“Coach,” I start, clearing my throat to sound a little less like a fucking pussy. The words barely leave my mouth before Terry, the little shit, lets out a low chuckle. Real helpful, bud. Real fucking helpful. “The party got out of hand. It won’t happen again-”
“Out of hand?” Coach’s voice is deadly calm, the kind of calm that makes your stomach drop because you know he’s about to verbally rip you apart. His eyes are boring into mine, and I canfeel myself shrinking under the weight of his glare. I know better than to say anything else, so I shut the fuck up as his gaze slowly slides over to Terry.
“Zilkov,” Coach begins, voice ice-cold. “You’ve always been an upstanding student and an excellent member of this team. This shit?” He jabs a finger at his phone. “This is so beyond disappointing that the dean even suggested releasing you from the team.”
That shuts us all up. Like, completely. I mean, I knew it was bad, I knew it was gonna be a long, awkward meeting and some well-earned ass-chewing.
But career-ending bad? Holy shit.
I glance at Terry out of the corner of my eye, expecting him to crack a joke or roll his eyes like he usually does when someone lectures him. Instead, he just sits there, pale and silent, like someone just punched him in the gut.
“Coach, you can’t be serious,” Connelly jumps in, and for the first time in his miserable, uptight life, I decide he isn’t a complete waste of space. He actually sounds… human. He genuinely sounds concerned and maybe even a little desperate.
“Deadly,” Coach replies flatly.
Terry’s shoulders slump, and for the first time in a long time, I see actual dejection on his face. It’s definitely not his usual cocky grin and not that ‘nothing-can-touch-me’ attitude. Just pure, gut-wrenching regret. He doesn’t say a word, just stares at Coach like he’s waiting to hear his death sentence.
“Luckily,” Coach continues, his voice softer now but no less serious, “I talked him out of it. This time.”
Relief floods the room, but it’s laced with tension. Because we all know what that means, this is Terry’s one and only get-out-of-jail-free card. If anything remotely similar happens again, he’s done. It will be game over. And it won’t just be him, it’ll drag the whole fucking team down with him.
Coach leans forward, his elbows resting on his desk as he levels us with that hard, unforgiving stare again. “Now, I don’t care how much fun you think you’re having, or how invincible you think you are. If anything even close to this happens again, Zilkov, you’re gone. And as for you two,” he points between Connelly and me, “you’re supposed to be the leaders of this team. Start fucking acting like it. Am I clear?”
“Crystal,” Connelly says immediately, his voice clipped and serious.
“Yeah, Coach. I understand,” I echo, resisting the urge to sink into my chair like a scolded kid.
Terry just nods, his face still pale as he whispers, “Yes, sir.”
Coach nods once, sharp and final, before leaning back in his chair. “Good. Now get out of my office and start fixing this shit. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
We shuffle out of the office in silence, the door clicking shut behind us.
Finally, Connolly breaks the silence. “You’re a fucking idiot, Zilkov.”
Terry doesn’t even argue. That’s when I know just how bad it hit him.
He just mutters, “Yeah, I know.”
3
Jacob
Today’sofficially my first day working with the hockey team, and I can admit it, I’m nervous as fuck.
I’ve been inside the training center more times than I can count over the years, but this time it’s different. Last year I was stuck with basketball, with Lauren, which was... a whole experience.
To be fair, the guys were great. They worked their asses off, and most of the injuries were lower body stuff, just ankles, knees, the occasional groin situation that no one wants to deal with.
But Lauren? Lauren was a walking soap opera. If there wasn’t drama, she created some. It made for an interesting year, I’ll give her that.
But this year? This year’s gonna be something else entirely.
I’ve been volunteering with the AHL team in town for the past few years, mostly just restocking tape and pretending not to eavesdrop while the real trainers did the heavy lifting.
Still, I had a fucking blast every time. I loved the atmosphere, the intensity, the smell of liniment and ego. And now? Now I actually get to do this. Not just watch it or shadow the peoplewho are doing my dream job. I get to be in the thick of it, working the sport I’ve loved since I was old enough to lace up skates, while doing the job that makes me feel like I’ve got a purpose.
Sports medicine is brutal. It’s not just slapping an ice pack on some guy’s wrist and calling it a day. It’s detail work. It’s knowing how to spot something before it turns into a real problem. It’s recognizing when an athlete is about to run their body into the ground and being the one to stop them before they do it.
