Sleet Sugar by S.J. Tilly

CHAPTER SIXTY

ZACH

“M

r. Hunt, you’re free to go.”

I tilt my head up, seeing a uniformed officer standing at the door to my cell.

“What did you say?”

“You can go.” He pulls open the door. “Your bail’s been posted.”

I understand his words, but I can’t comprehend them. Who would post bail for me?

For a brief idiotic moment my mind flashes to my parents. I huff out a defeated laugh. Of course it wasn’t them. Literally anyone would be more likely.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting on this bench, elbows on my knees, head in my hands, but standing is a chore. Weary of what awaits me outside this cell, I take my time rising and walking out.

I’m not sure who I was expecting to see standing in the lobby of the police station, but I sure as hell wasn’t prepared to come face-to-face with Coach.

Fuck.

I’m sick of feeling like a disappointing kid, but I can’t hold his gaze.

With my eyes on the floor, I collect my personal items in silence. It’s not a task that takes long, so I finally have no choice but to turn and face Coach.

But I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how much he knows. All I know is I’m not ready to be dismissed from the team. This team, this state, it’s all I have left. That thought reminds me that I’ve lost Isabelle, and I have to work to swallow over the lump in my throat.

“Come on, son.”

Those words.

My fragile shell starts to spider web.

There’s nothing he could have said to affect me more. How long have I waited to hear that phrase spoken to me? When he puts an arm around my shoulder, leading me towards the door, my vision blurs. I don’t know the last time I cried. But I’m about to. As a 30-year-old professional athlete, the last thing I want to do in front of my hockey coach is fucking cry. But I’m at an absolute loss. His tone, his actions, his words, they lead me to believe that this will all somehow be okay.

It’s more likely this is him walking me to the gallows. Either way, I have no choice but to follow.

Coach doesn’t release me until we reach his car. Unlocking the doors, he gestures for me to get in. I comply. Silently settling into his passenger seat.

“We’ll talk at home," he says, pulling out of the parking spot. “It’s been a long night, take the drive to relax.”

Relax? Yeah, doubtful. But I don’t say that. I continue to stay quiet. Unsure what to think. What to ask. Where to start.

I watch the roads and it doesn’t take long to recognize that we’re heading to my neighborhood. I wonder what it’ll be like to live so torturously close to Sugar. Sugar. I need to stop thinking of her as that.

When Coach puts the car in park, I look up expecting to see the front of my house. Except we are parked in the driveway of a house I don’t recognize. I know we are still in my neighborhood, but this isn’t my home. And it isn’t Su- Isabelle’s house either.

Coach turns the car off and starts to get out. “Let’s go inside.”

Following his lead, I climb out of the car.

Halfway up the walk to the door, I find my voice. “Where are we?” The question comes out gravelly and full of emotion. I cringe.

“Like I said, home.” Coach unlocks the front door and turns back to me.

I must look as dumb as I feel because Coach chuckles. “I see Isabelle failed to mention that I’m also one of your neighbors.”

“That she did,” I mumble, following him into the house.

Taking a moment to absorb the scene, I decide that Coach’s house looks exactly like I expected it would. His furniture is all large and comfortable. Couches and chairs made from overstuffed brown leather. The open plan showing off a mix of log cabin meets this old house.

While I stand here staring, Coach walks to the fridge. Turning back he’s holding two beers and points to the living room.

“I don’t like drinking alone, son. And I bet you need one just as much as I do right about now.”

There’s that word again. Son.

I work my jaw. “Yes, sir.”

Coach huffs out a breath and hands me a bottle before dropping into an armchair that faces the couch. I sit across from him.

“Call me Coach all you want, but let’s ditch the sirs. It’s 2 in the goddamn morning.”

I nod, eyes on my beer. Fuck, this is torture.

“That hurt?”

I look up to see Coach eyeing my right hand. I managed to only split one knuckle on that prick’s face and there’s a small bit of dried blood still marring my skin.

I flex my fist. “It’s a little sore, but nothing's broken.”

“Good.”

We both take a pull from our beers. I get the feeling that this sort of close quarters conversation might be just as hard for Coach as it is for me. I want to say something, but I have no idea what.

Coach surprises me when he lets out a laugh. “That really was quite the beating you gave that motherfucker, and you’re not even the least bit hurt. Damn-impressive!”

I open my mouth, but end up just staring at him in shock.

Then his smile fades. Here we go.

“Zachary,” he takes another drink, “I can’t thank you enough for what you did.”

“Uh… ”

I thought I was shocked before, now I’m living in an alternate reality. He just bailed me out of jail and now he’s fucking thanking me?

Coach leans forward to look me in the eye. “When my baby girl told me what happened to her, I wanted to kill that man myself. I will always be in your debt.”

I shake my head. “I was too late," my voice cracks.

“No.” His voice is stern. “No, son, you’re wrong. You did what needed to be done. You can’t prevent bad things from happening, lord knows I’ve tried since the day my Isabelle was born. But you can react when those bad things do happen. And that’s what you did. I knew adding you to the team was a good idea, but what you did tonight brought you into the family. So, thank you.”

He just throws those words out there like they are nothing. Calling me son, saying I’m a part of a family.

I need a moment to blink through my emotion and process what he said.

I’m terrified to ask, but I force out the question. “Are you saying that I’m still on the team?”

Coach looks like I slapped him. “Of fucking course you are. What the hell sort of question is that?”

“I don’t understand.”

He chuckles. “Clearly. Let me lay it out for you. When Isabelle told the cops her side of the story, it was apparent that you were acting in her defense. Our team has very good lawyers, who for once got to work on something exciting. They made a deal with the asshole. If said asshole tries to press charges against you, then Isabelle, with the help of the NHL legal team, would press charges against him for assault and sexual assault and public intoxication and a few other entertaining items. The suits should be able to rush this all through leaving nothing on your record. If that group of cops hadn’t been walking past the front doors, then they probably never would’ve been called. It was your bad luck that they heard the shouts about a fight. Personally, I’d have preferred that Jackson dump the asshole in the alley.”

I still can’t believe it. “Won’t this cause trouble for the team? Bad PR? Will I be suspended?”

He shakes his head. “If anything this will bring the fans in by the bus load.” Coach changes his voice, as if he’s reading a headline. “The Sleet Enforcer uses his talents in the real world to defend his girl from an assailant.”

I’m back to being speechless. Jaw hanging open. Thoughts screeching to a halt.

Defend his girl. Does he know?

Coach takes advantage of my silence. “Add to the fact that said girl is also the head coach’s daughter, and you have quite the story. A real beauty-and-beast scenario. I believe the ladies would call it romantic.”

I just stare at him. He doesn’t look angry. He looks smug. Almost happy. What kind of father would be happy about me dating his daughter?

“How. . .” I trail off.

He smirks. “How do I know? Or maybe the question should be, how long have I known?” Coach pinches his chin, as though he needs to think about it. “Oh, there were plenty of hints. Most of them I didn’t put down to you two dating, I thought it might’ve just been Isabelle having a crush on you. But in hindsight, it all makes sense. She was so snarky to you at that lunch we had together. I thought it was strange at the time, since she’s never been anything but sweet to the players, but I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I’m even thinking that maybe she recognized you that day in my office. That maybe she was tossing her paperwork at you, not at some bee.”

I take a swig of beer to cover the beginnings of a smile at that memory.

“What finally gave it away,” he continues, “was her wearing your jersey. She would never have done that on her own. That’s when it all clicked. All the times she asked after you, worried about you getting hurt, was annoyed about the women with lewd signs directed at you. It all just made sense. She cares about you. And seeing how you came to her rescue tonight, I’d say that you care about her, too.”

I shake my head.

“No?” Coach asks.

I tighten my grip on the cool glass in my hand. “Isabelle deserves better than me. I’m not the man for her.”

Coach scoffs. “What sort of self-sacrificing bullshit is that?”

“I’m no good, Coach. And she’s… She’s everything that’s good. I’m not cut out for a girl like her. I’ll just bring her trouble.” My throat tightens to the point of pain at the thought of life without Sugar.

“I don’t know why you have that garbage in your head. My daughter would be lucky to have a man like you. And you’d be lucky to have a woman like her. If I didn’t think she was already half in love with you, I wouldn’t push it. But if you choose to break her heart, by walking away rather than fighting, then that’s the only flaw you can claim as your own. If this has something to do with your worthless parents, then you need to find a way to let that shit go.”

My gaze, which had been on my lap, shoots up to his.

“Yeah, I know enough about them," he says. “Isabelle didn’t tell me anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. But I do my research. And all I can say is Fuck Them. We’re your family now. What happens between you and Isabelle is between you and Isabelle. But you’ll always be a part of the Sleet family, son. Nothing will change that.”

The vice that’s been squeezing my chest for hours simultaneously tightens and loosens. “That means a lot to me. Thank you.” I take a deep breath to compose myself. “But I don’t know if I can fix things with Isabelle. You didn’t see how she was looking at me,” I admit.

“No, but I did see how worried she was about you. She wanted to go straight to the police station to check on you, but I made her go home to rest.”

She wanted to check on me?

Coach rises and walks to stand right in front of me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You need to go talk to her. And you need to be honest.”

He’s right. Even if it’s as over as I think it is, I owe her a conversation. And an apology. “I will.”

Coach nods. “But not right now. Right now you need sleep. So finish your beer then go on up to the second room on the right.”

Just when I think nothing else could surprise me. “Huh?”

“You’re not walking home in the middle of the night. Even if it’s just a few blocks. I want you here, under my roof, where I know you’re safe. You can go home in the morning to clean up, before you head over to talk to Isabelle. This is non-negotiable. And grab some ice for that hand.”

Fucking hell. I have to swallow again before responding. “Thanks, Coach.”

Shit, I am sick of feeling so goddamn emotional. Every time I think I'm getting a handle on my emotions, Coach goes and says something that tears me wide open again. It’s been so long since anyone gave two shits about where I sleep at night. His parental instincts spark to life a tiny flame of hope deep down in my soul.

If Coach can trust me. And if I can trust myself. Then maybe I can convince Isabelle to trust me too.