Break My Heart: An Enemies-to-Lovers Coach’s Daughter Sports Romance (Western Wildcats Hockey)
Break My Heart: Chapter 3

Dad frowns at the frosted glass before his gaze resettles on mine. “You’re not acquainted with Hayes, are you?”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“Good.” The relief on his face and in his voice is almost comical. “Let’s keep it that way.”

I shift in my chair, eager to steer the conversation in a different direction. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yeah. I was able to book the ice for six A.M.,” he says, a small smile creeping onto his face. “Only the janitorial staff will be around, so you’ll have the place all to yourself.” He opens his desk drawer and pulls out a keycard before holding it out to me.

I take it and try not to think too hard about how good that sounds.

“Thanks.” My tongue darts out to moisten my lips. “I really appreciate it.”

“Just don’t lose the card, or it’ll be my ass,” he warns, but his tone is light. “The only reason the athletic director agreed is because it’s all but certain that we’ve made it to the playoffs.”

“I won’t.” I tuck the card into my pocket and rise to my feet, ready to take off, but Dad pulls off his ballcap and rakes a hand through his hair, his expression shifting, as if he wants to say more but isn’t quite sure how.

My stomach clenches.

Does he know about the texts?

There’s no way Nathan would contact him.

Not after everything that happened.

I thought Dad would murder him with his bare hands after the scandal broke. I’ve never seen him so close to losing control, and I’ve never been so scared. Nathan should consider himself lucky to still be alive. If he has any brain cells whatsoever, he’ll stay far, far away from me.

Dad’s voice pulls me out of my spiraling thoughts. “Have you given any more thought to reaching out to a few of the names on the list I gave you?” Before I can shake my head, he adds, “Like maybe Nadia Petrovic? I don’t have to tell you what a world-renowned coach she is. The girl who won Nationals last year trained with her.”

I drop my gaze as tension coils in my muscles. “What would be the point? I’m not even sure I want to skate anymore.”

The silence that follows that response is deafening.

I force myself to glance up, only to replace his blue eyes filled with a mixture of confusion and sadness.

“Maybe if you just had a simple phone conversation with her or one of the others, you might change your mind.” His voice is quieter now, as if he knows how close I am to bolting. “I hate to see you throw away everything you’ve worked so hard for because of that piece of⁠—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I blurt, popping to my feet. I can’t sit here for another moment and pretend like everything’s fine when it’s not.

It hasn’t been for a long time.

“You’ve always loved to skate,” he murmurs, as if trying to remind me of something I’ve forgotten.

“I know.” My voice is tight, almost strangled.

“It was your life.”

“I know,” I repeat, hating just how true the statement is.

It was my life.

And now?

Now it feels like something that belonged to someone else.

“I hate that you’re letting what happened take away the one thing you’ve always been so passionate about,” he says, his tone low and full of sadness.

I open my mouth, but no words come out.

What can I even say?

It’s not like he’s wrong.

A year ago, everything blew up. My life went up in flames, and after all this time, I’m still sifting through the ashes, picking up the charred pieces.

“Dad…”

With a sigh, his shoulders sag. “I’m not going to force you to do something you don’t want to, but would you at least think it over?”

“Sure.” The lie slips out easily, even though we both understand that I have no intention of following through with it.

I’ve been telling people what they want to hear for months now.

It’s just easier that way.

Easier than explaining how I can barely breathe when I think about the past. How I spent months in therapy trying to process it all, and I’m still not there.

Still not okay.

If I’d had my way, I would’ve walked away from skating for good.

But I just couldn’t do it.

The ice is the only place that makes sense.

The only place where I can replace any peace.

Irony’s a bitch, isn’t it?

The thing I love the most is also the thing that inflicted the most damage.

After months of fighting the impulse, I returned to the rink. I still skate, but not competitively.

It’s doubtful I’ll ever do that again.

Dad clears his throat, as if unsure how to keep the conversation going. “Have you been out with anyone lately?”

The question catches me off guard, but it’s not a total surprise. Mom’s usually the one who wades cautiously into these turbulent waters. For whatever reason, Dad seems to be picking up the slack this afternoon.

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“Why not?”

“I just need time to think and figure out what I want to do with my life.”

What I don’t say is that dating is the last thing on my mind. That I’m too screwed-up to even think about being with someone right now. It’s not something I felt comfortable explaining to my therapist. How can I tell anyone that I’m still messed-up, that I haven’t been able to replace anything that feels good, or that the guys I’ve been with couldn’t give me what I needed?

What I secretly craved.

Dad would probably keel over if I admitted any of that to him.

When it looks like he might say more, I do the only thing I can and rise to my feet.

“Sorry, I really need to go. But I’ll see you later?”

The smile he flashes doesn’t quite banish the sadness from his eyes. “Sure. Of course.” There’s a pause. “I love you, Ava.”

Only then does everything loosen inside me. “I love you too.”