It’s obvious my players are not handling our recent losses very well.
“Enough!” I slice my hand through the air, silencing the two teens. I glare at Barrie. “Throwing blame around is not going to un-lose us those games.” I glare at Taylor. “And talking trash about someone’s mother is not going to make you any friends.”
The boys’ expressions darken sullenly.
I blow my whistle again, making them both jump. “One-minute penalties for unsportsmanlike behavior. Sin bin—both of you.”
As they skate off toward their respective penalty boxes, I notice the unhappy expressions of their teammates. I get it. I hate losing, too. But I’m a twenty-three-year-old ex-college hockey player with plenty of losses under his belt and a thick skin that formed as a result. These are sixteen-year-olds who have always excelled in the sport, always been the best players on whatever middle school or junior high teams they were recruited from. Now they’re in the major juniors competing with guys who are as good if not better than they are, and they’re not used to no longer being the best.
“Je-sus fuckin’ Christ,” Danton mutters to me an hour later, as we trudge into the coaches’ locker room. “These little faggots are spoiled rotten—”
“Don’t use slurs,” I interject. But it’s like yelling into the wind. His rant doesn’t break stride.
“—that’s why they keep losing,” he goes on. “They have no discipline, no work ethic. They think the wins are just gonna be handed to them on a silver platter.”
Frowning, I sink onto the bench and unlace my skates. “That’s not true. They’ve worked their asses off for years to reach this point. Most of these kids learned to skate before they learned to walk.”
He makes a derisive sound. “Exactly. They were hockey wonder kids, showered with praise by their parents, teachers, coaches. They think they’re the best because everyonetellsthem they’re the best.”
Theyarethe best, I want to argue. These kids have more talent in their pinkie fingers than most players only dream of having, including ones currently playing in the NHL. They just need to hone that talent, build on the skills that already come naturally to them and learn how to get even better.
But there’s no point in arguing with Danton. The man is a decent player, but I’m starting to think that his ignorance is a disease without a cure. Frazier told me the other night that Danton grew up in a “hick town up north” (Frazier’s words, not mine), where prejudice and ignorance are pretty much passed down from generation to generation. I wasn’t surprised to hear it.
I hurriedly shove my skates in my locker and slip into my boots and winter coat. The less time I spend with Danton, the better. Though it bums me out that I can’t bring myself to like the man, seeing as how he’s the one I work most closely with.
When I step out of the arena five minutes later, I’m disheartened to find that it’s still snowing. I woke up this morning to a blizzard raging outside my window. As a result, practice was postponed three hours until the city’s snowplows could take care of the mountains of snow that had dumpedonto the streets overnight. I ended up driving Wes’s Honda Pilot to work because I didn’t want to deal with the long walk to and from the subway in such shitty conditions.
I trudge through the snowy parking lot and slide into the big black SUV, instantly switching on the butt warmers and blasting the heat. White flakes fall steadily beyond the windshield, and I wonder if the weather is this bad in New York. Wes texted earlier to say they’d landed safely, but with the snow falling harder than it had this morning, I’m suddenly worried he might not make it back tonight. Or maybe I’m just relieved again. If Wes is snowed in, that means another night of not having to pretend things haven’t gone to the shitter between us.
I swallow a groan and pull out of the parking lot, but I’m only five minutes into the slow drive home when my phone rings. Since my Bluetooth is paired with the SUV, I can see on the car’s dash screen that my sister is calling. All I have to do is click a button to answer, leaving my hands free to steer the car through the foot of snow on the road.
“Hey,” I greet Jess. “What’s up?”
Instead ofhello, she says, “Mom’s worried about you. She thinks aliens descended on Toronto and turned you into a pod person.”
“Gleep glorp,” I say monotonously.
My sister’s laughter echoes in the car. “I said aliens, not robots. I’m pretty sure extraterrestrials have a more advanced language than gleep glorp.” She pauses. “Seriously, though. Are you okay over there in Siberia, Jamester?”
“I’m fine. I have no idea why Mom’s worried—I spoke to her on the phone last night.”
“That’s why she’s worried. She said you didn’t sound like your usual self.”
Not for the first time, I curse my mother for knowing me so damn well. She’d called while Wes and I were watchingBanshee—on opposite ends of the couch. It had been another tension-filled night for us, but I thought I’d sounded pretty chipper on the phone.
“Tell her there’s no reason to worry. Everything is okay here. I promise.”
Unfortunately, Jess knows me as well as Mom does. Of all my siblings, she’s the one who’s closest in age to me, and the two of us have always been close.
“You’re lying.” Suspicion sharpens her voice. “What aren’t you telling me?” There’s a sudden gasp. “Oh no. Please don’t tell me you and Wes broke up.”
Pain shoots through my heart. Just the thought fills me with panic. “No,” I say quickly. “Of course not.”
She sounds relieved. “Okay. Thank God. You hadmeworried now.”
“Wes and I are fine,” I assure her.
Another pause, then, “You’re lying again.” She curses softly. “Are you guys having problems?”
