“So why do you want to talk to me?”
“Not to praise you.” He flings up his hands. “What’s your address?”
“Why would I give my address to somebody who hates me?” I ask. “I’m not an idiot.”
Enzo rolls his eyes. “You can’t hide from me.”
“Whatever,” I say, though he’s probably going to get his way, now he’s joined my team.
At least in offices you have cubicles to hide behind. Where’s my grey fiberboard when I need it?
This sucks so much.
To think I ever helped his sister with her little issue. Not that it worked, but still, I was willing.
I slump against the wall.
The worst thing about having Enzo here is that I’ll remember what it used to be like between us. Enzo used to be my best friend. The first guy I would call if I found out there was a party to go to, the guy I would eat dinner with at school, the guy I would share everything with.
Coach strides down the corridor, his face too red, like it always is, as if the temperature in Boston is too warm and he needs to be back in icy Sweden. “Knight! In the hallway you do not holler. At new teammates, even less.”
Shit.
“That was a personal matter,” I say.
“Bellanti is an exceptional hockey player. We’re lucky to have him. After Dmitri left—” He shakes his head.
I understand. We all liked Dmitri. Enzo, technically, is a better player though. He’s higher ranked.
“We received a first line player,” Coach says. “An Olympic player.”
I glare at him. “I’m a first line player. And an Olympic player.”
“But now we’ll have a real shot at the cup. You are supposed to want that.”
“I do!”
Coach shrugs. “It wasn’t clear. You should be celebrating.”
“You don’t understand,” I say. “Bellanti is the reason we won’t get the cup. It’s impossible now!”
I wait for realization to hit Coach’s face. I wait for embarrassment to show up. Instead, his face is somber.
“You can’t trust him,” I say, aware my words sound lame. I feel like Gandalf warning everyone about the ring, and everyonethinking that surely a cool-looking piece of metal can’t be that bad. “He’s not good.”
Because of course he’s not.
Coach’s eyes go ice cold, scary Swede-mode activated, and my lungs do a twisting thing they normally don’t do. “Knight, you will behave like a professional while Bellanti is on the team.”
“I am a professional?—”
Coach’s glare becomes more ferocious. The man could totally audition to be an Orc. His piercing pale blue eyes would terrify. The man missed his calling. If only he’d been in New Zealand twenty-five years ago.
“You must take this seriously,” Coach says.
“I do! I am!”
Coach does another one of his scary expressions, like he got his management style from looking at scary paintings of invading armies and contorting his face into their expressions.
