He didn’t have to specify which someone he meant.
And I was glad he apparently didn’t expect an answer out of me.
Because I had no idea.
CHAPTER 17
AVERY
I’d give Coach Tabakov credit—he was discreet.
I mean, I liked him anyway. He was a great head coach, and we’d all thrown him a party when the GM had extended his contract for three more years. The man knew hockey, and he knew how to coach.
But I’d always particularly liked that he preferred the“praise in public, criticize in private”approach to things. If the whole team was a mess, he’d dress us down right there on the ice during practice or in the locker room during intermission. If the problem was with one player, though, it was always behind closed doors. I knew for a fact he’d addressed things with my teammates, but I never knew when or where it happened.
And when he sat down for a face-to-face with me, it was always with as little fanfare as possible. A text message. Catching me when I was alone in the locker room. Joining me while I walked around the ice level before a game.
Today, as I was finishing up breakfast, he came by where I was sitting and tapped his knuckle on the table. “Chat with me before we get on the buses, Captain.”
The “Captain” was, I guessed, a way of letting my teammates at the table know this was business as usual. He and I had one-on-ones all the time now that I was captain, and he’d done it with Leif, too.
From the way my teammates focused on their breakfasts and didn’t look at me or Coach… I had a feeling the subterfuge didn’t work this time.
“Yeah, Coach,” I said. “I’ll, um… I’ll be done here in a couple of minutes.”
He gave a sharp nod and left.
Eminem, Baddy, Ziggy, and Davis didn’t look up from their food. They didn’t say a word. In fact, none of us had said much since we’d sat down—the whole banquet hall was unusually quiet—and I didn’t think it was just because we were all nursing hangovers. The awkward near-silence was uncomfortable as all hell.
So was the fact that Peyton hadn’t joined us like he usually did. He was a few tables over, back resolutely turned to me, having a hushed conversation with Laramie, Trews, and Astala. Even the guys at other tables who hadn’t been at the bar last night had clearly picked up on the vibe in the room; they exchanged“WTF?”looks and peered at the rest of us with uneasy eyes.
This was my fault.
Peyton’s too, for silently judging me across the table. What was his problem, anyway? But I should’ve dealt with it privately. Going off on him in the bar in front of our teammates—not my best moment as the Whiskey Rebels’ captain.
Suddenly my own breakfast was even less appetizing than it had been when I’d sat down.
“I’m gonna go pack,” I muttered to my silent teammates. No one tried to stop me, and I got up to bus my dishes.
I wondered if I imagined the collective relief in the room as I was walking out.
I texted Coach to let him know I was heading back up to my room and would meet him in fifteen minutes.
As I was riding the elevator up, my phone pinged.
Coach
Come to my room. 1122.
My stomach somersaulted. That sounded… ominous. And why was he only calling me in and not Peyton? Yeah, I was the captain, and yeah, I was the one to go off half-cocked in the bar, but it wasn’t like I’d been pissed at the wall.
Maybe they were going to have a talk in private some other time. I just hoped this wasn’t all falling on my stupid shoulders.
On the eleventh floor, I found Coach’s room and tapped on the door. He let me in without a word.
His things were already packed. His suit jacket was draped over the handle of his carry-on bag, and as he started tying his tie in the full-length mirror, he said, “Have a seat, Calds.”
I took one of the chairs by the window.
