“Just a bunch of senators making noise. The usual spewing hatred for shifters in sports. You’d think you guys were monsters or something going out killing and eating people instead of winning games and tournaments.”
“A little extreme there, Tyler. We don’t kill our food.” At least not any longer. I found the article he was talking about, scanning the basics and little else. “They’re just making noise.”
“Let’s hope so. For our sake. We don’t want you run off from Philly.” He ducked as if I was going to throw something while he laughed.
While to date there were maybe a hundred shifters out in the open in different sports leagues, during the first few months after exposure, there’d been as many witch hunts as there’d been werewolf fanatics holding vigils.
Thankfully, my main following was comprised of puck bunnies, including two Instagram accounts dedicated to me and run by a couple of hot chicks. Between the ‘Werewolves Do It in theWild’ poster, and the constant comments about the size of my manhood, I’d become a legend in my own mind. Something my coach liked to remind me of every chance he had.
I mostly found the entire situation amusing except that the hatred had affected my move into the NHL. Not that my coach, the assistant coach, my agent, and especially not my brother would admit it. They all blamed my irresponsible and reckless behavior.
“Fuck ‘em.” I tossed the iPad down and poured out the remainder of the bitter coffee. “Going to take a shower.” For whatever reason, I continued to hesitate, maybe because he was still laughing. Maybe because every time I thought about Saint’s success, I became melancholy about my own.
“Hey, after practice, do you wanna shoot a couple games of pool? Might help that canine aggression you have going on.”
“Now we’re talking. Just be prepared to lose that stash of cash you’ve been carrying around lately. Canine aggression.”
“In your dreams, Beast.”
“Fuck you.”
“Back at you.”
Before I even managed to make it out of the kitchen, my phone rang. Without missing a beat, I yanked it from my pocket, answering without looking. “Yo. The Beast here.” Why the hell not take the name out for a spin?
“I take it that you’ve seen the latest evaluation regarding your antics.”
As always, as soon as I heard the coach’s voice, I straightened up. “I… Well, yes, sir. But no big deal. We were all just having a little fun. You know. Blowing off steam.”
“As usual, Masters, you’re not taking the situation seriously,” Coach Rufini barked.
“I was just joking.”
“That’s the problem. You’re always joking. That kind of promotion we don’t need. My fucking God. Threatening to shift. In front of other humans. What is wrong with you?”
I was getting sick and tired of being scrutinized for what I did and didn’t do. “I’m allowed to have some fun. I didn’t do anything wrong. And I wasn’t going to shift.” Hell, I hadn’t shifted in a long time. Given my profession, I was lucky enough to be able to pacify all my aggressive tendencies by playing hockey.
“What I, the networks, your fans, and the millions of protestors believe are all entirely different things.”
“People don’t know how to spice up their lives.”
His exhale was as deep as mine.
“They do. But not when they’re worried about being eaten alive. Now, get your ass down here as soon as possible so we can sort it out. We’ve got an important meeting.”
“With?”
“Let’s just say someone interested in advancing your career and getting you out of my fucking hair.”
A strange feeling tore through me. “Okay, Coach. I’ll be there after I grab a shower.”
He didn’t wait for me to get the last word out before he’d already hung up. This wasn’t good.
“What the hell was that?” my roommate asked.
“Instead of wishful thinking about me staying in Philly, you better see if you can wrangle up a curse or two.”
“Why?” He laughed until he noticed what had to be a horribly disgruntled look on my face.
