“I’m fine,” I lie again and turn down the hall to Coach’s office. I’m not fine, but since lying to everyone about everything is on the table now, what does it matter?
I ignore Javier’s questions with a careless wave over my shoulder. Coach’s door is open at the end of the hall. I didn’t check my phone this morning. There was no point. I knew there would be a dozen messages from Liam, none from Pierce, and only one “report to my office ASAP” from Coach.
The office isn’t exactly welcoming. Papers are shoved everywhere, and a stack of clipboards balances on a corner of the desk, threatening to tumble to the floor if you look at them too hard. He’s pecking at the keyboard with just his pointer fingers.
I drop into one of his chairs. I’m convinced that he designed this office to psychologically torture his players. The chair is too damn small. He’s got a roster of a dozen guys over six feet and two-hundred fifty pounds of muscle, but he has chairs made for toddlers. Coach’s scent is so thick it basically pools at my feet. I resist the urge to rub my nose. That’s bad manners.
This is the most uncomfortable silence I’ve ever experienced. I have nothing to do but pick at the raw and broken skin on my knuckles. I haven’t gone gloves off in ages. We have too much equipment that gets in the way now. Coach’s office is lined withold press photos and framed newspaper articles that I’ve never bothered to inspect before. This must be what it’s like to be called into the principal’s office.
The chair squeaks as he finishes up his task and leans back. Great. It’s even worse now, with his pretty face giving me the stink eye. I can feel the heat creeping into my cheeks.
“Why are you in a suit? Did you sleep in your clothes?”
I flick a bit of fuzz off my knee. All I had were dirty practice clothes, workout gear, and my away bag when I left the house.
“I wanted to look pretty for you. You’re always on us about looking professional for the press.”
He cocks his head, and I know I’m in real trouble. I just don’t know what to say to make this right.
“You’re one of the best enforcers in the league. Do you know why?”
“The cookies and milk.”
Coach snorts. I always have cookies and milk, chocolate milk specifically, before games. The team dietitian orders it special for me. Chocolate chip. Macadamia if I’ve been a really good boy.
“Because you’re not a hothead,” he continues, his smile gone again. “You stop players by any means necessary, and you move the puck. But you’re not emotional about it.”
“Grady would argue that’s what makes me suck at the job.”
“You’re one of the best defensemen because you don’t pull shit like you did last night.”
I grind my teeth. I really don’t want to talk about last night.
“You want to tell me what that was about?” He cocks a brow at me.
“I was doing my job. Bugrov was being nasty.”
“And attempting to stab him with your stick?”
I don’t look away from Coach, but only because it would be an admission of guilt. The exact details of the fight are hazy. But I knew I wanted to kill Bugrov. Not to win the game. But to put himin the ground. That was the only clear thing. After a long moment, I look away and pick at my knuckles.
Somewhere in the back of my head, I’ve always suspected that there’s something wrong with me as an alpha. I don’t get jealous. I don’t go off half-cocked with anger. Maybe because half my job is fighting for a living, I just burn off that kind of energy.
Last night? It was like ten years of alpha rage came pouring out of me. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t control it. And I didn’t want to.
“Last night was not an isolated incident.”
I lift my head. My brows crease so hard it makes the headache worse.
“The Florida game? You spent half of it in the box.”
“No one touches my goalie.” I growl. I actually growl. “Besides, Timber had him pinned and I…”
“Two games ago, you went after a ref.”
I open my mouth and shut it. I forgot about that. No, not “forgot,” not really. The details just aren’t sharp, and they’re hard to hold on to. Shit. Is this the start of CTE?
“And there’s this.” He slides the email from Marilyn across the desk. I’m usually up for PR stunts, but not a date. I roll my eyes and throw up my hands. “You’re going on this date.”
