Page 94 of Slapshot Kiss

I straighten a little.

Compliments from Brennan aren't exactly participation trophies. If he gives you one, you've earned the damn thing.

“You're reading the ice better. Making smarter decisions with the puck. Less of that cowboy shit.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Keep playing like this, I'm giving you more minutes.”

That gets my attention. “Yeah?”

“Don't make me regret saying it.”

“I won't.”

“Good.”

He starts to turn away, then stops.

“And Larkin?”

“Yeah?”

“You've got a real opportunity here.”

Something about his tone makes me listen.

“You keep your head on straight, keep putting in the work, you've got a hell of a future with this organization.”

For half a second, all I feel is the hit of it.

The good kind.

I've worked my ass off for this.

Every practice. Every workout. Every extra hour. Every time I've stayed late or showed up early or watched tape until plays started running through my head when I closed my eyes.

This is what I wanted.

“Thanks, Coach.”

He gives me one short nod. “Don't fuck it up.”

Then he skates away.

I stand there for another second before pushing back toward the drill.

I should only be thinking about hockey.

Instead, for some fucked-up reason, my brain supplies the image of Quinn curled into my chest last night.

Coach Brennan's daughter.

I glance toward him.

He's already yelling at Jordan again.

A small voice in the back of my head suggests that maybe secretly dating the coach's daughter doesn't technically qualify as keeping my head straight.