The Rivals of Copper County (Copper County #2)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

WATT

“Fucking fuck .” I shoved my laptop away with a groan, and it skittered across the kitchen island. “Derry, my child, find a career where you don’t have to work on spreadsheets, okay? The fucking things hate me, and I’m concerned it might be genetic.”

What should have been a five-minute job updating monthly sales had turned into an hour-long odyssey of beeps and “Critical Error” messages that sapped my will to live, and about the only good thing I could say for it was that I’d been too busy cursing my computer to think about Jasper Wrigley.

It made a pleasant change from every other waking moment of my week.

I. Dare. You . Jasper.

Honestly, what had I been thinking, starting that nonsense?

My son’s snort rumbled across the kitchen as he added a third box of penne to the pot on the stove, and I told myself to stop thinking about shit that annoyed me and start focusing on stuff that mattered. Namely, pasta night with my high school senior.

At six two, Derry matched my height, and thanks to his hockey workouts and hard physical labor at the orchard, he was solidly muscled. Ordinarily, he ate clean and tracked his macros, but on our Thursday pasta nights, especially when he was cooking, all bets were off.

“Mom’s tech genes cancel out your anti-tech genes, Dad, so I’m tech-neutral,” he said. “Lucky for me, Mom’s ability to trip over herself while standing still didn’t cancel out your hockey genes.”

I laughed. “Eh. You’re better than I ever was. That’s why Utica’s going to be scouting you in a few weeks, right? You and Zach?”

Kayla’s son was Derry’s best friend, fiercest hockey competition, and the snarky, emo counterpoint to my golden retriever child. Zach had gone through a rough patch a while back—picking fights, spray-painting graffiti, and even dating a twenty-four-year-old “older man” before his mom put a stop to it—but he was a good kid, and he’d gotten himself back on track.

For as long as the pair had been friends, they’d talked about playing college hockey together. When Zach had turned eighteen last month, Derry had planned to take him to get a tattoo of Trax the Moose, the Utica mascot… but presumably, Kayla had squashed that idea, at least for now.

“I hope so,” Derry said. “Zach’s a little worried. He knows he needs a scholarship if he wants to go to college, and I think the pressure’s getting to him. His mom says we have this on lock, though, if we focus.” He tapped his spoon against the side of the pot and seemed to hesitate before glancing over at me. “Dad… you know I’m cool staying here in Copper County next year, right? That way, you wouldn’t ha ve to pay Paddy full-time. I mean, I want to work with you at the orchard eventually, so I don’t need to go to college at all?—”

“Nope,” I said just as firmly as I had the last five times we’d discussed this. “Don’t worry about the orchard right now. That’s my responsibility. If you want to take it over someday, it’ll be here, but first, I want you to go have the full experience—college hockey, underwater basketweaving, study abroad, a job doing something that actually interests you. I want you to have choices, kiddo.”

When losing my virginity had ended with Rachel pregnant my sophomore year of college, it had felt like a giant arm sweeping across the game board of my life, knocking away ninety percent of my own options. It was dumb luck that one of the only ones I’d had left—to leave college, marry Rachel, and build my parents’ hobby orchard into a home and business to support my family—was one I didn’t regret for an instant.

But I wanted more for my kid.

I’d been busting my ass to pay off the mortgage from when I’d bought my parents out of the orchard years ago, and now I was nearly done. If Derry needed financial help to meet his goals, I had him covered.

“Yeah, but Dad?—”

“But nothing,” I said. “If you don’t get the Utica scholarship, your mom can get you the faculty friends-and-family discount at U of R, and you’ll be able to see her and Doug and your little brothers more. Or if you’d rather go somewhere else… we’ll see what we can do. Don’t be afraid to dream big, okay?”

“Yeah.” Derry’s mouth twisted up in a half smile. “Right.”

“Good,” I approved. “Now, tell me how practice went today. I feel like you’ve barely talked about hockey all week.”

This was unlike him. Usually, the soundtrack to my morning chores was Derry’s mile-a-minute recap of practice, his stats (specifically how they compared with Zach’s), and his worries about Camp Fair Shot closing.

Some mornings, before the coffee hit, I wanted to beg him to chill a little, but I didn’t. Most kids pulled away from their parents when they got to a certain age—I sure as hell had—and I was lucky Derry was an open book with me.

“It was good,” he said enthusiastically.

I waited for more, but nothing came.

“And the new coach?” I prompted.

“Great. Yeah. Coach Lancaster’s really nice. I have him for American History, too, did I tell you? I like him. The other guys like him. You’d like him, too.”

I frowned. “Likability’s important, I guess, but how is he as a coach? A week ago, you were worried Zach would take your starting spot because his face-off average is better than yours, but his communication on the ice isn’t great. You wondered how the new coach would handle it.”

“Yeah,” Derry agreed. “I’m not worried about that anymore. Coach Lancaster says hockey’s about more than getting the puck in the net. It’s about being balanced and aligned on a fundamental level because the real game is in your mind.”

I waited for him to laugh and say, “ Gotcha .” He didn’t.

“You… mean he’s got you drilling on basic skills? Because you said you needed to work on moving the puck out of the zone under pressure?—”

“Nah.” Derry’s voice was muffled as he peered into the refrigerator. “Coach Lancaster says we need to build strong foundations for ourselves physically and mentally before we can work on our skating, so we haven’t suited up for practice this week.”

“But kiddo, your first game’s two weeks from tomorrow,” I said, aware I was pointing out the obvious. “You’ve been stressed about the season getting canceled, stressed about whether you’d start, stressed about Utica, stressed about Camp Fair Shot?—”

“I know, right? I’m kind of over it. Coach says it’s not good to exist in a high-stress state for too long. He might have us lace up tomorrow, though, to ground ourselves on the rink. That’ll be good.”

“Ground yourselves,” I repeated. “ Ground yourselves?”

Look, I didn’t want to be that parent —the one who tries to tell a coach how to do their job or gets whiny when their angel baby doesn’t get enough ice time.

I knew the school had so much trouble finding a replacement after Tamsen Monroe had gone on maternity leave they’d considered canceling the season.

I understood that they were hamstrung by some district-wide rule that only faculty members could coach, and I’d heard they’d asked everyone from the principal to the substitute teachers to the cafeteria workers—but no one had been available to take on the task.

I was sure this coach they’d hired was the best of what was around, and the rumors said he’d skated for Boston—whether BU or BC, I wasn’t sure—which was impressive.

But also, my kid was coming off a losing season last year and had a real opportunity this year to get a scholarship from his top-choice college, so one could say I had concerns .

“Maybe I should speak to this coach—” I began gently.

“Dad, chill. It’s all good. Honestly.” Derry emerged from the fridge holding a block of cheese and examined it. “Hey, what’s Taleggio? Is it like Parmesan? ”

“Stop! Don’t use that,” I barked.

Derry dropped the cheese on the counter and stared at me like he’d never heard me use that tone before… probably because I hadn’t. Not since he was little enough to accidentally touch hot stoves, anyway. “What’s wrong with the cheese?”

My gut clenched, and I knew my face had to be bright red. I cleared my throat. “It’s… not ours.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “Did Chris leave it over here? Is it one of his charcuterie cheeses that tastes like soap?”

I felt sweat break out beneath my armpits. “Ha. You know Chris,” I lied, throwing my friend and his famous charcuterie boards under the bus with zero compunction.

The truth of the matter was not something I wanted to discuss with my seventeen-year-old. Not when it would only lead to questions I didn’t know how to answer.

When I’d finally gotten home Sunday (after hitting up Wegmans in Piermonte, where groceries could be acquired without fear of running into your ex-best friend or anyone you used to date), the orchard had been jumping. Normally, this would have been my time to get out and glad-hand my customers. To maybe teach them a thing or two about permaculture and sustainable growing while they were petting the goats.

That day, though, I’d craved solitude and a chance to mutter under my breath without anyone wondering whether I’d gone crazy (the answer was a resounding yes ), so I’d left my employees in charge and set off alone to check the trees and fences for signs of deer incursions.

People didn’t want to believe anything so beautiful could be so destructive, but I knew better. If you wanted to minimize damage, you couldn’t build your fences too secure .

By the time I’d walked off the worst of my mood, it had been sunset. Derry had already gotten home from Rachel’s, and the driveway gate had been closed… which was why I’d been surprised to see a giant brown paper bag sitting on my back porch. As I’d gotten closer, my heart had started to pound, like I’d subconsciously known what I was seeing.

Inside the bag were all the groceries I’d meant to get at Lyon’s that morning, along with a few extra items (like a block of weird, unpronounceable cheese) that seemed like they’d been mixed in from someone else’s order.

And on the outside of the bag, written in large, black block letters, had been the words MATURE ADULT PEACE OFFERING.

Bag in hand, I’d stalked back out to my garden, peered over the fields and through the trees that marked my property line, and sent a fiery glare up at the house on the hill next door.

How. Fucking. Dare. He.

I hadn’t been proud of my behavior that morning, okay? Not of the way I’d provoked Jasper or the way I’d let him rile me. Not proud of how petty and childish I’d sounded— Christ, had I really told him his Jaguar should be mine?— or of my smug satisfaction that I’d gotten the last word before driving off.

I hadn’t been proud of how much I’d enjoyed our foolish, half-angry banter and teasing, either. Of how weirdly alive I’d felt before Kayla brought us back to reality… if alive was the right word to describe the feeling of being whacked in the gut with a cattle prod.

But seeing that bag made all my satisfaction at our encounter evaporate in a heartbeat and my unsettled feeling spread like apple blight.

In short, I’d been pissed .

Mature Adult Peace Offering? Was he kidding?

A peace offering for what, exactly? Coming back to my town and stirring up feelings that should have remained buried? Leaving in the first place all those years ago?

It could have been either or possibly both… from anyone else.

From Jasper, I knew it was neither.

It was no peace offering. It was a declaration of war.

It was him getting the last word.

And every damn grocery in the bag was a consolation prize.

But what was worse—so much worse—than knowing he’d won the battle was remembering how I’d stalked inside, unloaded the groceries onto the kitchen counter with the force of tiny concussive bombs, grabbed that block of stupid cheese to throw it in the garbage… and found myself snort-laughing so hard I’d doubled over with tears in my eyes.

It was intolerable.

“Dad?” I blinked out of my daze to find Derry’s hand waving in front of my face. “Hellooo? Danger cheese?”

“Sorry.” I ran a hand over my face. “I was a million miles away.”

“Yeah? Was it warm there?” he joked. “’Cause your face is all flushed.”

“Ha.” I pulled at my collar. “Must’ve been.”

“Come eat.” Derry carried a giant vat of pasta to the kitchen table, where he’d already set out bowls and spoons. By the time I took my seat at the end, he was already filling his dish like he was worried there might not be enough for him otherwise. I smothered a smile.

“Listen, about hockey,” I began. “Tomorrow’s the parent practice?—”

He looked up, mouth bulging. “You’re going? ”

“Don’t I always? Didn’t miss a single Friday last year.”

“Yeah, but…” Derry chewed and swallowed so quickly he nearly choked. “Promise me you won’t say anything to Coach Lancaster, Dad, please? I know he doesn’t coach the way Coach Monroe did or the way your old coaches did, but… he’s got good stuff to share. He’s trying his best, and it was only the first week of practice. Give him the benefit of the doubt. Isn’t that what you always say?”

Seeing Derry’s earnest face, I couldn’t help but grin ruefully. My son was not only a talented athlete and an all-around good person, but he was showing a hell of a lot more maturity than I had this week. Maybe I could learn a lesson from him about being a bigger person. Maybe I could try taking my own advice.

“I promise, Derry,” I said, patting his shoulder. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

When I got to practice the next day, I had my head on straight for the first time in a week.

Partly, this was because I’d stopped by the bakery with Ollie and eaten a pumpkin pie tart, which was the best thing I’d ever put in my mouth. I hadn’t thought it possible to improve on the greatest dessert known to man, but shrinking it down gave it the perfect filling-to-crust-to-whipped-cream ratio, as I’d tried to explain to Oliver… who’d promptly pretended to fall asleep in his chair.

Mostly, though, I was feeling clearheaded because I’d decided I was done being annoyed about Jasper showing up in town. I’d see his “mature, adult peace offering” and raise him an actual adult response… by ignoring the gesture and him for the next week or so while he was in town .

Game, set, match.

And I would celebrate by watching my kid kick ass at a sport he loved.

When I pulled into the rink parking lot, I saw I wasn’t the only person in town who’d decided to spend a wild and crazy Friday afternoon at hockey practice. Nearly every spot was filled… which shouldn’t have been possible, since there were only about twenty kids on the team.

The reason for the crowd became clear when I found a group of hockey parents lying in wait for me by the door to the rink.

“Oh my heck. Watt!” Kayla said, grabbing my forearm and dragging me into their huddle. “Thank goodness.”

“Hey, Kayla. Fred. Jasmine.” I nodded at each of them in turn while casually (and unsuccessfully) attempting to remove my arm from Kayla’s clutches. “What’s up?”

Jasmine sighed, pushing back her braids. “Not a problem, necessarily. The new coach is… different,” she said diplomatically.

“She means he’s filling the kids’ heads with mystical woo-woo bullshit,” Fred said grimly, running a hand over his bald head. “Now, folks in town have gotten word of it. They’re here to watch the show for themselves.”

“Ehhh. People are mostly here ’cause the coach is pretty,” Jasmine corrected, but at a look from Fred, she admitted, “And also to watch the show.”

“Calvin says yesterday Coach told them to ‘ focus on team synergy’ and ‘ center themselves with deep breathing .’” Fred shook his head, disgusted. “What kind of bullshit is that?”

“I heard he had the boys line up and tell each of their teammates one thing they really appreciated about them.” Kayla’s nose wrinkled. “Do you suppose he learned that when he skated for Boston?”

I glanced toward the building with a frown. Their concerns echoed my own… but I’d promised Derry, and I tried not to break promises to him. “Did any of you email the coach and ask his plan?”

They exchanged a look. “Er, not exactly?” Kayla said. “We figured you’d be the best one to talk to him, given your… history.”

My hockey history had ended eighteen years ago when I’d left college, but it was nice that people remembered.

“Just a friendly chat,” Jasmine begged. “To ask about the plan, like you said.”

“Or a more aggressive chat,” Fred grumbled. “To tell him he doesn’t know his stick from his dick.”

I rolled my eyes. “Dial it back, Fred. Coach doesn’t need a bunch of us ganging up on him. Let’s see how today goes, and maybe— maybe —I’ll have a word with him next week.”

Kayla gave me a melting look. “Oh, Watt. You’re always so… moderate .”

Jesus. How did she manage to make the word moderate sound like an innuendo?

“Don’t be too moderate,” Fred advised. “If practice goes tits up like I think it will, tell him we won’t tolerate shenanigans with our hockey program. Remind him we pay his salary.”

I snorted. Since only an utter asshole would say something like that, I definitely would not. “Keep an open mind,” I told him.

I headed for the double doors with the three of them at my heels, planning to duck into one of the seats at the top of the crowded stadium—the better to observe from a distance—but what I saw on the ice was so unbelievable I found myself drawn down the steps like I was pulled by an invisible magnet.

Twenty young men in skates, pads, and jerseys were spread across one side of the rink, all bent over at the waist, their gloved hands braced on the ice in a four-point stance, facing the bleachers packed with gawking spectators.

Most of the crowd, though, seemed to be less focused on the players and more on the coach…

And I couldn’t blame them.

Coach Lancaster was facing the players, mimicking their bent stance, but instead of skates and pads, the man wore running shoes and a pair of black compression tights… tights that lovingly cradled every defined muscle of his thighs and ass as he thrust them toward the audience.

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was bone-dry.

My battery was charging— hard —and that was seriously unusual for me. It had been ages since I’d been this attracted to anyone, woman or man.

But I was not complaining.

“Remember,” the coach said, his voice muffled and distorted from hanging upside down over the ice, “on the inhales, we’re aligning our posture and—hey, tighten that core, please, Brandon. I know it’s hard on your skates, but double the effort, double the reward. Good!—and now on the exhale, we’re siiiinking into the stretch—nicely done, Derry, downward dog around your pads!”

I tried to force my eyes away, to find my son among the players on the ice, but the man’s ass was like one of those cartoon snake charmers with the swirling eyes, and my cock was a very willing cobra. I was vaguely aware of someone talking to me, but I ignored them.

“This time, on the inhale,” the coach went on, “I want us each to set an intention, guys. Let’s all visualize the three p’s of hockey: persistence, patience, uh… puck handling. And then, on the exhale, I want you to gather up all your doubts and insecurities and whoosh … just blow them away.”

“Coach?” A player tried to raise his hand and nearly face-planted on the ice. “How do I visualize persistence?”

“Ha. Good question, Kip.” The coach straightened and laughed as he shook his hair into place. “Would anyone like to share what persistence looks like to them?”

I sucked in a shaking breath.

That golden hair. That laugh. That voice.

No fucking way .

I suddenly understood what Kayla meant when she talked about my history . It had nothing to do with playing hockey and everything to do with the coach himself.

In what kind of twisted universe was the second man I’d ever lusted after… actually the first man I’d lusted after, since the first and the second were the same? What kind of cosmic prank had me wanting Jasper Wrigley again at all?

Why the hell was he even here?

Before I could think twice—hell, before I could think once —I found myself marching down the stairs, vaulting over the low wall, and stalking across the ice in my work boots.

Jasper’s eyes widened with happy surprise. “Watt! Hey. Did you get my—uh.” His surprise turned to alarm as I stalked closer, not stopping until our chests were inches apart.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demanded in a low voice, well aware—finally—of just how many eyes were on me.

I refused to notice that Jasper looked at least as good as he had the other day and better than he had twenty years ago, all flushed, mussed, and bright-eyed. This close, I spotted three tiny freckles that formed a triangle above his eyebrow, and a small white scar that appeared old for him but was new to me bisected his bottom lip. For reasons I didn’t want to contemplate, noticing these changes made my temper flare hotter.

“I’m, ah… coaching?” Jasper glanced from me to the team to the audience and back. “Coaching,” he repeated more firmly. “Yeah. Because I’m the Fighting Marmots’ new coach.”

“You are not,” I retorted in an angry whisper. “You don’t even live here. And the coach is named Lancaster?—”

“Jasper Lancaster. Yeah.” He lifted his chin a little. “My married name.”

The words felt like a punch to my solar plexus, and my lungs forgot how to work for a minute. He was married ?

“I got divorced but kept the name. And I do live here… for the next few months.” A beat later, he added, “Why do you look surprised? Didn’t your girlfriend tell you all this?”

“My… what? No.” I shook my head, heart still racing and thoughts utterly scattered. “How?”

As in, how the hell had I not heard any of this? I mean, yes, every time Mabel had brought up Jasper’s name, I’d tried to change the subject… but that hadn’t seemed to stop her from reminiscing at will about our summer hijinks or forcing me to admire whatever new magazine Jasper had sent her to show off his ad campaigns.

She’d told me about the gelato he’d eaten after walking a show in Milan, for fuck’s sake, and how he’d had ankle surgery the week Abe died, which was why he hadn’t made it out to the Cape for the funeral in the Wrigley family burial plot. How had she not shared this ?

Jasper rolled his eyes and whispered hotly, “How? Gay marriage has been legal for a hot minute all across the land, Bartlett. Keep up.”

I felt like I’d been given a second punch to really round out the first. The universe was definitely laughing at me. “G-gay?”

Jasper seemed shocked by my shock. “Uh, yeah. Super gay. Didn’t the kiss I laid on you all those years ago clue you in? And I’m very sorry about that,” he added quickly. “ Very . About the kiss, I mean, not about being gay.” Flushing, he darted a glance at the team and then at the crowd. “Look, I would love to catch up with you—honestly—but maybe with less of an audience? I have to get back to coaching now.”

My mind was as murky as the lake after a storm and churning with too many slippery new thoughts and ideas—he thought he’d kissed me ?—to catch hold of any one. Instead, I focused on the last sentence.

“But you can’t be the coach!” I barked. I remembered trying to talk to him about the sport when we were kids and him nodding blankly. “You don’t know shit about hockey.”

As soon as the words escaped me, I realized how foolish they were. If I hadn’t known Jasper was gay and married and divorced, for all I knew, he had a PhD in hockey.

But Jasper’s eyes flashed the way they always had when I’d called him on something and he’d decided to brazen his way through it. “I do so! For example, I know stretching is crucial for core strength and flexibility. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to rescue the kids from their downward dogs?—”

“Have you ever played a game of hockey in your life?” I demanded.

Mumbled expressions of surprise rolled through the stands. I wasn’t sure at which point I’d begun speaking loud enough for everyone to hear, but when I turned my head, I found them all silently leaning toward us, hanging on every word.

Jasper blushed harder. “Irrelevant.”

“It’s not. That’s my kid—” I jabbed a hand in Derry’s direction.

“I know,” he said softly. “Derry’s great. He looks just like you.”

Those words and the sadness in his eyes made my stomach twist, but I forced myself to stand firm. “Then you’ll understand why it’s very relevant to me if his coach doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.”

Jasper squared his shoulders. “Principal Schmidt hired me. You don’t get a say?—”

“I do, ’cause I’m a taxpayer in this town, and I pay your—” The minute I heard the words leave my mouth, I shut it quickly, but it was too late.

Jasper’s face went purple. “I dare you to finish that sentence.”

“Dad?” Derry whisper-hissed. I hadn’t noticed him skating over until, suddenly, he was standing alongside Jasper and me, his face a picture of teenage anger and mortification. “You said you’d be cool today. You promised .”

I squeezed my eyes shut and sucked in a breath through my nose. “Derry, I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

“Derry, go finish the yoga sequence with your teammates,” Jasper said in a kind but firm voice. A fucking teacher voice. “It’s almost time for our affirmations.”

My eyes flew open just in time to see my son glance between me and Jasper… and give me a look of warning. “Okay, Coach,” he said before skating off.

Stung and furious, I rounded on Jasper. “If you think affirmations are going to win them games, that proves my point. You shouldn’t be doing this job.”

Jasper straightened. “I’ll have you know, I’ve worked with a mindset coach for years, asshole, and according to the hockey videos I’ve—I mean, according to my research—many professional athletes find affirmations a key contributor to success. Besides, winning isn’t everything.”

An unwilling snort escaped me. “News to me. I got your ‘ mature adult peace offering ,’ by the way. Nicely played. Not accepted.”

Bizarrely, impossibly— provokingly —Jasper’s mouth twitched. “You do realize that by not accepting it, you’re only proving I’m more mature than you are?”

“What?” I scowled. “No.”

“Sorry.” He smirked. “I don’t make the rules.”

“That is the most bullshit ?—”

“Oh my heck. Watt?” A pair of hands wrapped around my forearm from behind, and I flinched hard, but Kayla hung on—probably because she’d followed me onto the ice wearing a pair of dress shoes and couldn’t keep her balance, I realized belatedly. “Honey, is everything okay here?” Her eyebrows formed a curious little pucker.

“Watt? Buddy, I know I said be aggressive,” Fred called from the players’ box, “but maybe not this aggressive, huh? Not in front of the kids, anyway.”

“What’d you expect?” called a voice I didn’t recognize. “Watt and Jasper have been rivals since way back. They never got along.”

Jasper’s eyes met mine, asking a question I didn’t know how to answer.

“Oh, dang, I forgot that!” someone else laughed. “Jesus, remember those summers? Everything was I dare you and I bet you . And who could forget the humiliating consequences they came up with for each other? Remember the mud bath?”

“That was a million years ago, Watt. Let bygones be bygones so the hunky coach can do his job, huh?” another person yelled.

Jasper’s blush, which had started to fade, came back with a vengeance.

Someone else piped up. “Watt was a champion hockey player back in the day. If he says the coach doesn’t know what he’s doing, I believe him. Uh, I mean… no offense, Coach Lancaster!” they added.

I barely paid attention to who was talking and what they were saying. My gaze remained locked with Jasper’s, each of us daring the other to look away first, neither of us willing to bend…

Until another man spoke up from the sidelines and drew everyone’s attention.

“Watt,” Principal Schmidt said mildly. Arms folded across his chest, he stood behind the boards of the rink, watching me and Jasper like we were a pair of misbehaving students. It hit harder because I was acting like one. “I see you’ve met our coach.”

“Sir.” I fought not to squirm. “I apologize for disrupting practice, but I had some concerns about Coach Lancaster’s methods.” I shot Jasper a look. “And qualifications.”

Principal Schmidt stroked his mustache. “Then let me see if I can set them to rest. Coach Lancaster has two crucial qualifications.” He raised his voice so it carried to everyone in the stands. “First, he’s a teacher at the school—and he’s turning out to be a fine one. His great-aunt Mabel would be proud,” he added fondly.

Jasper blushed.

“You might remember, Watt,” the principal went on, “ the school board passed a rule a while back requiring coaches to be part of the faculty? We had a problem where a coach was fraternizing with a student, and the board decided it was easiest to make sure the head coach of every team or extracurricular activity was held to our faculty’s contractual standards regarding fraternization and bullying. I’m sure none of us takes exception to that.”

“Well… no,” I admitted.

The crowd murmured uncertainly.

“Jasper’s second qualification,” the principal went on, “is that he’s willing . No other staff member was able to take on the job. His participation is the only way our team’s able to play this season. Coach Lancaster was very clear with me about his lack of hockey expertise, but he’s been working with Coach Monroe after hours all week to get himself up to speed?—”

He had?

Surprised, I darted a look at Jasper, but he was staring down at his running shoes.

“—while also handling a full schedule of courses and taking the required tests for his temporary teaching credentials,” the principal went on relentlessly. “I assure you, he’s not here on a lark.”

Shame made me squirm. “No, sir. I didn’t mean…”

My voice trailed off. I wasn’t sure what I had meant, exactly, but I knew I’d been wrong.

Again.

“Whoa, whoa. Lack of expertise? I thought Coach skated for Boston?” someone yelled.

Jasper stared down at the ice. “In Boston,” he murmured, so low only I could hear. “I specifically said in Boston. And I was six at the time.”

I snickered.

Jasper’s gaze snapped to mine, and whatever he saw on my face had his lips twitching again before he looked away.

I clapped a hand over my mouth as a burst of totally inappropriate amusement bubbled up uncontrollably.

Beside me, Jasper bit his lip and ducked his head again, though his shoulders shook with laughter.

“Can Coach Lancaster play hockey or not?” Fred demanded. “’Cause, Mike, the kids need a coach now . Why’d you hire someone who can’t actually coach ’em?”

Jasper let out a little sigh, and my amusement died.

Fred wasn’t wrong. In fact, I agreed with him. Jasper had no business coaching this team—not when our kids’ futures might hang in the balance—and I couldn’t imagine why he’d thought he could.

But watching Jasper’s shoulders sag like his bravado had been pushed to its limits and he was resigning himself to defeat made my chest squeeze against a surge of sympathy or protectiveness or—shit, I didn’t know, but it was strange and new and distinctly uncomfortable.

I liked to win, yes. I especially liked to win against Jasper.

But that didn’t mean I wanted Jasper to lose. Not to anyone but me.

So when Principal Schmidt finally nodded thoughtfully and said, “I think I have a solution that will work for everyone… if Watt agrees,” I was primed to make a decision I would almost instantly regret.

“Sure,” I said. “What do you need me to do?”