“Deal.” A boisterous laugh rattles Big Ed’s frame, and I sigh, knowing I’ve avoided the heavy, deep-in-your-feelings danger zone.
“Hey, Jack.” Bill, the assistant coach, sticks his head in the locker room. “Coach wants to talk to you in his office before you go to skate.”
“Got it.”
“And then the training staff wants to see how your MCL is healing today.”
Goddammit. When is all this extra shit going to stop?
It’s freaking annoying that one stupid hit has made such a difference in my life.
“Tell Coach I’ll be there in five, thanks.” I finally shrug my practice sweater on, pulling the folds down over my pads.
“You got it.”
Walking past Grady Sulking O’Callaghan, he extends a hand and clamps down on my shoulder pads, halting my steps. “If he asks, you went out alone last night after I begged you on my knees to stay inside and study tape or something else that will make me look good. And then I met up with you out of concern for our star player.”
“And for the hot chick in the background of my snaps.”
“She looked like Alicia Silverstone fromBlast from the Past,”Grady sighs, turning his gaze heavenward, wrapped in a glow of Brendan Fraser reverie. “How could I not take a chance?”
“You’re so weird.” I shake my head. “But don’t worry, I’ve got you. I doubt he’ll even bring it up. How would he know what we did last night?”
“He has his ways.” Grady’s eyes widen, and he looks like that frightened/shocked emoji Aulie uses a lot when I tell her about my nights out.
Taking a deep breath, I collect myself afterall of that,and walk to the coach’s office. I’m sure he wants to check in on my injury and that everything is fine.
His door is cracked open ajar, and I rap twice before pushing it open.
Coach’s stern gaze doesn’t lift his focus from his iPad, and my stomach twists. “Come in, Parker.”
Judging by that greeting, there’s a decent chance this isn’t about my injuries. I settle into the hard oak chair in front of his desk. The old wooden seating that’s been here since the Big Bad Brawling Badgers of the 1960s groans under my weight.
At the sound of the creak, Coach takes his readers off and places his tablet on his desk. “How’s the leg?” he asks.
“It’s fine, but the training staff wants to see me. I should probably get going, so I’m not too late for skate.” I stand.
“Make sure they check your ankle out, too. It looks like you took a nasty fall last night.” Coach slides his iPad across the desk. A TMZ photo of Grady staring down at me, arms crossed, while I’m mid-fall, sits on the screen—centerof Attention: Boston Feelings Thawing for Hometown Hero.
Well, that heading is entirely unnecessary.
I wince and sit back down.
“I just tripped on some loose cobblestone. The street was slick, not a big deal.”
“The street was slick. As a professional hockey player, that’s the story you’re going with?”
“Just telling you the truth, Coach.”
“Right, so the slip had nothing to do with this.” He swipes his finger, and a video of me appears, downing two fistfuls of shots before grabbing another two.
Seven was probably the more accurate estimate, then.
“What are you going to do tomorrow?” a bubbly voice asks in the clip.
“Revenge.” The bleary-eyed version of me laughs.
Yeah. I don’t remember any of this.
