Chapter 71 Luke

Chapter 71 Luke
Luke

⛸️

The air in the locker room is thick with the smell of sweat and stale deodorant, a scent I usually find comforting. Today, it just feels heavy. Tuesday practice is over, and as usual, I’m the last one to leave. I’m not lingering to work on my stickhandling or to do extra laps. I’m just sitting here, on the cold wooden bench, staring at my skates, avoiding the inevitable.

For the past five days, Coach Bev and I have been engaged in a silent, elaborate dance of avoidance. At practice, her eyes never met mine. Her instructions were barked out to the team at large, never directed at me personally. The private lessons I’d come to crave were conspicuously absent from our schedule. The easy camaraderie we’d built had evaporated, replaced by a suffocating, awkward tension that was so thick you could cut it with a skate blade.

I hated it. I missed her. And I felt like a total asshole for it.

I’m just about to get up from the bench, grab my bag and make a break for it when I hear a soft tap on the doorframe.

My head snaps up. It’s her.

She’s leaning against the door, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. She’s in her usual coaching gear, but she seems… softer. Less guarded.

“Got a minute, Luke?”

I just nod, my throat suddenly tight.

She pushes off the doorframe and walks in, the sound of her sneakers on the concrete floor echoing in the empty room. She stops a few feet away from me, not too close, but close enough that I can see the genuine regret in her eyes.

“I’m sorry about the past week,” she starts, her voice quiet but steady. “And about… what happened. In the shower. That was unprofessional and inappropriate, and it never should have happened.”

She takes a breath. “I understand if things are weird, and I’ll completely get it if you want to stop the private lessons.”

The thought of stopping sends a jolt of panic through me. Losing her guidance would be like trying to navigate a blizzard without a compass. I shake my head.

“No, look,” I say, finding my voice. “It was an accident. We couldn’t have controlled that. We can only control how we proceed.”

A small, relieved smile touches her lips. “Exactly.”

“So let’s just… forget that happened,” I say, the words feeling like a weight lifting off my chest. “I'm just glad we're now discussing it. ‘Cause I felt very awkward the past few days, not gonna lie.”

And that’s when she does something that completely short-circuits my brain.

She drops to her knees in front of me.

I’m still sitting on the bench, and suddenly she’s at eye level, her hands resting on my knees. The position is so intimate, so unexpected, that my breath hitches. She looks up at me, her eyes full of a sincerity that’s almost overwhelming.

“I’m so sorry,” she says again, her voice barely a whisper. “There’s no need for you to ever feel that way around me. You can confide in me for anything, Luke. Anything.”

And in that moment, I believe her. I feel like I could tell her my deepest, darkest secrets, and she wouldn’t flinch. She’s not just my coach; she’s my ally.

She gives my knee a gentle squeeze. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” she asks, her tone shifting slightly. “Drug tests are coming up for the team. And I understand if you… do them. Or smoke a little weed. It’s not a big deal. Everyone in high school does. And I can help you pass any drug test.”

My eyes widen slightly. This is a level of trust I never expected. I nod slowly. “Yeah. I do them sometimes. And Mitch does too. If you could… also help him?”

She nods instantly, her expression unwavering. “Of course, Luke. Of course.”

We stare at each other for a moment longer, the air crackling with an energy that has nothing to do with hockey. I can feel her starting to lean in, her body angling closer to mine. My heart pounds against my ribs.

Is she going to kiss me?

She moves in, her face inches from mine. I can feel the warmth of her breath. My eyes flutter shut.

And then I feel it. The soft, warm press of her lips against my cheek.

It’s over in a second. She pulls back, a small, genuine smile on her face.

“Thanks for being so cool and open about everything,” she says.

She stands up, gives me one last nod, and walks out of the locker room, leaving me sitting there, stunned into silence.

I lift my hand and touch my cheek, right where her lips were. The skin tingles. I try to rationalize it, to compartmentalize. It was professional. It was a gesture of gratitude. She’s a good coach. A really, really good coach who just wants what’s best for me.

I repeat it to myself like a mantra, trying to ignore the traitorous part of my brain that’s screaming that it felt like something more.

⛸️

The blue light of my phone screen washes over my face in the darkness of my bedroom. I’m laying on my back, the covers kicked down to my feet, doom scrolling through an endless feed of other people’s highlight reels. The awkwardness from the locker room has followed me home, clinging to me like a stubborn fog. I’ve been replaying that kiss on the cheek, the way she looked at me, the way she dropped to her knees. It’s all a jumbled mess in my head, and I can’t figure out if it was a gesture of professional solidarity or something else entirely.

My phone buzzes, a sharp, sudden vibration that makes me jump. I glance down, expecting another stupid notification from a social media app. But it’s not. It’s a text from a number I saved with a simple, professional ‘Coach Bev’.

My heart does that stupid little skip again.

Bev: Hey. Think you can make a private lesson tomorrow at 7?

I stare at the message, my thumbs hovering over the screen. This is it. The test. The moment of truth. I take a deep breath and type back.

Luke: Sure. Glad the lessons are starting back up again.

I hit send before I can overthink it. And as the words appear on the screen, I realize they’re true. I am glad. The past few days without her guidance have felt hollow, like I’m just going through the motions. I miss the way she pushes me, the way she sees my potential before I do. And honestly, I don’t feel awkward about anything anymore. Our talk cleared the air, and I’m ready to move on.

Almost immediately, three dots appear, indicating she’s typing.

Bev: Good. Me too.

A moment later, another message comes through. It’s not text. It’s a picture. It’s a meme of a confused-looking hockey player standing in front of a net full of pucks, with the caption, ‘When the coach says “just one more drill” but you’ve already been on the ice for two hours.

I let out a genuine laugh, the sound echoing in the quiet room. I quickly type back.

Luke: Lmao accurate. This is us every Tuesday.

I scroll through my camera roll, looking for a good response. I find a video of a youth hockey game where a little kid, completely confused about the direction of play, scores a goal for the other team and celebrates like he just won the Stanley Cup. I send it.

Luke: This is gonna be Mitch in our next game.

Her reply is almost instant.

Bev: OMG I’m dying.

Luke: He would send me a middle finger emoji if I showed this to him.

Bev: Hahahaha figures. He’s got potential though. Just needs to channel that energy. Like you.

Luke: That’s what I keep telling him.

We fall into an easy rhythm, a back-and-forth of memes and inside jokes. She sends me one of a goalie dramatically flopping to the ice to stop a slow-moving puck, and I reply with a video of a guy trying to play hockey on a frozen lake and immediately falling through the thin ice. We’re laughing, really getting along, and the awkwardness of the past few days feels like a distant memory.

This is nice. This is easy. This is just me and my coach, sharing a laugh. And as I lay there, smiling at my phone, I realize that this is exactly what I needed. We’re okay. We’re more than okay. We’re us again.