The Ice Beneath Us
Author
Elara Richards
Reads
16.8K
Chapters
50
Theo Reid, the star captain of the Stormhawks Ice Hockey Team, lives for the thrill of the game—until he keeps colliding off the ice with someone just as fiery: Victoria Hales, the sharp-tongued, no-nonsense assistant coach of their biggest rival team the Thunderwolves. Sparks fly, tempers flare, and every run-in is a battle of wills… and barely contained chemistry.
What starts as banter turns into stolen moments, late-night phone calls, truths unveiled and passion that neither of them can ignore.
Theo and Tori find themselves tangled in something far deeper than rivalry. As the playoffs heat up, so does their connection. Their love story is spicy, soul-bearing, and totally off-limits… but some lines are meant to be crossed.
That Wasn’t in the Game Plan
TORI
“Say it again,” Maya demanded, lifting her cocktail like she was conducting an orchestra. “Louder. Slower. With feeling.”
I grinned, letting the moment stretch. “Assistant coach of the Thunderwolves!”
Maya and Cam whooped loud enough to turn a few heads in the bar, but none of us gave a damn. Tonight was mine.
A toast to all the crap jobs I’d taken just to stay in the game—assistant-to-the-assistant roles, editing hours of game film no one ever watched, fetching coffee and tape and pretending I didn’t hear the guys mutter “token hire” under their breath. Years of fighting to stay relevant in a sport that didn’t exactly roll out the welcome carpet for women.
“Holy shit, you actually did it,” Maya cheered.
“Hell yeah I did.” I grinned so wide my face hurt, clinking my glass against theirs.
“I’m so proud of you, Tori,” Cam beamed. “Even though I still don’t fully understand what an assistant coach does.”
“She’s like the Vice President of Yelling,” Maya chimed in.
I rolled my eyes, grinning. “I do more than yell.”
“But you do yell?” Maya asked, lawyerly smirk in place.
“Oh yeah,” I said, sipping my drink with a smug grin. “Professionally.”
Cam tilted her head, blonde hair slipping over her shoulder. “You’re so lucky—Monday onward, you get to boss around hot hockey players.”
“Not boss. Train,” I corrected. “Guide. Develop. Strategize.”
“And yell,” Maya added.
“And yell,” I agreed.
We laughed, and for a second I let myself lean into the moment. The dim lights. The hum of music and conversation. The comforting weight of my girls by my side.
Assistant coach. Real bench time. Strategy meetings. Game nights, where my voice finally matters. The Thunderwolves were a Double-A pro team in the ACHL, and this was the closest I’d ever come to my dream.
“I know it’s not the NHL,” I said, quieter now, “but it’s the biggest shot I’ve had. I finally get to be on the ice. I get to matter.”
Maya bumped her shoulder into mine. “And you’re going to crush it. Then you’ll coach in the NHL, and we’ll be in the front row wearing sparkly jackets, pretending we understand what a penalty kill is.”
“I’ll make flashcards,” Cam said solemnly.
I smirked. “You’ll still get it wrong.”
“But we’ll look hot doing it,” Cam said, retail-trained optimism shining through.
I laughed, lifting my glass—and that’s when the screen behind the bar changed. A highlight reel bloomed across it in slow motion. Clean passes. Blistering shots. A goalkeeper stretching impossibly across the crease.
There it was. Always calling out to me. Big-league hockey.
My chest tightened.
“Uh oh,” Cam murmured.
“Relax,” I said, already sliding off my stool. “I’m not ditching. I’m just…gonna go breathe the same air as the NHL for five minutes.”
Maya waved me off, her dark curls glowing in the dim lights. “Go on, hockey nerd. Go whisper sweet nothings to the screen.”
I threaded through the crowd, eyes locked on the replay. “That shot was too early,” I muttered, settling onto an empty bar stool. “Goalie hadn’t even committed.”
“Exactly.”
The voice came from my right—low, calm, amused. I turned.
Warm brown eyes. Dark hair that looked like fingers had run through it more than once tonight. Tall. Broad. One arm resting on the bar. And a smile that said he was fully aware of how distracting he was.
“You a Caps fan?” he asked, tilting his chin toward the screen. “Because that shot was criminal.”
Fully amused, my eyebrow arched. “I don’t usually cheer for underperforming teams.”
He breathed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Ouch. Fair.” His gaze flicked back to the screen. “What did you think about that last power play?”
“Sloppy,” I said without hesitation. “They were telegraphing their passes like they wanted a turnover.”
His eyebrows lifted. A slow smile curved across his full lips. “Okay,” he said slowly. “You’re either very confident—or very correct.”
“Both,” I replied, mirroring his grin.
That earned me another soft laugh. “You’re not a Caps fan, are you?” I asked lightly. “I hope I didn’t just offend you.”
He shifted his weight, angling a little closer. “No offense taken. I don’t—how did you put it?—support underperforming teams either.” His mouth tipped into a smirk. “Their biggest issue last season was discipline. Too many breakdowns when it mattered.”
My interest sharpened instantly. “Game forty-three,” I said. “Against the Rangers.”
His eyes snapped back to me. “Exactly,” he said, impressed. “The Rangers were ruthless. I’ve rewatched that game more times than I should admit.”
Was this guy living in my head?
He huffed a quiet breath. “Whenever there’s a boring game on, I just throw that one on and pretend it’s live. It’s a shame that game was—”
“—better than the final,” we said at the same time.
For a second, we just looked at each other. Then we broke into laughter—real and unguarded. Around us, the bar seemed to fade, the music and clinking glasses blurring into the background.
I looked at him then. Really looked. I noticed the way his eyes crinkled before his mouth smiled. The way his attention felt steady. And I became acutely aware of his eyes on me too.
Searching—deep enough to make my chest tighten.
“So,” I said, grasping for normalcy, nodding back toward the TV. “This season should be…interesting.”
“Guess we’ll see who survives October,” he said, giving me a sidelong glance. “Though the Blues look decent this year.”
“They do,” I agreed. “But being their fan takes patience. And a lot of commitment.”
He angled closer—just enough that I caught the faint scent of cedar and something clean. “Those aren’t usually my weaknesses.”
His eyes held mine a beat too long. And somehow, I felt them. Everywhere.
Heat crept into my cheeks.
“I’m Theo, by the way.” He offered his hand.
“Tori,” I said, as his warm, calloused skin brushed against mine.
“This is officially the highlight of my night.”
“Low bar?” I teased, our hands hesitating before finally letting go.
“Tragically.”
I laughed. He watched me like he liked the sound.
Across the bar, a tall blond guy waved at Theo, motioning toward a group already heading for the exit. Theo gave him a brief nod before turning back to me.
“Unfortunately, I have to get going,” he said. He hesitated, a thought flickering across his face.
“But—” His gaze dipped briefly, then back to mine. “If you ever want to grab a drink…or dissect some truly painful line changes…”
A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Let me give you my number.” He nodded toward my phone.
I handed it over before my brain could catch up. He typed, quick and sure.
“This was fun,” he added, voice low as he handed my phone back.
“Yeah.” My smile deepened.
He stood—towering over me—enough to make my pulse trip. “See you around, Tori.”
His warm brown eyes lingered—one last look—then he was gone.
I shook my head, as if that might loosen the grip his smug smirk still had on me. A moment later, I made my way back to my table.
Cam and Maya’s faces lit up—they’d clearly witnessed everything.
“Who. Was. That?” Cam gasped the second I sat down.
“Just a guy,” I said, trying—and failing—not to smile.
“A guy who’s got you grinning like that,” Maya teased.
With a guilty smile, I opened Theo’s profile—half-expecting to see some innocuous, mildly embarrassing picture of him fishing or something. My stomach dropped.
“Holy shit,” Maya whispered.
Red and black jersey. Theo Reid.Stormhawks Captain.
Cam leaned closer. “Who are the Stormhawks?”
I swallowed. This cannot be happening.
“They’re the top team in our league,” I managed. “And our biggest rivals this season.”
I stared at the screen, pulse roaring in my ears. I hadn’t even started my first day as assistant coach for the Thunderwolves—and I was already flirting with the enemy.
