I can’t help it. I laugh. “Well, maybe if you didn’t look so fuckable, Hugh.”
He glares at me. “Shut up and grab a trash bag.”
Fair.
“Zilkov!Connelly! Thatcher! My office. Right. Fucking. Now.”
The locker room erupts like a middle school cafeteria, withooohsandahhhsbouncing off the walls.
My teammates are childish fucks who thrive on other people’s misery. I would usually join in on the childish antics but unfortunately, it’s me that is in trouble this time. I really, really wish I hadn’t agreed to take that A on the chest this year.
Unfortunately, I don’t have that option but to trudge behind my teammates towards a very unhappy lecture. Because Zilkov’s little Magic Mike moment at the party went viral, and lucky me, I was caught on camera standing there in the background like a fucking idiot.
I wasn’t participating or stopping it. Nope, I was standing in the background with my jaw on the floor while I watched the absolute chaos ensue. Which might honestly be worse than participating if you ask coach. So yeah, I’m about to get roasted for association, which is peak bullshit if you ask me.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, scrubbing a hand through my hair.
Beside me, Samuel Connelly looks like he’d rather be getting a root canal.
And honestly? Same.
Connelly, Mr. Grumpy Shit himself, doesn’t even go to parties, so I can’t imagine how pissed he is about being dragged into this.
But he’s the other assistant captain, same as me, which means he gets to join me in the firing squad lineup. He also happens to be our roommate, though you’d never know it. Theguy disappears into his room like it’s a bomb shelter anytime there’s a party. Now he’s glaring at me like I’m the reason we’re here and not, you know, Zilkov.
For the record, Connelly wouldn’t be caught dead at a party full of hockey players. He’s so uptight I’m convinced he irons his fucking socks. He doesn’t drink or hook up, and he definitely doesn’t attend parties. Doesn’t do anything, really, besides hockey and school. I’m honestly not sure he even likes either of those things, he just does them with this militant, soul-crushing consistency.
Sometimes I wonder if Connelly came out of the womb as a fully formed 40-year-old suburban dad.
So yeah, when he moved in with us last year, I thought maybe,maybe, I’d been wrong about him. Thought maybe the guy was secretly cool and just needed a change of scenery.
But no. He doesn’t even show up for house nights when we’re just chilling and watching movies. It’s like living with a ghost who judges you for breathing too loud.
Meanwhile, Zilkov, the reason we’re in this mess, strolls out of the locker room ahead of us like he’s about to receive a fucking award. There’s absolutely no urgency or guilt. Just vibes. He even throws a wink over his shoulder like he thinks this is a joke.
I could strangle him. And I might.
“Thatch, you look stressed,” Zilkov says, smirking as he pushes open the door to Coach’s office. “Relax, man. It’s just a strip tease. Not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” I hiss, following him into the office while Connelly mutters something about ‘morons’ under his breath. “You went full Magic Mike in front of half the fucking campus, and now we’re about to get verbally obliterated because you couldn’t keep your clothes on.”
“Technically, I kept my boxers on,” Terry says, grinning like that makes it better.
Before I can respond, Coach slams the door behind us. The sound echoes like a death knell. We all snap to attention like trained dogs.
Coach crosses his arms and levels us with the kind of stare that could freeze a lake. At first, he doesn’t speak which is unsurprising. The man has mastered making you shit your pants without saying a single word.
“Do you know what I woke up to this morning?” he asks, voice low and deadly. “Huh? Do any of you dipshits want to guess?”
Zilkov opens his mouth, but I elbow him hard before he can say anything that’ll get us murdered.
Connelly, ever the overachiever, steps forward with his arms locked behind his back like he’s reporting to a superior officer. “Sir, I was not at the party. I believe my presence here is unnecessary-”
“Oh, you’re staying,” Coach cuts him off with a snarl. “Because I need both my assistant captains to explain how they plan to keep this team under control when this,” he jabs his finger at his phone screen, which is playing a loop of Terry grinding on a table, “is the kind of shit happening under their roof. When their fucking captain is the one doing the dumb shit!”
I’m screwed.
We’re all so fucking screwed.
