He pulls a bottle of whiskey out of his desk and silently offers me some. I shake my head no. He nods, then pours some into the empty, but dirty, coffee mug in front of him. “I think the anonymous source expects you to run scared. Which is stupid. You’re not afraid of anything and you’d think he would know that by now.”
That’s not exactly true. My major fear in all of this is getting kicked out of the league. But I tip my head at him anyway.
He raises the mug, then sips his drink and says, “I also think he’s banking on this causing you to back away from theother manyou’ve been sleeping with.”
“I can promise you that’s not happening.”
“Thank Christ,” Coach says with a heavy exhale. “I can’t risk losing Connor out there. If we lose, or worse, he gets sidelined during a game with a season-ending injury, I’m out of a job when we get back to the real world.”
“Seriously?”I ask, my eyebrows rising. Coach Chris has been a coach for over a decade, and he was a player before that. Between coaching and playing, he’s won four Stanley Cups, and one Olympic silver medal. He’s a legend in the NHL, the same as Connor’s father, but I guess he’s not even safe from Connor Kennedy Sr’s wrath? I don’t know why I’m surprised.
He looks at me and takes another sip of his drink. “I’ve been working under the general management of Connor Sr since Junior hit the league. My job is always under threat.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re an excellent coach.”
“Thanks.” He raises his mug at me again, then takes anothersip. He goes quiet, considering me before he says, “To be honest. I might have just lost my job by calling you in here to give you a heads up.” He looks towards the door. The chatter going on in the locker room is indecipherable, but it is abundant.
“You probably did him a favor,” I say. “Ambushing me with the press wouldn’t have been a good idea.”
Coach laughs again, but it’s hollow. “I’d pay to see you knock him out.”
“It would be the best five minutes I’d ever spend in the penalty box.”
He drains his drink, then pours himself another one. “If I had another exit, I’d let you slip out of it right now.” He lets out a deep sigh. “But unfortunately, I don’t. And the press isn’t going to leave until they see you.”
“Can I have another minute to consider how I want to do this?”
“Marshal, you can have as much time as you need,” he says, then swallows his drink down in one gulp. After placing the mug back down, he rises from his seat, walks around his desk, and pats me on the shoulder again before he heads towards the door.
Connor
When Coach’s door opens, I hold my breath, expecting to see Gavin coming out of it. From the look of hungry-eyed anticipation on my father’s face, I can see he does as well. A brief second of disappointment washes through his features when he sees it’s Coach Chris rejoining us instead. My father’s been waiting for this moment, standing beside me, gleefully listening to the press in the room ask the entire team how they feel about the rumors in regard to Gavin Marshal.
Bouchard is practically staring daggers at my father as Coach steps into the fray.
“Coach Chris,” one of the reporters yells out and thrusts a camera in his face. “Did you know about Gavin Marshal?”
He stands tall and casual with his hands in his pockets, givingoff an air of annoyance with the question as he answers. “I don’t make a habit of keeping tabs on who any of my players are sleeping with. It’s none of my business and it’s none of yours.”
“But this is big news,” a new reporter says.
“Is it?” Coach cuts the reporter off. “I think you’re all looking for a story where there doesn’t need to be one.” He points around the room. “These boys here nearly shut out Finland tonight. That’s what you should be reporting on. Not wasting your time on something that doesn’t affect the game.”
I gulp. It kind of does affect the game. Just not in a bad way. Since getting together, Gavin and I have both been playing the best hockey of our careers. There’s no way that’s a coincidence. We bring something out of each other both on the ice and off.
I look at my father and flip my hands at the media shitstorm stirring around us. Being sure to keep my voice low so only he can hear me, I ask, “Why would you do this?”
He leans in closer. “To bring you to heel,” he says and there is unmistakable darkness in both his eyes and his tone.
My fists clench at my sides. That’s what this is about. Controlling me, like he doesn’t do that enough already.
“Connor Kennedy!” A reporter and his cameraman turn their attention to me. “Do you think it’s good for the team for Marshal to remain alternate captain? Would the team be better off if Coach Chris appointed a better option like Warren or Franklin?”
“No,” I say, unclenching my jaw, but not my fists. “Gavin is good at his job. I can make a case that he’s a better captain than I am. He brought this team together at training camp, and he’ll keep it together now.”
“Bouchard!” another reporter yells. “You play with Gavin Marshal in Buffalo. Did you already know about his proclivities?”
“Like Coach Chris said, it’s none of my business who anyone in the locker room sleeps with.” He unhooks his shoulder pads and pulls them off, then drops them to the ground. They make a loud clatter when they hit the floor. “Gavin Marshal has always had my respect and will continue to have it. How about you vultures gofind a story somewhere else. This is the Olympics. It should be pretty easy.”
