“Killinger, right?”
Harrison shrugged. “Sure.”
The man smiled nicely, but his tone was sharp when he spoke again. “I saw you make some calls today that put Townsend’s team in the position to win. Have you decided to take up coaching?”
“No.” Harrison was attempting to be on his best behaviour since this guy was about to talk to Arlo and possibly recruit him, and this is why he hated coming to watch games. Someone always cornered him and tried to question him about his post-hockey life goals, like he was a phoenix thatwould rise from the ashes and somehow heal his broken body so he could get on the ice again.
“Shame,” said the man. “It would have been nice to see you back in the NHL in some capacity.”
And wasn’t that a kick in the chest?
Harrison said nothing as he watched the two men walk away. The ache in his leg was steadily worsening after standing, and the proximity to the ice, but he waited until they were gone before he took a seat on the bench and let his head fall into his hands.
People were lingering, but he didn’t care if they saw him. He was tired down to the metal rods in his bones, and he needed to leave before Fraser found him again, but he couldn’t bring himself to move.
“Hello, Harrison Killinger? My name is Adam, and I’m from the local news station—”
“Fuck off.”
Jett
Jett knew that Mike’s meltdown was going strong, judging by the shared looks of annoyance between the team when he returned to the locker room. Normally, he would take time to cool down after a game like today, but Jett wanted to get out of there to avoid further drama.
His shower was so fast that the water wasn’t close to warm before he got out, drying and dressing in the stall. He didn’t trust Mike not to fight him when he was only wearing a towel, which he would have found funny in a ridiculous way any other time, but he didn’t like the vibe currently smothering the building.
Jett was at his cubby pulling on his blue and black Sunburst jersey when Mike stomped into the room and aggressively chucked his skates into the spot beside him. It didn’t go unnoticed that the skates were broken and the blades were bent, like someone had taken a bat to them.
“What a fuck up,” said Mike. His voice was deceivingly calm. “I wanted to win that last game.”
“Same,” said Jett. He hooked the strap of his bag over his shoulder and stood to leave, but Mike turned his body to face him, halting his escape.
“And Townsend. Can you believe that fucking fairy? He’s in the coach’s office with two guys this time. What a queer.”
Jett couldn’t do this anymore. He had enough shit on his mind to worry about without having to listen to Mike’s gross and homophobic comments.
“Townsend is probablysitting downwith those two guys, going over his contract for whatever NHL team sent their agent to recruit him,” said Jett. “I don’t think there’s any sex, gay or otherwise, happening in there.”
Mike scoffed like he couldn’t fathom the idea. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been blowing up Twitter, Instagram and TikTok with these five games. Sure, it wasn’t the normal steps to get to the NHL, but it wasn’t impossible. If anything, Townsend was being sent to the CHL, where hewould be drafted after a few games, but Mike couldn’t look past his ego to see howgoodof a player Townsend was.
“Are you fucking in love with Townsend or something?” Mike asked, stepping into Jett’s bubble for the second time today. “You wanna suck his dick?”
Jett saw Gates move to put himself between them. A few of the other guys looked ready to go as well, but Jett had it handled.
“No, not Townsend. His cousin is way hotter.”
Pain exploded on the left side of his face, and Jett abruptly went from standing to being acquainted with the locker room floor. He was dazed, but already trying to get up. His head spun as the guys around him came to his defence, shoving Mike up against the wall of cubbies, yelling and cursing at him in a barrage of sound.
“What the hell is going on in here?” said a voice over the racket and ringing in Jett’s ears.
He felt slightly concussed, but he wassurethat was Harrison Killinger walking toward them.
Jett got one look at Mike’s face, and he knew what would happen before Mike shoved out of Gates’s hold and strode to Killinger, who hadn’t yet raised one hand to defend himself.
Jett saw red. He leapt to his feet and threw himself at Mike’s back, taking them both to the floor in a clumsy but effective tackle. Mike hollered and tried to buck him off, but Jett grabbed a fistful of his hair and smacked his face-off the cement floor—twice for good measure.
He wanted to hurt Mike more than he was mentally and physically able to. He needed to knock some goddamn sense into him. Who the hell looked at a man like Killinger and willingly took him on? Who the hell went after a guy with a messed-up leg?
Mike. Fucking, Mike.
