And then there is coach…
Coach Whitaker looks like he crawled straight out of hell for the sole purpose of murdering us. He blows the whistle so hard I think a vein popped in his forehead.
“Monroe!” Both of our heads snap up like a reflex.
He stalks towards us with so much anger and force, he looks like a man who has waited his whole life to chew our asses.
“You two think practice starts whenever the hell you feel like rolling out of bed?”
I keep my face blank, and I can see Mikey in my peripheral vision already fighting a smirk.
Fucking Idiot.
“No, Sir,” I say, making sure I sound firm.
Coach steps into my space. “Late.”
“It’s not..” Mikey starts.
Coach raises his hand to stop him. “Don’t. Don’t you dare give me an excuse. I don’t want to hear it from either of you.”
My jaw ticks, and Mikey looks up at the ceiling.
Coach points to the center ice. “Drop your gear. Lines. Both of you. Now.”
Groans echo across the rink from the other players.
Coach turns, blows his whistle again, and shouts.
“THE WHOLE TEAM SKATES UNTIL THEY’RE DONE. MOVE!”
Eighteen sets of blades bite into the ice at once, every guy glaring daggers at us as they take off.
“Great,” Luca mutters. “This is why we don’t let the Monroe twins make decisions.”
Mikey shrugs. “Could be worse. We could be your Captain and your Alter… OHHHH wait! We are!”
I lace up my skates and hit the ice hard. The cold burns straight through me as we both take off.
First set: fine.
Second set: Still fine.
By the tenth set, Mikey is wheezing, and I’m sweating like a whore in church. When we look over at the coach, he hasn’t even blinkedonce.
“Pick it up, girls!” Coach screams, pacing the boards. “My grandmother skates faster than this!”
I flip him off mid-stride.
Coach blows the whistle again. “Twenty more!”
Mikey shoves my shoulder. “Stop pissing him off.”
“Can’t help it,” I gasp. “Born this way.”
By set… honestly, I’ve lost count… my legs are on fire. But the burning isn’t the problem.
The problem is her… Julia… My Julia…
