Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“Youth, ideally,” he says without looking at me, which means he hasn’t said it out loud often. “There aren’t enough good coaches at that level. The ones who actually know the game and who understand kids… there aren’t enough of them.”
His tone tells me that it’s more than just a dream. That it’s a need to be involved, and I know in my gut it’s got everything to do with what’s eating at him.
“You’d be good at it,” I say confidently.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know how you read a room,” I say. “I know how you watch people. You already coach, Locke. You just don’t call it that.”
He doesn’t answer, but he does squeeze my fingers, which means he likes what I said.
“I have been working on my general contractor license,” he says, and my head whips his way in surprise.
“Really?”
“Yeah… on and off for the past few years. Close to finishing it.”
I look at him. “You want to build.”
Locke shrugs. “I want to build my own place, eventually, but that could be a career I could move into.”
“Where would you build?”
“I’ve been looking at property. Couple acres outside the city, enough trees that you can’t see the neighbors, close enough to not feel remote.” He lets his gaze pan the horizon. “I like Portland. I could see staying, if the team keeps me long term.”
I think about it. Locke Donovan in Portland. Locke Donovan with a piece of land and a house he built himself and a youth hockey program somewhere outside the city with kids who have no idea they’re being taught by someone who has spent his whole career being told he’s unmanageable.
I think about myself in that picture and then I think about the fact that I’m thinking about myself in that picture and I redirect.
“We’ve only got one more session,” I say.
He exhales. “I know.”
“And you know I’m going to push.”
He stops walking, turns to face me. “I know you’re going to try, and you’re probably not going to be happy with what you get.”
“I don’t want to fail you,” I admit. “I want you to keep your place on this team, and my experience tells me that whatever is eating at you…” I reach out and tap his chest with my palm. “Right here… you have to deal with it.”
“Livia.” He says my name almost sorrowfully. “You’re right. There is something, but it’s contained. It does not need to be excavated in someone’s office. It’s mine and I carry it and that’s how I deal with it.”
“Contained isn’t the same as resolved.”
“No,” he says. “It’s not. But it works for me.”
I want to push. I have the words ready—the language about ceilings and pressure and management strategies that stop working, but I tamp them down.
I have our session on Monday to pull out all the cannons.
Tonight I’m with this man on a romantic walk by the river and talking about building a home here.
So I let it go.
We’re at a spot where the esplanade bends and there’s a railing at the water’s edge. It’s chilly but impossibly beautiful and I’m falling for the man holding my hand.
Maybe Locke feels it too because he cups his free hand against my cheek.
And then he kisses me.
It’s soft. The softest he’s ever been. It’s without hurry, no intended destination.
Just a kiss that we both get lost in until oxygen forces us apart.
“Come home with me,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says.
We walk back along the water, the city lights shifting on the Willamette beside us.
Chapter 25
Locke
Iknock once on Livia’s office door and enter.
I expected her to have arranged the chairs again facing each other, but instead everything is back in its original configuration. She’s behind her desk, looking undeniably beautiful and very determined. She motions to the empty chairs.
Settling back into one, I prop an ankle on my knee. “So here we are.”
“Here we are,” she murmurs. “How are you feeling?”
I can’t help but chuckle. I glance at my watch. “I was fucking you in your bed just two hours ago.” Livia blushes, ducks her head slightly. “And now here I am, and we’re probably getting ready to have our first real fight.”
“Why will this be a fight?” she asks.
“Come on, Livvy,” I chide, using the nickname I heard her mom call her at Thanksgiving. “You know that the job you’re required to do is directly in opposition to what I want to do.”
The corner of her mouth moves almost imperceptibly. She knows I know what she’s doing. I know she knows I know. We’ve been doing this long enough to be past the pretense of it, which is either comfortable or dangerous. I haven’t decided which.
“The team events,” she says, settling back in her chair. “You’ve done a great job at attending them. I can actually see you forging relationships. Your on-ice numbers are great, no unnecessary penalties. You’re reading plays faster, communicating better with your teammates.” She stops, because she can see from my face that I don’t need the metrics recited back to me. “You’ve done the work. I want you to know I see that.”