Our teammates are still zigzagging across the tempered ice, oblivious to the unauthorized break a few of us have taken as we loiter in a half circle near the side boards. Hockey seems so trivial now.
Crew gives me a supportive pat on the back, understanding softening the crystal-clear waters of his eyes. “Is there anything we can do to help?”
I shake my head, the sweat-slicked strands of my hair falling against my temples. “No, but thanks for offering. This is my mess. I have to make things right on my own.”
Harlan rests his chin on the butt of his stick. “Is she thinking about suing?”
No matter how diluted the conversation is, the reality of itstill strikes my spine, wielding power not unlike lightning lashing drought-stricken tillage. It hurts to breathe. Panic is about as heavy-footed as my sluggish heartbeat.
“No, I spoke to her. She doesn’t want to sue.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“Yeah, for now.”
Who knows if she’ll change her mind in the future. Someone with a civil lawsuit definitelywon’tget into the NHL. And judging by the short conversation we shared, I’m not getting on her good side anytime soon.
“Hey, man. Whatever happens, we’re here for you, okay? Just remember, it was an accident,” Axel consoles.
“Yeah, we don’t think any less of you. Which is surprising since our opinion of you was already so low,” Sutton teases, elbowing me lightly in the side.
For the first time in a long time, a genuine, full-belly laugh breaches my lips. I never realized how much I took frivolity for granted. Everyone knows I’m a bit of an acquired taste. I appreciate that the guys can still knock me down a peg even in the most dire of situations.
But, as fleeting as all my joy has been these past few days, Coach Lawson interrupts our amateur therapy session, the disappointment in his voice ricocheting off the galvanized walls of the rink. “Mulligan! Here.Now.”
I cringe. Coach is…strict. He means well, but he holds his players to exceptionally high standards, and I have an affinity for slipping beneath the threshold of his thinly stretched patience. My teammates pass sympathy around like it’s a goddamn joint at band camp.
Trying to keep my breakfast from redecorating the ground, I slowly shuffle over to him, preparing myself for the very public admonishment I’m about to receive. His large arms are crossed over his burly chest, his nostrils are flared, and his features are screwed into gut-twisting disapproval. My gutdoesn’t need any more twisting, alright? It’s already the equivalent of an origami crane.
My vocal cords twinge, and it feels like my legs are about to give out underneath me. “Yes, Coach?”
“Mr. Hardwin informed me of your current Lit grade.”
Fucking narc.
Mr. Hardwin, if I get out of here alive, I’m leaving you the nastiest review on Rate My Professor.
My day only gets worse when Coach fast-tracks into the real meat of the conversation. “AndI had the pleasure of reading quite an astounding headline this morning.”
Great. If I thought I could hide the accident from Coach, I’ve upgraded to a new level of stupidity. Nerves flicker in the tinderbox of my belly, and the paradoxical urge to both run to him and run from him roots me to the ground.
“Coach, I can expla?—”
He cuts me off. “Look, I’m not your dad, kid. I’m not gonna kick you off the team for an accident. But you have to start turning your life around, otherwise I won’t be able to protect you every time you screw up.”
He’s right. I can’t just rely on him to excuse my actions. I’m never going to learn from my mistakes if I keep making them. Most coaches wouldn’t be so understanding. It’s probably a slap to the face that he continues to misplace his faith in me, and I continue to perpetuate my turbulent reputation.
“I understand.”
“Good. Then how about you tell me what happened on that recent exam of yours?”
“I, um, wasn’t as prepared for the material as I thought I was,” I admit, gulping down the bile that splashes against the back of my throat.
Coach’s stare pierces the very fabric of my soul—cold, cunning, calculating. I fear that simply breathing will trip hisinternal alarm system. Just like with my father, I feel this inherent urge to make Coach proud.
A growl emits from him, low enough to vibrate my bones. “Did you not take anything I said into consideration? Do you not understand how serious this is? I can’t let you play if your grades aren’t passing. What part of that don’t you get?”
“I’m sorry, Coach,” I apologize. “It was an honest mistake. I promise I won’t let it happen again.”
