He leans against the desk, arms crossed. His thick eyebrows are drawn together in a scowl.
"What's going on with you?"
"Nothing."
"Don't insult my intelligence. You've been playing like garbage for days. You're distracted, reckless, and even taking stupidpenalties." His voice drops lower. "Your fight with Tyler today is the third in four days."
"Tyler was trash talking."
"He asked you a question and you lost your mind, Hawthorne." He points at me. "This isn't you. Even when you're cocky, you're smart. Right now, you're neither."
I clench my jaw, staring at the motivational poster behind his head. It’s some quote about champions being made in practice. Ironic.
"Your agent called me this morning."
My eyes snap to his. "Gregory?"
"He said the girl, Dr. Chandler, was a distraction. That you'd be better off without her around, and look how much better you're playing now that she's gone." He studies me carefully. "Except you're not playing better. You're playing worse."
White-hot rage floods my veins. "He said what?"
"Relax. I told him to go to hell." Coach’s expression softens slightly, which is terrifying because the man has two emotions: angry and angrier. "But the fact remains that you've been a mess since the scandal broke."
I want to defend myself, but the words stick in my throat.
"I'm benching you for the next two games."
The words hit like a slap shot to the chest.
"Coach…"
“It’s non-negotiable. You're a liability right now. Get your head straight, or you're staying benched." He straightens, his tone turning dismissive. "We're fighting for a playoff spot. I can't afford to have my top scorer playing like he's never held a stick before."
Humiliation burns through me as I leave his office.
The locker room is empty when I get there, except for Jake, who is pulling on a clean shirt. He looks up when I approachmy locker, his brown eyes sharp. I rip off my gear and slam my helmet into the locker.
"You good?"
"Peachy."
"Declan."
I slam my locker shut. The metallic clang reverberates through the room. Jake stands, crossing his arms.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
I yank my jersey over my head, not meeting his eyes.
"Nothing."
"Bullshit." He’s using his Captain voice. The one that demands honesty whether you want to give it or not. "You've been a train wreck for days. Taking reckless hits, starting fights, missing shots a peewee player wouldn't miss. Coach told me he’ll bench you. So I'll ask again, what's wrong?"
Turning away, I shove my gear into my bag.
"Drop it, Jax."
"No."
