Screw it. I start wasting my breath. “Coach, I didn’t go anywhere near?—”
He cuts me off. “You too. Get out. I don’t want to see you until you get your head on straight.”
I grit my teeth. I thought I grew out of this. “Coach?—”
“That wasn’t a suggestion. You’re benched. Don’t show up to practice until this is resolved.”
I slam my mouth shut, breathing hard through my nose. How the fuck does Jack manage to make me mute? He somehow convinces everyone not to let me explain myself. My parents sure as shit didn’t let me either.
Without another word, I shove my arms back into my shirt and yank it over my head. Fuck this, and fuck this motherfucking team.
It was a good opportunity that meant a stronger career, but it isn’t worth all this bullshit. They can trade me. I don’t care anymore. Mina and I can move. I’d have to kidnap her to make it a reality, but I’m not opposed to it.
The vein in my head pulses as I shoulder my bag and head toward the door, not sparing Coach or Mitchell a glance. The former makes me pause when he speaks, and I angle my head in his direction, keeping my back to him.
“I’ve known you for a long time, and because of that, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt that you didn’t harm my son. Lord help you if it turns out I’m wrong.”
The most I can offer is a grunt. He’ll take his son’s side no matter what anyway. Every person in this building will.
There’s nothing cathartic or liberating about storming out of there to my car, shoving my shit into the trunk, then slamming the driver’s side door behind me.
“Fuck!” I hit the steering wheel.
Even my best friend believes I fucking did it when there’s no goddamn evidence pointing my way. I’m back there in high school again.
If I was going to show up at Jack’s place, he’d be lowered into the ground by the end of the week. Like hell would he have the opportunity to text a group chat myname.
I grind my teeth until my jaw aches. Once I get home, I’ll be faced with another person who won’t be welcoming me with open arms, and I’m not in the right frame of mind to go through both of our lists of offenses.
My phone rings in my pocket, and the rage takes on new heights when I see the name at the top of the screen. I answer before I can think it through.
“I hear you’re having a hard time.” Jack’s voice makes my hair stand on end.
“What the fuck have you done?” I snarl.
Flashes of my teenage years assault me. Having my parents disown me. Getting girls to break up with me over false accusations. The countless detentions caused by something he’d done.
“The question of the hour is: what haveyoudone?” He sounds too fucking calm for my liking. Just like all the times I confronted him about various shit he did when we were younger.
He never hesitated or sputtered or went hard on the defensive. He kept himself even and composed to make me feel like I was the one going insane.
Now, he’s not hiding what he did. This is no longer a game I’m familiar with.
“Cut the shit. You and I both know I didn’t do anything to you.”
“You don’t have an alibi, do you?”
I still. The implication of his question dawns on me.
“It’s something the police would want to know, and once the league hears about our history... I have a black eye and some bruising along my ribs. It had to have come from somewhere.” He sighs and continues when I don’t say anything. “It didn’t have to be this way.”
Jesus Christ.
Ice and fire run rampant through my veins. The crazy fucker beat himself up to sell his narrative and wrap every single person around his finger. I can’t even find it in me to be shocked. This—of course he’d do this.
The freak realized the threat of getting traded isn’t enough to get what he wants, so he’s resorted to putting me in fucking prison, or getting me kicked out of the goddamn NHL.
I squeeze my fists until they bleach white and grit out, “What do you want?”
