Coaching Prince Charming (Arctic Titans of Northwood U Book 7), page 1
COACHING PRINCE CHARMING
Arctic Titans of Northwood U
Book 7
HAYDEN HALL
Copyright © 2023 by Hayden Hall
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 979-8-3230-4518-1
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover photo by XramRagde
Cover model: Leonardo
Cover design by Angela Haddon
Edited by One Love Editing
Written by Hayden Hall
www.haydenhallwrites.com
Created with Vellum
About the Book
He’s my first and only crush. He’s my new coach. Oh, and he was once my dad’s teammate and best friend.
I’ve been in love with Nate Partridge since I can remember. Under my mattress, there has always been a stack of magazine covers with his bare torso and a pearly smile. But that’s about the extent of it.
I can never have Nate Partridge. He is a straight guy and twenty years my senior. Neither of which is a dealbreaker for me, but he disagrees.
When a hockey accident forces him to retire, he takes the freshly vacant job of coaching the Arctic Titans. And my life takes an unexpected turn for the better.
Nate is the only person who has ever truly understood me. Where my father’s ambition dictates my every waking moment, Nate’s kindness and compassion make me feel like there’s more to life than hockey. Dad’s disregard for my passions makes Nate’s encouragement only sweeter.
And my crush reaches all new heights. Especially when I discover his deepest secret.
Nate Partridge is not straight.
But do I stand a chance? To him, I am nothing more than his old friend’s kid and a college freshman he’s in charge of training.
If I want Nate Partridge, it will take more than hope to make this real.
It’s time to shake things up in my life before I can make him mine.
Contents
Let’s Stay In Touch
1. Nate
2. Carter
3. Nate
4. Carter
5. Nate
6. Carter
7. Nate
8. Carter
9. Nate
10. Carter
11. Nate
12. Carter
13. Nate
14. Carter
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
When We Meet Again
From When We Meet Again
Also by Hayden Hall
About the Author
Let’s Stay In Touch
If you would like to keep in touch with me, the best way is to join my newsletter. As a welcome gift, I’ll send you a little digital basket of freebies.
Join my newsletter for a freebie pack.
Follow me on Instagram.
Check out my website.
Become a Patron.
Follow me on Amazon.
ONE
Nate
Dull, throbbing pain in my left collarbone made me roll my eyes. Would it ever stop? It had been over two months since the goddamn accident, as everyone kept calling it. Accident. As if I would be clumsy enough to slam myself against the boards and break my collarbone. As if the collision had been some unpredictable act of fate. As if it hadn’t had all the marking of foul play.
I clenched my teeth and shut the office door. Anger rose from my stomach like acid, searing everything it licked.
Taking deep breaths, I counted to ten, but the higher the number got, the more agitated I was at the fact I even had to count. Stupid exercise, I thought, feeling like a sullen teenager all over again. I hadn’t been one in nearly twenty years. Getting your life ripped apart will do that to you.
Silence filled the small office. Yesterday, I had brought in the trophies and accolades when the assistant coaches eagerly suggested it. They cluttered the clean, white shelves of my new office. A framed photo of my old team on the eve of our last national championship semifinals hung on the wall to the left of my desk. To the right, a filing cabinet occupied the space uselessly, as if all of its contents hadn’t been digitized a decade ago.
My predecessor hadn’t been interested in interior design any more than I was. After retiring — in his proper time, I might add — old Coach Murray took away the few personal belongings from this office and left not a single proof he’d spent his life in here. I intended to do the same.
And soon, if there was any luck in the world.
Great job, Nate, I thought as I sat into my chair. It was an old thing, worn out by my predecessor, never replaced. The springs poking my ass didn’t bother me. I didn’t plan to stick around for too long. First day on the job, and you’re already planning to leave.
I couldn’t stop myself from shaking my head. I’d had way too much time to think in the last two months. The only problem was I wasn’t much of a thinker. A career in philosophy had never been on my radar. All my life, I had been good at one thing and one thing alone. Hockey. But fate was cruel to me, taking that life away in the blink of an eye.
My fingers drummed against the nearly empty surface of the desk. One computer screen, a notebook, and a handful of scattered pens decorated it. And a framed photo of my ex-sister-in-law and her son, Beckett, my runaway brother’s abandoned family and the only treasure in my life.
The drumming intensified. I couldn’t keep my fingers still if my life depended on it. Even when the tips began to hurt, I kept tapping the desk. Harder. Harder until my heart was hammering in my chest with the perpetual anger that wouldn’t go away. Harder until someone knocked on my door.
“Come in,” I barked.
Harvey, a thirty-something-year-old assistant coach with a head of shaggy black hair and piercing green eyes, opened the door. “We’re ready for you, Coach,” he said in an all-business tone. It was an improvement. A week ago, he had barely managed to speak to me without stammering and looking at me with such wide eyes that I half believed I’d grown a pair of horns.
That was the curse of being one of the best-known hockey wingers in the country. Or, possibly worse, one of the infamous cases of a player in his prime losing everything to an accident.
I held my breath, my heart pounding without a rhythm, as my nerves worked to twist my guts. You were once the nation’s darling, Nathan, I snapped at myself. You’re not afraid of a bunch of teenage pups who want to chase a puck for a couple of hours. But things weren’t so simple. These weren’t just any teenage pups. These were the Arctic Titans. This team had filled the ranks of the NHL for years, and the responsibility for forging the raw talent and potential into greatness was now mine. Mine because of a string of unexpected bumps in several roads.
I’m not supposed to be here, I thought with a suppressed sigh. “Get the boys out on the ice,” I said in a gruff voice.
Harvey opened his mouth in surprise, then cleared his throat. “They’re out. We’re waiting for you, Coach.”
I shot him a frustrated glare, but my annoyance was with me, not Harvey. The guy was doing his job. And he was doing it better than I could hope to do mine. So I nodded. “I’ll be right there.”
In the weeks of preparation, I had kept myself away from the ice. I inspected the locker rooms, the hallways, the rink’s exterior, a break room for the staff, and my office. In fact, I hadn’t stepped on the ice since the evening a freak crash against the boards had ended my career.
Were I a younger man, there might have been a chance for a few more good years, but at thirty-eight, more and more people believed my retirement was long overdue. “He’s lost his edge,” they said. “And this just goes to prove it.” I’d had no choice but to bow out, whether I liked it or not.
Drawing a deep breath, I pushed my chair away from the desk. These were the times when I wished we still kept bottles of whiskey in our desk drawers like some stockbroker in the 1950s. I could use a drink to steady my nerves.
What it was that sent shivers down my arms, I didn’t know. A bunch of players with high hopes and brilliant futures still ahead of them? Or the ice I had spent my best years skating on? Or the obvious mistake of accepting a job I didn’t know how to do? Perhaps the answer was a little bit of everything.
I stood up like a soldier and marched after Harvey. We went down the hall and into the vast arena that was practically empty. The bright lights in the rink were a stark contrast to the hallway that had led us there, so I blinked twice before taking in the sight. The Titans, lined up in full gear, clacked their sticks against the smooth surface of the ice and hooted and cheered when I stepped out with a small procession of assistant coaches.
The Titans greeted me with admiration I no longer deserved. I wasn’t the star winger. I was just a college coach, doing the job for the sake of keeping my sanity and waiting for this year to expire and the real coach to take over. Someone would come. Someone who knew what he was doing.
My muscles tensed as I looked around. Even the assistant coaches applauded and smiles decorated their faces. Three of them flanked me, there to ensure the job was done the right way. In fact, all I had to do was make the calls these experienced people put forward. I had to be the face of Northwood and its Titans.
“Thank you,” I said lamely, my throat dry. “Thanks.”
The cheers and clacking subsided. The boys were lined by seniority within the team, starting with my nephew, Beckett, who had been selected as the captain a year earlier. His right-hand guy and boyfriend, Caden Jones, stood tall next to him. I didn’t recognize a few of them except from seeing them play around nine months earlier, and a couple were brand-new. The new guys had been accepted on a hockey scholarship at Northwood when old Coach Murray was leaving, and another guy was officially taking over. The decisions had happened before my time.
I’d read their files, however, so I knew that one of the two was Carter Prince. Encountering his name on my computer screen had given me a bit of a shock. In fact, it made me feel old. As old as the fact that my nephew was a senior this year.
Carter Prince was my old buddy’s son. Now, with helmets on, I struggled to distinguish him between the two boys at the end of the line. But it felt like it was only yesterday that I had piggybacked him around Dana’s backyard while my old friend worked the grill. We’d been young men back then, our careers still far ahead, our futures bright.
“Coach?” Harvey whispered.
I didn’t realize my ears had been ringing until Harvey’s voice reached me, and the buzzing faded. I cleared my throat and inspected the line again. Beckett wore a smirk I knew well. A few of the boys looked at me like soldiers looked at their general, and the last few were as wide-eyed as if Elvis had entered the building.
“I didn’t expect such a warm welcome,” I said, pitching my voice a little higher. “Ah…I’m Nate Partridge. Coach Partridge, I suppose.” Or just Nate, I thought wistfully. Partridge was someone the world recognized, and that was no longer me.
“Hear, hear,” Beckett called, and the rest cheered. He beamed with pride that made my stomach feel hollow. I could have strangled that boy.
I bared my teeth by instinct, forcing a polite smile on my face. “Thank you.” Licking my lips, I turned to Harvey. “The drills?”
Harvey murmured a few sentences to remind me of today’s agenda. I knew it. I’d devised it. And yet, my mind was coming up blank until Harvey whispered it to me.
I nodded my gratitude and looked at the boys again. Finding some sense of determination in myself, I steeled my voice and put my hands on my hips. “Alright, guys. I know you all had a long summer of growing soft around the edges. It’s time to hammer you back to the boys who’d won two Frozen Fours in two years. And in order to do that, I need to assess each and every one of you. Consider this week your second trial. Show me what you’re good at, but don’t shy away from revealing what you’re terrible at. I want to see where the flaws are.” You’re doing fine, I told myself as a shudder passed through my chest. Briefly, I outlined the drills I wanted to see today. Simple offensive and defensive moves all of them had to perform.
When I was done, I crossed my arms over my broad chest and watched the boys scatter around. All but two had gone through these drills as a team before, at least once, so I could trust them to know what to do. Even so, when my nephew began dictating the opening positions just as Harvey was starting to speak, I needed to get involved.
“Partridge,” I called. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you will allow Coach Harvey to lead the way for now.”
Beckett frowned at me with clear surprise on his face, his lips pursing into something dangerously close to a pout. “But this is how we always…”
“I don’t want to hear it,” I growled. “You’ll let us do our jobs, or you’ll watch the drills from here.”
Beckett hesitated, almost as if he was stunned. “Yes, sir,” he said carefully, possibly after seeing the cold look of determination in my eyes.
That boy had pulled me from the brink of collapse this summer. I had been flirting with the idea of rushing into obscurity and drinking myself into numbness. Had it not been for him and Caden Jones, I would have been drunk already, I feared. But that was personal. Here, Coach Partridge and Captain Partridge were just that — the coach and the captain.
Harvey took over while I observed, and the drills kicked off. Beckett was a fine player if a little rash, and his boyfriend’s smooth style on the ice complemented him very well. The two had already formed a way of cooperating that almost included a language only they spoke. Assisted by a quick, fierce young man, the trio was as close to a dream team as they could get.
“Avery Collins,” said Margot, the second assistant coach on my team. “He’s been on the rise for some time.”
I nodded. I had noticed Collins out there when I had last watched the Titans play. That night still lived in my memory so vividly. In the closing minutes of the game, the Titans had scored their winning point and erupted in such celebratory cheers that we all nearly missed the moment when Beckett skated across the rink and kissed Caden publicly for the very first time. It was the night he came out to me, fearing that I would think less of him because… I didn’t know why. If anything, I admired him more for his bravery.
My throat tightened, but I narrowed my eyes and appeared absorbed in the drills.
Their goalie, Sawyer Price, was surprisingly small compared to some of his teammates, but he was quick and tricky, seemingly popping up wherever he was needed.
The big guy, Jordan Mitchell, was someone I knew from Beckett’s childhood. The two boys had grown up as close friends, and in the days I spent around Beckett, I had noticed the steady and calm presence that Jordan had radiated even in his boyhood. When it was Jordan’s turn, I realized that the steadiness had never left him. He was a tanklike force on the ice, but with precision and the sort of determination ocean waves had when chiseling the cliffs.
Ron Rigby came in to swap with Sawyer Price as the goalie. He was bigger despite being three years younger, but he was also more predictable. I saw room for improvement, especially if paired with Beckett’s trio. The kid would have to keep losing in the drills until he recognized his weaknesses and worked out a way to predict the opponents’ next moves.
Then came Carter Prince. The boy was built like a hockey player, thanks to the years of practice and conditioning that came with being the son of hockey royalty. In full gear, he was a formidable force. There were bigger guys around him, of course, but Prince appeared ready to face any of them. Playing defense, he showed a great deal of potential. I often wondered if something like that was hereditary or if the kids had a choice.
I made notes for the players as they swapped through various combinations. The things that had been established with my predecessor were working well even today, but I wondered if a year of these tactics was long enough for their opponents to regroup and band against. You could only bait-and-switch so many times on the ice.
Two hours later, I thanked the Titans for their dedication and reminded them that in order to have a shot at greatness, their training didn’t stop once they left the rink. Every ounce of alcohol they drank gave their rivals a razor’s width of advantage; every gym session they missed pulled them further back. Privately, I reminded myself that these were college students who couldn’t — and shouldn’t; life was short enough already — be stopped or even persuaded that I was telling the truth. But a firm hand was necessary to keep them in line. A few of them might even outshine their coaches and fathers and such.
It wasn’t until I was done debriefing with the assistant coaches that I sank into my worn-out chair and felt the tension leave my muscles. The door of my office was left open, and small groups of guys passed by on their way out. They all paused long enough to greet me or tell me they had long been my fans. It wasn’t rational, but anger rarely was, to feel this annoyance with them for reminding me of the person I no longer was.
I wasn’t sure who I was now. Who I was becoming. But that hockey star with hordes of fans had died on the ice the night I was slammed against the boards.
Absently, I rubbed the place where my collarbone had been broken. The memory of the sharp pain was vivid enough to put me back into the hospital bed.
The young man with honey-brown hair and warm brown eyes that seemed to always hold a spark of mischief paused at my door, murmuring something to his friend, who proceeded to leave. The smile that stretched across his face punched dimples on each side of his youthful face. “Coach Partridge?” he called, lifting one arm above his head and leaning against the doorframe. He had his duffel hanging from the other shoulder. The late-August weather was so warm that I couldn’t blame the kid for wearing a sleeveless T-shirt with long cutouts for shoulders and arms, baring the sides of his rib cage, and knee-length cargo shorts with flappy pockets. The summer tan on his face, arms, and legs was from the month spent in the Dominican Republic, which was my old friend’s favorite kind of vacation. Dana Prince didn’t go for new adventures once he found a thing he liked.
