Ouch.
He opens the door and steps into the curving hallway, and I step in beside him as my phone pings. It’s a text from Coach Larue telling me to meet him in his office before I get changed. My heart plummets. I let Landon walk off alone and make my way to Coach’s office.
Coach Larue is sitting behind his desk with the door open and his feet on his desk. I like Alex Larue. He’s a great coach, actually. Very laid back and intuitive. Very fair.
“I’m just going to rip the band-aid off,” he says as I step into his office. “I’m starting Tyson.”
I open my mouth to tell him my family is coming tonight. That I’m feeling great. That I know I’ve got this one and that my record against the Saints is solid. But no words come out because my brain knows what my heart won’t accept—it doesn’t matter. He’s made his call. I nod and turn to leave.
“I know what it’s like to be the guy who has to work for it. All the time. No days off. No coasting,” Coach says before I can slip out the door.
“I’m a Garrison. I have it easier than most. I’m not complaining.” I’ve read a profile on Coach from his playing days, and I know he grew up in foster care and fought like hell to be in the league. He was never a star, he was traded a ton, but he’s never not made an impact on a team. Everyone praises him.
“Yeah, but Grady, I know that being the kid of the brother that didn’t make it is its own unique pressure.” Coach drops his feet from his desk. I just stand there, staring at him, expressionless because I’m kind of shocked that he said something no one else dares to. Not to my face. He gives me a sympathetic smile. “I was the kid with the chip on his shoulder from foster care, in case no one told you.”
“I read up on you.”
“Yeah, and we… the players that have something to prove. Something substantial to prove,” he says, “not the fun stuff like ‘I have to beat my dad’s record’ but the stuff like ‘I have to prove I’m just as good as everyone else’. Those kids like us, we take it all too personally. I know me starting Tyson feels like a slap to your ego, but shake that off. In my head, you’re the number one. It’s yours to lose, so don’t lose it because you got all stuck in your head.”
Shit. That’s blunt. I kind of appreciate it. He stands up and walks around his desk, and claps me on the shoulder. “You got this, Garrison.”
I nod, because I can’t think of a damn thing to say. I’m still processing his little speech.
As I walk to the locker room, I text my parents and tell them to turn the car around if they’ve already left for the game, and not waste their time. I text Shelby and tell her I’ll reimburse her if she goes out in downtown Portland instead, or takes Mom and Dad and Harlow out on the town instead of coming here. I hate sitting on the stupid stool at the end of the bench, knowing they’re up there, staring at me while I do nothing. And then afterward, they’ll try and say some stupid motivational shit, because they mean well, but I’ll want to crawl out of my own skin.
I walk as slowly as possible, but I end up in the locker room anyway. I know in my head the coach is right. I’m better than Tyson Michaels. The world knows it. I just have to focus on showing them when I get to start again. There should be solace in the fact that the coach considers me his starter, and I’ll find it later tonight, after the sting of sitting out wears off.
“Why the scowl?” Abbott asks.
“I… umm… I’m not starting,” I mutter.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Landon’s blond head tip up as he stops loosening the laces on his skates and stares at me. Abbott gives me a soft smile. “You can’t start them all, Grady. You know what Tay Tay would say.”
I can’t help but smirk. “Shake it off.”
“I’m thinking that should be our playoff song, when we make it,” Abbott muses, and now I actually bark out a small laugh.
He grins, and I move by him and across the room to where my clean gear is hanging. I shrug out of my suit jacket as my phone pings.
SHELBY: You get our support whether you’re on the ice or your ass.
Shit. I sigh and frown and shove my phone into my jacket pocket and start to tug my tie loose.
Warm-up is depressing. Tyson gets the majority of the time in net because he’s starting, and when, toward the end of warm-up, we switch spots, so I’m a little stretched out just in case, he smirks at me as he passes. “Get used to the bench, GG. I’m claiming my throne.”
“Whatever you say, Joffrey.” I roll my eyes, but my fists tighten in my glove because, lord, do I want to punch him.
I notice Landon doesn’t take a shot on me, isn’t even cycling the puck for most of the time I’m in net, taking shots. He just stands by the boards. First, he aggressively tapes his stick while staring at me. Then he glares while he drinks water as Abbott does a silly deke move and tries to go top shelf.
“Did that to Tyson and it went in,” Abbott says as he skates by and fists bump my shoulder.
I smile.
WHACK.
A puck hits me square in the chest. I teeter but quickly regain my balance and slap the puck away with my stick. Our eyes lock through my mask and his visor. He’s furious like I’ve never seen him before. And I’m suddenly completely pissed off myself. What the hell is his problem? Like I haven’t jumped through hoops and bent over backwards to stay out of his way, mind my business, and even help him if I thought I could.
“Hey, Garrison!” Conner calls out, and I snap back into goalie mode, stopping his five-hole shot and immediately lifting my glove to stop another shot from our rookie defenseman.
