Chapter 2 The Hot Coach

Grace’s POV

“Go back to the backwater you came from,” the guy barked, loud enough to echo.

My eyes found the voice immediately.

It was Noah Hudson.

Even from where I stood, he was impossible to miss.

He was brown-skinned. Muscular. Built like he could go straight through concrete if he had to. His skin gleamed with sweat under the lights, and both arms were covered in detailed black and gray tattoos that ran from shoulder to wrist. More ink crept from under his jersey across his chest and neck. His dreads were tied back in a loose band, a few strands falling over his forehead as he moved. His brown eyes were sharp and unreadable, but they had a darkness behind them.

“Try to score on me again,” he growled. “I dare you.”

The puck flew across the ice.

He’d already knocked one player flat, and now he was gunning for more. Noah Hudson didn’t play to impress. He played to dominate. Everyone in the league knew it. He was the most ruthless defenseman the Vipers had ever had, known more for his penalty minutes than his press interviews. If there was a line, Noah crossed it. Skated back over it. Then set it on fire.

His shot hit the ice like a bullet. The puck cut sharp across the rink toward the Vipers’ zone, and was intercepted mid-glide.

A yellow blur zipped past Noah like he wasn’t even there.

Wesley Nolan.

The Mustangs’ star power forward, number nineteen, blonde hair slicked back under his helmet, a cocky grin already forming. Tattoos lined his forearms and peeked above his knee pads.

He handled the puck like it was an extension of his body.

And he was fast. Fast enough to pass Noah and let the puck spin off the tip of his stick like it was nothing.

“Are you jealous, Hudson?” Wesley called over his shoulder. “Just because your fans will be screaming my name tonight?”

The Mustangs’ jerseys were loud, yellow with a black stallion logo rearing up across the chest. A little flashier than the Vipers’ clean red and white, but I couldn’t deny they made an entrance.

Wesley skated backward, turning just enough to smirk as he shouted, “Is it my fault you let your team down so bad they had to call me in as a ringer?”

That did it.

I didn’t know Noah well at all, really, but I knew what I saw next wasn't a strategy. It wasn’t gameplay. It was personal.

He charged.

Noah slammed Wesley against the boards so hard, I felt it in my teeth. The impact rang through the stadium. A spray of ice flew upward, sharp as glass, and when Wesley’s helmet knocked back against the wall, something red smeared the inside of the plexiglass.

Blood.

I couldn’t breathe.

“That’s five for fighting!” a voice boomed over the noise. “Hudson, you’re out!”

Another voice I recognized before I turned toward it.

Coach Dennis Cooper. The man was a legend in hockey circles, one of the most promising players of his time before he retired out of nowhere and reappeared on the bench as a coach.

He stood tall and muscular, with light brown eyes that seemed to miss nothing. His skin was a smooth blend of his mixed heritage, half white and half black, and though his hair and beard had turned almost white with age, he did not look old. Both his hair and beard were kept very short, trimmed close to his scalp and jaw, with a distinct streak of black threading through the white. A fresh cut marked his eyebrow, adding a rugged edge to his otherwise handsome face.

He didn’t wait for the refs to handle it. He jumped the boards and skated onto the ice himself.

“Hudson! Out now!”

Noah didn’t move. His fists were still clenched. His eyes stayed locked on Wesley, who was spitting blood and grinning like he wanted round two.

Coach Cooper skated fast, closing the space between them and grabbing Noah by the shoulders.

I thought that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Noah’s fist shot out, fast and wild, like he hadn’t seen who was standing in front of him. It connected with Coach’s nose. The sound cracked through the air, sharp as the slap of a puck against the boards.

The Coach shoved Noah down onto the ice with the full weight of his body.

For a second, it looked like he might stay down, but Noah pushed himself up with impressive speed, eyes wild, blood still fresh on his knuckles.

“Medical room,” Coach snapped. “Both of you. Don’t make me start handing out suspensions.”

Noah didn’t argue. Neither did Wesley. The three of them stormed off the rink while the game carried on without them.

I was already waiting near the tunnel, clipboard in hand, heart racing, trying to look like I belonged.

Ten minutes later, we were crammed in the medical exam wing, and things were not going well.

Wesley sat on the exam table with blood crusting under his nose, taunting Noah like he hadn’t just taken a fist to the face. Noah stood across the room, arms crossed, leg bleeding down into his sock. The coach was in the middle, barking warnings, but neither of them cared.

“I need to take control of this room,” I said under my breath. “Or their injuries will only get worse, and I’ll be the one they blame.”

So I did the only thing I could think of.

I let out a sharp, two-finger whistle. The kind dad taught me on fishing trips and little league sidelines. Loud, clear, and impossible to ignore.

The room went silent.

Wesley’s eyes bugged out like I’d shot off a flare. Noah raised an eyebrow. Both of them stared at me like they were seeing me for the first time

Wesley was the first to break the silence. “Whoa. Hot doctor.”

I didn’t flinch.

“I’m your new team doctor,” I said. “That’s your rink out there, but this is mine in here. I don’t allow dirty plays or toddler tantrums. You’re going to sit, you’re going to listen, and you’re going to let me do my job. Understood?”

Coach Dennis gave a quiet nod, satisfied. “You heard the lady.”

I sent Wesley to another examination room, then rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

Noah’s leg was worse than it looked, split open at the side from a skate blade. Nothing deep enough to hit bone, but it would need stitches. He sat stiff on the table, sweat still beading on his forehead.

“Don’t mess me up, doc,” he muttered. “I need this leg to skate.”

“You need it to walk first,” I said, pulling on my gloves. “The skating we’ll worry about once you’re stitched.”

“The skating’s the point,” he snapped. “Why do they keep sending us trainee doctors who don’t know shit about hockey?”

I didn’t even blink. “I know more about sports medicine than you do about puck handling.”

“Excuse me?”

“I was valedictorian at my med school,” I said. “Landed a spot at the most competitive residency in the city. Meanwhile, you can’t run a proper back check to save your life.”

He leaned back a little, surprised. “I’m the top center in the league.”

“With a showboating ego,” I said, “who cares more about your personal stats than bringing your team to victory.”

For the first time, his expression changed. A slow, subtle smile crept across his face, like he was actually impressed.

“I guess you’re not totally clueless about hockey after all.”

My eyes shifted to the doorway.

Coach Dennis was leaning there, arms folded, watching everything.

I kicked into gear. This was the part I was good at.

“I need to sterilize the wound,” I said, moving closer with gauze and solution. “It’s going to hurt more if you struggle.”

Noah opened his mouth, probably to make another snide comment, but Coach cut him off.

“No offense, Hudson, but while you were mouthing off, she already sanitized your wound.”

Noah looked down.

I’d finished cleaning the area and was already lining up the suture tray.

“Precise,” Coach said. “Unlike you, swinging your fists around like some damn goon. You want to be team captain? Act like a leader.”

Noah’s voice dropped an octave. “Yes, sir.”

The coach nodded once, then turned to me. “Dr. Stewart, you’ll treat Wesley next.”

“Understood.”

The coach moved off down the hall to his own exam room without another word.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and moved across the small medical wing toward the door I’d marked earlier for Wesley’s exam.

I pushed open the door and stepped inside.

He sat on the exam table like it was a throne, legs swinging slightly, his helmet long forgotten on the counter behind him. He looked perfectly at ease despite the blood still caked under his nose. I suspected it was an act, but if it was, he wore it well.

I opened the cabinet beside the sink and rummaged through the top drawer, sorting through alcohol swabs and gauze until I found what I needed. A single, small band-aid. Barely the size of a matchstick.

I held it up and gave him a look.

"This," I said, "is the extent of your battle wound. Try not to panic."

Wesley grinned. "What’s the official diagnosis, doc?"

I peeled back the adhesive strips. "You’re a sucker for trouble. Falling for Noah Hudson’s obvious bait can have serious consequences."

He scoffed. "He was asking for it."

"And you gave him exactly what he wanted."

He tilted his head, the grin still playing at his lips. "You’re smart. You should go to med school or something."

I pressed the band-aid gently. "I’ll consider it."

He chuckled low in his throat. "Hey, this is fun. I haven’t played doctor with a pretty girl since I was, like, six."

Heat flickered up my neck, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered. I smoothed the bandage across his skin and kept my face professional.

"Mr. Nolan," I said, "that is unprofessional, you know."

He leaned forward slightly, not enough to crowd me, but enough that I noticed. "Oh, I know. But I don’t care."

The moment stretched as his gaze lifted to meet mine. His eyes were bluer than they had any right to be. Clear, confident, shameless. My fingers brushed his skin as I checked the edges of the bandage, and goosebumps prickled across my arms before I could stop them.

Then he winked.

Just like that, the spell broke.

"Do I get a sticker now?" he asked.

I stepped back with a slow breath and a small smile. "Even better. You get to go back on the ice and kick some ass."

Wesley hopped down from the table, still grinning. "Now that’s motivation."

I watched him leave, his yellow jersey slung over one shoulder, and shook my head softly before turning toward the next room to go to Coach Dennis.

The tension hit me as soon as I stepped into the hallway. Wesley’s energy still clung to me like static, light and easy, but what waited ahead was heavier. More serious. I could feel it in the silence behind the door.

I paused outside the Coach's room for a second to collect myself.

The man had taken a punch to the face from one of his own players. That wasn’t something you just patch up and walk away from. His injury was physical, yes, but it carried weight.

My heart rate spiked as I stepped into Coach Dennis’ exam room.

The blood staining his jacket had stopped, but his face told a deeper story. I leaned in closer, my fingers gently tracing the bridge of his nose.

“You have a broken nose,” I said quietly. “If you don’t reset it now, it might not heal straight.”

A dark look flashed in his light brown eyes. It was like staring into an ocean of emotions, swelling beneath an icy surface. For a moment, I thought he might say more, but instead he broke the silence.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” I pressed.

He gave a small, almost rueful smile. “I have an important photoshoot with Elite Sports Monthly next week.”

He sighed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “I’m not vain, but after being out of the spotlight so long, I want to make a good impression.”

He chuckled softly. “If I don’t reset it now, my nose could be crooked by the time of the shoot.”

I nodded, determined. “I’ll do what I can.”

But as I examined the injury more closely, my confidence wavered. Resetting a fractured nose isn’t something a resident can do without full authorization. It requires specialized tools, sedation, and follow-up care best handled by an experienced orthopedic surgeon. Without the proper credentials or support, any attempt on my part could make things worse.

I looked up, meeting his steady gaze. “I’m going to refer you to an excellent specialist who can do this properly. It’s important to avoid complications, especially for a high-profile event like yours.”

He raised an eyebrow but smirked. “The rugged look might actually work for my big comeback article.”

I smiled despite the tension. “Still, I want to make sure it heals right.”

He nodded, placing a hand lightly on my shoulder. “Do your thing, Stewart. I’m in your hands.”