“More likewhothe fuck he was doing,” Wahl murmurs loudly.
“Personal shite has to comeafterteam shite,” Snowman insists and rises to his feet. “Ferda.”
“Ferda,” agrees our team leader, tossing his towel in the direction of the laundry bucket.
The slogan regarding we’re to always do what’s best for the team, for each other versus ourselves, has me ignoring the vibrations in my hand and briefly shutting my eyes again, this time in guilt.
Have I been doing that?
Or have I been selfishly puttingmefirst?
My wants?
My needs?
My hopes?
My someday post-retirement dreams?
My fuckin’ soul?
Maybe I haven’t been letting my frustrations about being kept a fucking secret bleed out onto the ice, but I’m not sure continuing to date Coach’s sister behind his back was putting the team…the boysfirst.
“Coachknowsthat shit,” Goonie Tune 1 speaks up.
“Coachlivesthat shit,” his brother reiterates.
“He might simply need a reminder, aye?” Frosky tosses out prompting me to reopen my eyes.
“Groffee,” Cap calls out, summoning my stare in his direction once more, “youwillbe on that ice for those last twenty hard miles.”
And that’s what makes Igor Alexeyev the man for that position.
Worthy of that title.
Healwaysfights for us.
He’s the type of player I hope my next team has on it when the inevitable trade call hits due to shit going down like this.
“Frosky,” Cap states on a head tilt, indicating to follow him. “Peck.”
There’s no hesitation from either of them to retreat out of the room on his heels.
Feeling my phone vibrating again, I drop my focus to it, Bronny’s picture immediately warranting an answer, “Yeah?”
“Thayne!” he shouts, voice shaky, damn near out of breath. “You didn’t answer!”
“I-”
“We got an emergency!”
“Wh-”
“And, and, and Gilly ain’t answerin’!”
“She-”
“And, and, and I can’t drive!”
