Blowing out a breath, I try my best to shove away the memory and lock it in the deepest recesses of my mind, no part of me wanting to remember what just transpired.
Once I manage to gather my thoughts, I drop onto my bed, ready to get back to my reading now that I can actually hear myself think, only for the music to start up all over again.
Just as loud as before.
My eyes sink closed, and I fall to my back on the mattress, dragging a pillow over my face so I don’t scream.
Yeah. Definitely gonna kill him.
One
Camden
October, Senior Year — Seven Weeks Later
My head hangs toward the floor as the sounds of plastic and metal colliding with wood echo throughout the locker room. It was a particularly grueling morning practice, and most of my teammates shed their gear in silence, a somberness in the air after Coach spent the last hour handing a good chunk of them their asses on a silver platter.
After winning the Frozen Four two years ago, it was a harsh slap in the face to not even make the playoffs last season. And with the way things are looking this morning? We’re doomed to repeat it if the lines don’t start meshing.
It’s like the pre-screwing days of Quinton and Oakley all over again, and unfortunately, I don’t think any of these guys are willing to go to the lengths they did to start playing better.
The thought of my friends sends a twinge through my chest—a pang of longing and jealousy all mixed into one. It’s a feeling I don’t get to sit with long, though, because Coach calls out my name, causing my spine to go ramrod straight.
“Steele! See me in my office before you head out.”
I expect a round of jeering or taunts from my teammates—similar to when someone’s called to the principal’s office in grade school—but Coach’s tough love from earlier must’ve dampened their moods more than I realized, because I don’t hear a peep.
In fact, Brody Andrews, our captain this season, is the only one who acknowledges the demand when he glances at me to softly ask, “What’s that about?”
I meet his gaze while shoving my helmet into the top of my cubby, followed by my pads.
“No idea,” I utter truthfully, yet something about Coach’s tone doesn’t sit right with me.
My brows furrow as I continue undressing, my mind going over every move I made on the ice, not just today, but all week in practice. Hell, I deep dive into the past couple weeks, only to realize—unlike some of my teammates—I’ve been on my A-game since first setting foot on the ice this season, which makes me doubtful Coach’s summoning has anything to do with my performance.
If that’s not the issue, then what—
“Maybe the video?” Brody suddenly asks, cocking his head.
I mumble a soft curse. Because…yeah, the naked dancing video Heather put online earlier this week is definitely something that’d warrant Coach calling me into his office. I just can’t believe I didn’t immediately think of that myself.
Blowing out a breath, I mutter, “Only one way to find out.”
Making my shower a quick one, I re-dress in a haze while worry and dread cause my stomach to do acrobatics. They continue coiling within me as I haul my bag onto my shoulder and head to Coach’s office, only for a thousand pinpricks to break out across my skin when I knock on the open doorframe.
“Coach. You wanted to see me?”
“Close the door. Sit down,” he orders without looking upfrom the paperwork in front of him. “Give me a minute to get Louis on the phone.”
Shit.
“Spaulding? My agent?”
This time, Coach does look up. Though, when the arch in his brow reads something likewho the fuck else would it be,I wish I’d just kept my mouth shut.
“Door. Sit,” is all he says, leaving little room for debate.
I may as well be a freaking puppy with how quickly I obey his command this time, letting the door fall closed behind me before gingerly dropping into the chair across from his desk. Silently, I watch as he dials Louis and swaps the call to speakerphone.
