Chapter 70: Luke

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Luke

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The water is hot, a welcome punishment for my aching muscles. Another lesson with Coach Bev is in the books, and I can feel the difference.

My movements are sharper, my instincts honed. She sees something in me, something I’m only just beginning to see in myself. We’ve become close, our conversations bleeding past the boundaries of pucks and power plays, touching on futures, fears, and the pressure that comes with potential.

She’s become more than a coach; she’s a mentor, a confidante.

I’m rinsing the shampoo from my hair, the steam clouding the air around me, when I hear her voice, clear and sharp, cutting through the sound of the spray.

“Luke?”

I freeze, my heart doing a stupid little skip. “Yeah?” I call back, trying to sound casual. “You good?”

“None of the showers are working in the girls’ locker room,” she says, her voice echoing slightly in the tiled room. “I’m going to use one of the showers in here, if that’s okay.”

My mind goes blank for a second. The boys’ locker room. Here. With me. A jolt of something—panic, awkwardness, a tiny, traitorous flicker of curiosity—shoots through me. I can’t exactly say no. She’s my coach.

“Uh, yeah, okay,” I manage, my voice sounding a little strained. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Great, thanks,” she replies, and I hear the squeak of a shower door a couple of stalls down from mine.

I try to focus on the water, on the soap, on anything but the fact that Beverly is naked, just a few feet away, separated by a thin metal wall and a flimsy curtain. I keep my eyes forward, staring at the tile, my mind racing.

This is fine. This is professional. She’s an adult, she’s my coach. It’s just a plumbing issue.

“The pressure in this one is awful,” she says, her voice conversational. “I’m gonna have to put in a plumbing report.”

“Yeah, for sure,” I say, my voice cracking slightly. I clear my throat. “Definitely.”

That’s it. I need to get out of here.

I cut my water off, the sudden silence ringing in my ears. I wrap a towel securely around my waist, the fabric feeling flimsy and inadequate. Now for the problem. My locker, with my clothes, is on the other side of the shower area. Her stall is directly in my path.

I can do this. Just a quick walk. In and out. No big deal.

I take a deep breath and step out, my bare feet slapping against the wet floor. I keep my eyes glued to my locker, my movements stiff and robotic. I reach my stall and fumble with the combination, my hands suddenly clumsy. I yank my bag open and start rifling through my clothes, desperately searching for a clean shirt.

My jeans, my boxers… where the hell is my shirt?

And then I hear it. The water in her shower shuts off.

“Shit,” I mutter to myself, my movements becoming more frantic. The sound of a curtain being pulled back sends a fresh wave of panic through me. I’m still just in a towel, clutching my bag like an idiot.

“Hey,” she says from behind me.

I flinch, turning around so fast I almost lose my towel. And there she is.

She’s standing there, wrapped in a small white towel that barely reaches her mid-thigh. Her skin is still damp, glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights. I see a small constellation of moles on her shoulder. Her blonde hair is slicked back from her face, droplets of water clinging to her neck and collarbone. And she looks… sexy. Not in a coach way. In a grown woman way. A way that makes my throat go dry and my blood rush south.

My eyes dart away, focusing on a spot on the wall just over her shoulder. “Thanks,” I mumble, snatching the shirt from her outstretched hand.

And then it happens. The one-in-a-million, cliché, nightmare scenario.

As I’m turning back to my bag, her towel slips.

It doesn’t just fall. It pools at her feet in a soft, white heap, leaving her standing there, completely and utterly nude.

My mouth drops open. My brain short-circuits. My eyes, betraying every command my brain is screaming, flick down. I see everything. The full, heavy weight of her breasts, the flat, toned plane of her stomach, the neat triangle of dark hair between her legs. It’s not a quick glance. It’s a full-on, deer-in-the-headlights, brain-melting stare. Heat floods my cheeks, a mortifying blush that I can feel creeping down my neck.

“Oh my gosh!” she gasps, her voice a choked squeak.

She bends down, snatching the towel from the floor and clutching it to her chest. “Why does this always happen to me?” she mutters, more to herself than to me, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry, Luke,” she says, not meeting my eyes. She turns and practically flees, disappearing back into the relative safety of the shower stall.

And I just stand there. Frozen. My towel feels like it’s about to fall off. My shirt is clutched in my hand. And the image of my coach, completely naked, is burned into my retinas.

I just saw my coach naked.

The sound of the shower curtain snapping shut is like a starting pistol. My body jolts back to life, the shock wearing off and being replaced by a frantic, humming energy. I move on autopilot, my fingers fumbling with the button on my jeans, my hands shaking so badly I can barely pull the t-shirt over my head. I don’t dry off properly; I just yank my clothes on, the damp fabric clinging to my skin. I can’t be in here. I can’t breathe in here.

I shove my feet into my sneakers, not even bothering to tie them. I grab my bag, my keys, and I’m gone. I don’t say goodbye. I don’t look back. I just walk, fast, out of the locker room and down the corridor, my footsteps echoing in the empty hall. The cool air of the arena hits my face, but it does nothing to cool the fire raging under my skin.

I’m at my car in seconds, fumbling with the key fob. The chirp of the unlock is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. I practically fall into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut and hitting the lock button. Click. Click. The sound of all four doors locking is a small, pathetic comfort.

I rest my forehead on the cool leather of the steering wheel, my breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The inside of my car is my sanctuary, my private bubble, but it feels like it’s shrinking, closing in on me. My mind is a chaotic mess, replaying the last two minutes on a sickening, endless loop.

The towel. Dropping. The flash of her skin. The mole on her shoulder. The dark hair between her legs.

Fuck.

I thought the accidental lingerie message she sent me a while back was awkward. That was nothing. That was a typo, a digital misfire. This… this was real. This was flesh and blood. I just saw my coach naked. And the worst part, the part that makes me want to punch the steering wheel until my knuckles bleed, is that I’m attracted to her.

The thought hits me like a physical blow, a wave of guilt and shame so potent it makes me feel sick. I’m attracted to her. I have been. It’s a truth I’ve buried under layers of respect and professionalism, a truth that manifests in the way I hang on her every word, the way my chest puffs up when she praises me, the way I feel a hundred feet tall after a private lesson. There’s this pent-up sexual tension buzzing between us, a current I’ve been determined to ignore. But now? Now it’s been yanked out into the harsh, unforgiving light.

But ain’t no way. That’s my coach. She’s almost in her 30s, and I’m literally underage. This is inappropriate. This is crossing lines, so many lines they’re all a blur. She’s in a position of power, a mentor. I’m her student, her player. This is the kind of thing that ruins careers, ruins lives.

But it was an accident. I know it was. I saw the embarrassment on her face, heard it in her voice. She wasn’t putting on a show; she was mortified. So I understand. I get that it was a mistake, a clumsy, horrible, awkward mistake.

But how am I supposed to talk to her now?

Fuck.

I lift my head, my knuckles white where I’m gripping the steering wheel. How am I supposed to look her in the eye on Tuesday at practice? How am I supposed to listen to her give me pointers on my slap shot when all I can see is the curve of her hip, the weight of her breast? Every piece of advice, every congratulatory pat on the back, is going to be tainted with this. The professional boundary we’ve so carefully built has been shattered, and I have no idea how to piece it back together.

I can’t quit the team. Hockey is my everything. It’s my ticket out, my future. She’s my ticket. And I can’t avoid her. She’s the coach.

I let out a frustrated, guttural yell, pounding my fist once on the dashboard. The plastic cracks under the force, a satisfying, if useless, release. I’m trapped. I’m trapped in this car, in this head, in this impossible situation. And I have no idea what to do.