the secrets to the universe.

In the back, the air is thick with a different kind of energy. Mercedes is pressed against my side, her head resting on my shoulder as the LSD hums through our veins. My hoodie is draped strategically over her lap, a dark, innocuous shield against the front seat. Underneath it, my hand has found its home between her thighs.

Her skirt is pushed up, and I’m tracing slow, deliberate circles over the thin fabric of her underwear. Her breathing hitches, a small sound that’s swallowed by the music thumping from the speakers. I can feel the heat radiating from her, a stark contrast to the cool leather of the seat.

Her hips shift, a silent plea for more. I grin, a cocky, knowing smirk playing on my lips. I press a little harder, and a full-blown moan threatens to escape. I’m quick, clamping my other hand gently but firmly over her mouth. Her eyes fly open, wide and dark with surprise and pleasure. She glares at me playfully, her hand coming up to slap my wrist.

I yank my hand away from her mouth and my fingers from under her skirt, bringing them up to my lips. I lock eyes with her as I taste them, my grin widening.

“Mhm,” I whisper, my voice a low rumble against her ear. “You taste good.”

“Shhh,” she hisses, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson. “Mitch is right there.”

“Whatever,” I scoff, glancing at the front. “He’s tripping balls right now.” To prove my point, I lean forward and slap the top of Mitch’s head.

He jolts violently, his head smacking against the headrest. “Damn it, Luke!” he yelps, rubbing the spot. “The colors just got really aggressive.”

I laugh, sinking back into the seat. Mercedes shakes her head, but she’s trying not to smile.

“So,” Mitch says, turning his attention from the windshield to us, his eyes still slightly glazed. “How’d the private hockey lesson go?”

“Good,” I say, slinging my arm around Mercedes. “Really good. I hope I get drafted and can skip college, to be honest.”

“Damn, straight to the big leagues,” Mitch says, impressed. “Coach hasn’t offered me private lessons yet.”

“Your time will come,” I say, trying to sound humble and failing. “Coach is just focused on me right now, I guess. Needs to distribute time wisely.”

Mitch nods, accepting the explanation. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

Mercedes nudges me. “Just don’t forget our style swap date tomorrow.”

Mitch’s head whips around, his interest suddenly piqued. “You guys are style swapping? That is hilarious. Oh my god, I need to see this. I need to see preppy jock boy Luke wearing alternative dark clothes and chains.”

I laugh, the image already forming in my mind. “And I need to see my girl wearing light pastels with preppy name brands.”

Mercedes lets out a genuine laugh, the sound light and happy in the psychedelic haze of the car. The three of us dissolve into a fit of giggles, the moment hanging in the air, perfect and balanced. For now, everything is exactly where it should be.