Marcus pulls on his jacket and hefts his bag over his shoulder. “You really think the team mentality is, as you say, suffering?”
I huff. His nonchalant attitude is pissing me off. “You need to get serious about practice. Practice is where we earn our keep. We only have a few more weeks until playoffs start. Spending all night with some random chick isn’t going to help us.”
Fire lights his face. “Fuck you, Hollins. Harper isn’t some random chick. I’m not getting my dick wet every other night with some bunny.” He rubs his cheek with his middle finger. “Now let’s get to practice. Wouldn’t want the team to suffer because we show up late.”
“Waiting on you, buddy.”
This time, when he walks past me, he bangs into my shoulder.
Am I being an asshole to him?
Yes. There’s no question. But while he’s happy with Harper, I’m miserable. He doesn’t know that Angie and I broke up. Because he’s been too loved up with Harper.
And I kind of hate him for it.
Things have never been better for the two of them, and my life is crashing and burning.
Marcus is quiet the entire ride over to practice. When I pull into the parking lot, he’s jumping out of my car when it’s barely in park.
Not that I care. I don’t feel anything.
It shows in my mood. I’m chippy. Missing easy passes and plays. Each time the puck misses my stick, I snap at the other guy. More than once a whistle is blown in my direction.
Each time it makes my blood boil more.
Until Marcus sends the puck my way and I miss it by a mile.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Marcus cross-checks me without much effort behind it.
“Me?” I shove him right back. “You missed an easy pass.”
“You’re the one that missed, not me. You’ve been off all week. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Marcus shoves me, this time with a little more force.
“Fuck off. I’m fine.”
“You’re obviously not, if you’re going to be a little bitch about it.”
I don’t know why, but that sets me off. My fist collides with his chin with a loud crack.
“Oh shit! Fight!”
I don’t know who calls it as Marcus returns my swing with one of his own.
“Why are you being such a dick?” he yells, his fist landing a solid hit on my cheek. No doubt it’s drawn blood.
“Because you’re being one!”
“What are you, five?”
Someone pulls me off him before I can get another swing in. There’s an anger there that I’ve only seen directed at opposing teams.
“Hollins. Evans. My office. Now.”
The deadly quiet to Coach’s tone tells me that we’re both fucked. Marcus is seething.
“Marcus—”
