Page 99 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
The walk is ninety feet and takes approximately the rest of my natural life.
I knock.
“Come in.”
Coach’s office looks pretty much the same as the one back at Sutton Arena—sans the scorch marks and soggy carpet. Functional, plays and rosters scattered over his desk, shelves of trophies and keepsakes lining the wall behind him. The championship photo. A coffee mug that says World’s Greatest Coach, clearly purchased by a player as a joke and adopted without irony, because Duncan Hart does not do irony. He does direct.
And on the desk—a manuscript. Printed. Bound with a simple clip.
Ice Cold Heart, by Sutton Blake.
My heart relocates to my esophagus, choking me.
Coach’s look is not what I expect. Not fury. Sadder than fury. The look of a man about to have a conversation that’s been building longer than six days.
Oh no. I’m fourteen again and about to be sent to the showers. “Coach, I can explain?—”
“Sit down, Beckett.”
I sit. The chair where I’ve sat for a hundred meetings. The chair where he said I believe you after the doping allegation and those three words were the only thing that kept me standing for six months.
“Tell me, Beckett. Did I make myself unclear?”
“Sir?”
“When I told you that you were never to make my daughter feel unwelcome on my ice again?”
“No, sir.”
“You want to tell me why your words this Saturday were meant to do exactly that?”
The coaching equivalent of a slap shot—minimum wind-up, maximum impact. He’s more than angry. He’s disappointed. And that’s worse.
I feel sick. “I don’t have an excuse, Coach. I…I’m sorry.” My voice is sandpaper in my throat. My fingers wrap around my knuckles, wringing, trying to find something to do. A purpose.
Coach watches me for a moment with that hard gaze. And then he lets out a breath, a little of the steel subsiding. “You know, I know what it’s like, feeling like the only thing that matters about you is the number on your jersey. But it’s not true, Beckett. I didn’t pick you to mentor all those years ago because you were some great prodigy. Do you know why I picked you?”
It’s all I can do to shake my head.
“Because, one, your dad was my best friend, and when he died, I made him a promise. But after that, it was all you, Beck. You were determined. You had a love for the game. I saw that in you long before I started coaching you. I remember watching you play with your dad before his practice started. You’d give him a run for his money, even at the age of six.”
I frown. “I’m not sure?—”
“Listen, Beck. People in life are going to give you lousy advice.” He levels me with a meaningful look. “Next time you’re told you have to knock someone else down a peg to get ahead, come talk to me.”
“Yes, Coach.”
Coach nods. Not forgiveness—acknowledgment.
“There are things you need to know.” He picks up the manuscript and sets it between us, his hand resting on the title page. “Everly dropped this at my house yesterday. She asked me to give it to you. Said you’d understand why.”
I nod. It’s that or tell him it’s because I’ve been secretly, unknowingly corresponding with his daughter for months and this manuscript is the result. I reach for it, but he hasn’t moved.
“This is my daughter’s heart on paper. Understood?”
I stare at the pages. The hollow deepens. Makes room for a new resident: shame.
“I will take care of it. You have my word.”
