Chapter 72 Luke

Chapter 72 Luke
Luke

⛸️

The next day at practice, the ice feels different. The air is colder, sharper. Or maybe that's just the vibe coming off my teammates. Every time I complete a drill, I hear it. A murmur from the bench. A whispered comment from the line.

"Golden boy strikes again."

"There he goes, Mr. Private Lessons."

Coach Barns, our actual head coach, is barking instructions, but every so often, he'll pause and nod at me. "Good work, Luke! That's the intensity we need!" And then, almost immediately, Coach Bev will chime in from the other side of the rink. "See that, team? That's how you protect the puck! Luke, excellent!"

It's a constant, two-pronged assault of praise. And my teammates are eating me alive for it.

During a break in the scrimmage, Mitch skates over, nudging me with his shoulder. "Must be nice," he mutters, not looking at me. "Getting all that special attention."

"What are you talking about?" I ask, feigning ignorance, but I know exactly what he means.

"Don't play dumb, Luke," another voice cuts in. It's Tyler, our defenseman, a guy who's always had a chip on his shoulder. "We all know you're getting extra help. Suddenly you're Coach Bev's favorite pet."

"I'm just working hard," I say through gritted teeth, my knuckles white on my stick.

"Working hard," Tyler scoffs. "Sure. We're all working hard. But we don't get special one-on-one time, do we?"

The comment hits me like a slap. It's low, and it's dirty, and it's meant to hurt. I can feel the heat rising in my neck. I ignore him, but the chirps don't stop. They're like little jabs, constantly poking at a fresh bruise. Every time I take the puck, someone's there. Every time I miss a shot, there's a snide remark.

Finally, during a drill, I'm trying to thread a pass to Mitch, but Tyler deliberately gets in my way, bumping me just enough to screw up the play.

"Come on, Luke!" he yells, throwing his hands up. "Thought you were supposed to be good now."

That's it. Something inside me snaps. I stop skating right in the middle of the ice, turning to face him. The entire practice seems to grind to a halt.

"Shut the fuck up!" I roar, my voice echoing across the rink. "All of you! Just shut the fuck up and play hockey!"

Every single head turns. The silence is deafening. Coach Barns blows his whistle, sharp and angry.

"Luke! Calm it down! Now!" he bellows.

I take a deep, shuddering breath, the anger still thrumming under my skin. I nod curtly and skate back to my position, my eyes fixed on the ice. I don't look at anyone. I just finish the drill. But the damage is done.

The locker room after practice is pure chaos. The second the doors close, the accusations start flying.

"So it's true, then?" Tyler says, slamming his locker shut. "You're getting private lessons with Bev?"

"It's not a big deal," I mumble, trying to strip off my gear as fast as possible.

"Not a big deal?" Mitch pipes up, and for the first time, he sounds genuinely hurt. "We're a team, Luke. You're supposed to be one of us. Going behind our backs to get special treatment? That's bullshit."

I finally look up, my frustration boiling over. "Maybe she just sees something in me!" I yell, standing up. "Maybe she thinks I actually have a shot at getting drafted, unlike you assholes!"

The words hang in the air, ugly and final. The room goes quiet again. I've hit them where it hurts. I've voiced the insecurity that every single one of them has. They all want it, but I'm the one getting the extra push.

One by one, they finish changing, shooting me dirty looks as they leave. Soon, the room is empty, the air thick with the smell of sweat and resentment. I'm alone again, just like yesterday.

A few minutes later, the door creaks open. It's her.

"Hey," I say, my voice flat.

She walks over, her expression soft with concern. Without a word, she wraps her arms around me in a hug. I sink into it, the tension finally starting to melt away. "Today was rough," she says quietly, pulling back to look at me. "Everyone was on your case."

"Yeah, I know," I sigh.

She glances toward the door, making sure we're alone, then lowers her voice. "This is just between us, Luke," she says, her eyes intense. "I haven't offered private lessons to the others because you're the only one on this team that has what it takes to get drafted. The others just don't have it."

A hot wave of pride swells in my chest. It's exactly what I needed to hear. It's not just me being an asshole; it's the truth.

"They don't get me like you do," I say, and it feels like the most profound statement in the world.

She smiles, a knowing, intimate smile. "I know." She hesitates for a moment. "I have a gift for you."

She leaves the locker room and comes back a minute later with an envelope in her hand. She hands it to me. I tear it open. Inside are two tickets. I stare at them, my eyes widening. They're for the Boston Bruins vs. the Buffalo Sabres. This weekend. Section 114. Row A. Right at the glass.

"No way," I breathe, looking up at her. "This is… this would be a lot of fun."

"I was hoping you'd say that," she says, her face lighting up. "Are you down? We can watch the pros, and I can show you things—tips and tricks, positioning, stuff you can only really see from up close. It'll be like a film session, but live."

"I'm so down," I say, my mind already racing. It's perfect. It's professional, but it's also just us.

She leans against the lockers, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Just try not to get too distracted by all the big, sweaty men slamming into the glass right in front of you."

I blink, then let out a laugh. "I'll do my best. No promises you won't, though."

She laughs with me, a genuine, warm sound. "You're so mature for your age, Luke."

And I believe her. She's right. I am. Let the rest of the team bitch and moan and be jealous. They're just kids. I'm on a different level now.

⛸️

Later that night, I'm back in my room, the familiar blue glow of my phone washing over my face. The anger from the locker room has faded, replaced by a quiet, simmering pride. I'm scrolling mindlessly, reliving the moment she told me I was the only one with a shot. My phone buzzes, and my heart does that stupid little skip. It's her.

Bev: Big news. Just got off the phone. A scout from the Bruins is interested. He'll be at our game against Northwood next month.

I sit up straight, the phone suddenly feeling like the most important object in the world. The Bruins. An actual NHL scout. Coming to see me.

Luke: No way. Seriously? That's amazing!

Bev: It is. And you're going to be ready. I'm going to make sure of it.

Luke: I'm so pumped right now. Thank you for telling me.

Bev: Of course. This is what we've been working towards. How are you feeling? Physically?

Luke: Good. A little sore from practice, but good.

Bev: Good. You better be eating good. Lots of protein, healthy low carbs, moderate fat intake. Your body is your tool right now, Luke. You have to fuel it like a professional athlete.

Luke: I do that anyway. Chicken, rice, veggies. The whole deal.

Bev: I can tell. It shows. Your conditioning is already ahead of the others.

I chuckle to myself, a warm feeling spreading through my chest. She notices everything.

Bev: Hey, can you do me a favor? Send me a few pics of your physique. Just some mirror shots. I want to see your current muscle development and symmetry. It'll help me direct your off-ice training better.

I don't even think twice. It makes perfect sense. She's the expert. I stand up, walk over to my full-length mirror, and raise my phone. I flex my biceps, then turn to the side to show my side profile. I take a few shots, making sure the lighting is good, and send them.

A minute later, her reply comes through.

Bev: Looking strong, Luke. Great definition. But I need to see more. Can you send some shirtless ones too? Maybe just one in your boxers so I can get a full look at your legs and core connection.

Again, it's purely professional. She needs to see the whole picture. I strip down to my boxers, take a few more flexing shots, and send the best one.

Bev: Wow. Okay. You look great, Luke. Seriously. You already look mature, like a grown man at 17. It's quite impressive. That scout is going to be so impressed.

Luke: Thanks.

I'm staring at my phone, a grin plastered on my face, when another message comes through. It's not text. It's a photo. I tap on it, and my breath catches in my throat.

It's her. She's standing in front of her own mirror, wearing a matching black bra and underwear set. Her body is toned and athletic, her stomach flat and defined. I can feel my face get warm, a heat creeping up my neck.

My thumbs hover over the screen, my mind racing. What do I even say to that?

Luke: Uh... you sent me a pic again. Was that on accident, or...?

The three dots appear, and I hold my breath.

Bev: No, that was intentional lol. It only feels fair.

I stare at her words, then back at the picture. She's right. It is fair. She trusted me with her vulnerability, and now she's trusting me with this.

Luke: I agree.

My heart is thumping against my ribs as I type back.

Luke: You look amazing btw.

A moment passes.

Bev: Thanks. I think one breast is bigger than the other, tho.

I stare at the screen, a laugh escaping my lips.

Luke: Lol like fr?

Bev: Yeah. I can't tell. I need help seeing if that's true.

Another photo comes through. This time, there's no underwear. No bra. Just her.

My eyes go wide. I glance at my closed bedroom door, then back at my phone, my thumb hovering over the screen. I zoom in, my eyes tracing the curves of her body.

They look perfect. Symmetrical. Flawless.

Luke: They're definitely perfect.

Bev: Thanks.

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of what just happened settling between us. But it doesn't feel wrong. It doesn't feel dirty. It feels… normal.

Bev: This isn't a big deal you know.

Luke: I know. I mean, I already saw you naked before.

Bev: Exactly. We trust each other. We can share anything we want with each other.

I read her words, and a feeling of safety and security washes over me.

She gets it.

She's not like other adults who would make this weird or complicated. She's my confidant. My ally. I can tell her anything, show her anything, and she won't judge me.

She'll just… understand.

I lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling, a small smile on my face.

I'm not some awkward kid anymore. I'm Luke Holman. The one with a shot at the NHL. The one who's mature for his age. The one who's in on this secret, this special bond with his coach.

Little did I know, one day I'd find out that I was right where she wanted me to be.

A pawn in her game, a piece on her board, completely oblivious to the scheme she was so carefully orchestrating around me.

But for now, all I felt was the warm glow of her approval and the thrilling promise of my future.