The Forbidden Puck: The Coach's Daughter Is Off Limits

Ray's PovI should have said no.The second Professor Hartwell asked me to babysit his daughter, I should have walked out. But I didn’t. I just sat there, in the worn leather chair across from his desk, trying to figure out what game we were playing.I’d been in his office plenty of times. Usually, it was because I’d missed a morning skate or my grade in his Econ class was slipping. This was different. The door was shut, the noise from the hockey arena was just a distant hum, and he was looking at me like I was a play he was drawing up.“She does not know I am asking you,” he said. His voice was low. He slid a photograph across the polished wood.It felt slimy. Like a secret handshake or a backroom deal. Not a favor from a coach to his team captain.I looked down.The girl in the picture was laughing. Her head was tilted back, her dark hair swinging. She wasn’t just pretty. She was the kind of pretty that made you stare. My eyes stuck on the curve of her smile, then drifted down to he

Riley's Pov Marvel,” I said, the word coming out as a relieved sigh.He didn’t smile. His eyes, usually so warm when they landed on me, were hard. “What’s going on?”“I was looking for you. I came down to… I saw the end of the game.” I took a step toward him, wanting to bridge the gap, to get us away from this audience.“Got lost, did you?” Ray Collins’s voice cut through the tension, deceptively mild. “Visitor’s room is down the other hall, Hartwell.”The use of my last name, my father’s name, in that tone, felt like a deliberate provocation. Marvel’s jaw tightened.Buzzcut chuckled. “She was just telling us how she doesn’t support any team, Cap. Neutral party.”I saw the misunderstanding solidify in Marvel’s eyes. He thought I’d been chatting with them. With Ray Collins.“I was waiting for you,” I said to Marvel, emphasizing the last word.But the damage was done. The pride of a losing player, the presence of a rival who seemed to dominate every space he entered, and the girlfriend

POV: RayMonday came like a punishment. I stood outside the athletics media room with my hands in my jacket pockets, telling myself I was calm. I was not calm. I'd barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the photograph on Hartwell's desk, the girl with the laughing eyes and the swinging hair, and then I'd remember that girl was now my job.I rolled my shoulders and pushed the door open.The room smelled like coffee and printer ink. Long tables ran down the middle, covered in equipment cases and camera bags. A few people were already seated, student photographers mostly, scrolling through phones or testing lenses. I recognized one of the team's media coordinators, a tired-looking guy named Pete, setting up a projector at the front.I had absolutely no reason to be here. My reason walked through the door four minutes later.Riley Ashford didn't rush. She came in with her camera bag on one shoulder and a small notebook tucked under her arm, her dark hair pulled back, wearing a gr

POV: RayI told myself I was passing through. The figure skating rink was on the way to the weight room if you took the long route around the east side of campus, which nobody took unless they had a reason. I had the schedule Hartwell texted me. I knew Riley's practice ran from four to five thirty. I knew the upper viewing deck of the skating rink was accessible from the east corridor without going through the main entrance.I told myself I was just doing my job.I pushed open the heavy door at the top of the stairs and stepped onto the viewing deck. It was dim up there, just a row of old plastic seats above the boards, the kind of place that got used during competitions and forgotten the rest of the time. The ice below was bright under the overhead lights, cold white and clean.I found a seat in the back row and looked down. Riley was already moving.She was in the middle of a footwork sequence, a series of turns and steps that crossed the full length of the ice, and I watched her an

POV: RayI had a reason for being there. That was what I told myself walking across campus in the cold, jacket zipped, breath fogging in the evening air. Hartwell had sent a message that afternoon asking for a check-in before the week got busy. The skating rink was on the way. Checking in on Riley's whereabouts was literally the job. I was being professional.I was lying to myself and I knew it.The thing Liam said in the weight room hadn't left me. I'd carried it through dinner, through a team meeting, through two hours of trying to read a chapter of economics that I retained nothing from. Sienna. Started over the summer. I kept thinking about Riley's face in that hallway after the game, the way she'd touched Marvel's arm, the genuine softness in her voice when she thought she was comforting her boyfriend.She had no idea. I pushed through the arena door and the cold hit me differently inside, sharper and cleaner than outside. The ice was bright under the lights and the team was mid-