She had golf, for fuck’s sake.
And now she magically ends up with hockey?
“I just don’t like the extra work I’ll have to do,” I finally mutter, finishing my beer and immediately grabbing another from the fridge. It’s not like I haven’t gone on verbal tirades about her before but I can’t muster up the desire to word vomit at Hugh right now.
The team’s off tomorrow, which means so am I, and I fully plan on getting a little buzzed and enjoying my fucking Friday night.
Sue me.
“You like the work, Jake,” Hughie says slowly, watching me a little too closely. “So what’s the real issue?”
I sigh and close my eyes, rubbing a hand over my face. “She always,always, sleeps with the team. It causes so much bullshit. You don’t need that. You need to focus so you can make it to the draft.”
He nods in that overly thoughtful way. “The guys already talked about it. They don’t even like Lauren.”
I scoff and twist the cap off my second bottle. “They don’t have to like her to stick it in her. And then she gets clingy, or she fucks their friend, and then it’s this whole thing and…ugh.”
I trail off, frustration buzzing under my skin.
Hughie keeps watching me, still as hell, with that too-fucking-perceptive look he gets when he knows I’m spiraling but wants me to admit it myself. He doesn’t say a word and just waits me out like the patient bastard he is.
And, of course, I break. Just like he wants.
“She always gets what she wants,” I snap, pacing again like it’ll help burn off the irritation crawling under my skin. “She whines and bitches and just complains until someone gives in. I wanted to be trainer one this year. I wanted to travel with you guys, to actually be on the road and build experience and now that she’s here? That’s in jeopardy. Keith was supposed to be our alternate and he didn’t even want to travel, and now she’s gonna fight me for the spot and, fuck, she’ll win. Because she always fucking wins.”
Hugh lets me ride out my little tantrum and then he blinks slowly, like I’m the dense one here.
“Coach picks our traveling trainer,” he says, voice steady. “And he’s not a fucking idiot. I mean, his taste in captains is questionable, but he’s not gonna putheron the road with us. He knows her history.”
I roll my eyes and scoff. “So does the athletic director, and he signed off on this shitshow.”
Hughie shrugs. “So what? Ignore the noise.”
God, he’s such a fucking goalie. Cool under pressure with no goddamn panic and a zero tolerance for drama. He’s all logic and ice in his veins and I wish I could be like that but…I’m just not.
“I’m serious,” he says, suddenly all business. His tone shifts to flat and clipped with no room for argument. “Ignore that shit. You’ll be the traveling trainer. She won’t be on the road with us, and everyone knows it. Focus on your work. Make Doc write you the kind of recommendation that gets you into whatever program you want after med school. Just… focus onyou.”
I nod, slowly, even though my chest is still tight and I’m still vibrating with frustration.
Because he’s right. Of course he is. He always fucking is.
And yeah, maybe it’s dumb to be this worked up about something so small, but it gets to me. The constant uphill climb, the bullshit favoritism, the fact that doing everything right still doesn’t guarantee anything in this program. I just want a fair shot. I want to prove I’m good at this without having to fight tooth and nail for every inch of ground.
For now, I just take another pull from my beer and try (fail) to let it go. The cold bitterness hits my tongue, but it doesn’t do shit for the tight knot in my chest.
“I saw Griffin today,” I say, changing the subject for no real reason other than the fact that my brain will not shut the fuck up about him. About the way sweat was sliding down his stupidly chiseled face like he was carved by some sadistic Greek god who hates me personally.
Hugh lifts one eyebrow slowly, like he already knows where this is going and is bracing himself. “And?”
I shrug, forcing myself to look casual even though my heart does a weird, embarrassing stutter. “He asked if I wanted to get coffee.”
Hugh scoffs, sharp and humorless, and to my surprise he pushes off the counter and grabs a beer from the fridge like he needs alcohol just to hear this story. “Course he did.”
I watch him drain half the bottle before I even process the tone. I raise a brow. “The fuck does that mean?”
He exhales through his nose and slams the beer down harder than necessary, but when he speaks his voice isn’t angry, just tired and irritated, like he’s dealt with this exact bullshit before. “It means he’s that kind of guy. Friendly. Too friendly. With fucking everyone.”
I nod, jaw tight, and stare at my beer so I don’t have to look at Hugh while the realization sinks in. For about two pathetic seconds I actually fucking thought, that maybe it meant something. That I had some microscopic chance with Griffin fucking Thatcher. The fact that my brain even went there is mortifying.
