Blood roaring in my ears, I stalk down the hall toward the locker room. I want to grab my stuff and head home before the rest of the team comes in to get their gear for the away game. The last thing I want to do right now is face my teammates. I can’t take any more punches or jabs. Or worse — pity.
I can’t believe Coach would sideline me like this. I’ve followed all their stupid rules. I even went to fucking therapy. And for what? To sit at home like a damn rookie.
Fists balled, I stalk into the locker room — and run straight into Weston.
“Hey, man. Where’s the fire?” He brushes off his arm where we collided, arching his dark brow.
“No fire. I’m pissed.” I rush past him, slamming open my locker door. Metal vibrates against metal as it bounces back and I catch it with my hand.
Weston follows me, leaning against the lockers, clearly concerned.
“What happened?”
I shrug, the tension I tried to dislodge in Coach’s office still taking up space between my shoulder blades.
“Coach called me in to inform me I won’t be traveling with the team for the away game.” My jaw ticks as I stuff dirty workout clothes into my duffel.
Weston blows out a breath. “That sucks, man. I’m sorry.”
He reaches out and pats my shoulder, but I shrug him off, irritated.
I shouldn’t be mad at him. He didn’t have anything to do with my suspension besides the fact that I wasdefending his girlfriend. He didn’t ask me to punch the asshole bar owner. That was all me.
But I’m still kind of sore about it.
I shove the last of my shit into my bag and slam the metal door shut, the clang echoing loudly off the cinder block walls.
Weston grabs my elbow. “I am sorry about all of this, Bennett.” He locks his eyes with mine. “And I appreciate what you did for Harbor. So does she.”
The tightness in my chest eases a bit at his sincerity.
“It was the right thing to do.” I swallow hard and stare at my brother. “Don’t tell the league, but I’d do it again.”
Weston grimaces. “Please don’t.”
I sling my duffel over my shoulder. “Do me a favor. Go to Denver and win the damn game. But don’t let Morrison try to take my place. I’m coming back after this and I’ll be ready to fight.”
“Deal.” Weston pounds my fist and I start walking away.
“Bennett—”
I pause, glancing over my shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Behave. We’ll be back soon. The ice will be waiting for you.”
Twenty-four hours later, I’m still pissed. Anger pulses through me with every pump of my heart, fueling the rage.
I do as I’m told and stick to the routine: ice time, gym, more weights at home. Working out’s all I’ve got right now. I push myself harder and faster until I’m physically exhausted.
Yet, I’m still amped as I flick on the television and tune into the game. Watching my team play like a motherfucking spectator.
It sucks.
I crack open a beer and kick my feet up on the coffee table. Watch as Weston slaps the puck straight into the net, an easy goal for the Crushers. The score’s 1-0 at the end of the first period. I’m keyed up and bored at the same time, an odd combo.
Because there’s no one here to stop me, I amble to the fridge and grab another beer and a bag of chips. Then I crash back onto the sofa, feeling sorry for myself.
I should be out there. Scoring goals and throwing shoulders.
