I have to keep from whining when I’m around him, a sound I fucking hate to make unless he’s edging me.
My parents are up in the stands with my sister tonight, and I have no idea how I’m going to manage to get through dinner with them after the game. Will they see too much, ask questions we can’t answer because too much is up in the air?
“Koen, get your head out of your ass,” Olsson says, shoving his shoulder into mine as I stand.
“It’s not,” I groan. “Friendly beatings are not on my bucket list. I’m pummeled enough on the ice.”
“You never told me what happened with you, Skylar, and Rhodes,” he says. “Did you fix things?”
“Does it look like I’m going to braid your hair while we gossip and I tell you about the boys I like?” I ask him, shouting when he pushes me.
“Good to know you do like them,” he mutters. “Skylar fucking stuck you with a syringe and then carted you out like a damn baby! I was going out of my mind about it until you magically showed up at the game like nothing happened.”
Thankfully, his voice is low as he hisses at me like a cat, but he’s no less dramatic. Being sedated against my will wasn’t even the wildest thing about that day. I’m not going to tell Olsson this though.
“Imagine being put in time out until you agree to use your words,” I say slowly. “That’s basically what happened but I was tied to a bed during it.”
“Kinky,” Olsson says. “As long as you’re not bear food.”
No, that would be Coach Dan Foster.
“No, I’m alive and well,” I chuckle, skating off the ice to get ready for our entrance.
We’re playing the Boston Ice Picks tonight, and I’m hoping for a shut out. They haven’t been having a great season, and I wouldn’t be surprised if their owner chose to start fresh next year. It’ll mean the team will have a few rebuilding years as they find their way, but sometimes that is what’s needed.
Coach keeps me on the bench for the first few minutes of the game, and I use the time to watch my opponents. While I’ve been watching past game tape to study their strengths and weaknesses, I still feel behind.
Declan Galen is the Ice Pick’s forward and an omega. While there aren’t a ton of them in the hockey league, it would be remiss to act as if I’m the only one. Coach Dan Foster definitely leaned hard on me to make me believe all omegas are one step away from being violated in their locker room.
While there are dangers of misconduct, it’s not as prevalent as he made it out to be.
Declan is cycling the puck along the boards to keep possession of it, but he’s about to be in for a rude awakening. Skylar and Olsson slam into him and kick it away to be picked up by one of our players, and Coach Weightman cheers under his breath as Richards begins rushing it in the other direction.
“He’s not bad,” I say to Coach as I watch.
“He’s a bit green, but he could be really amazing under the right conditions,” he agrees. “I don’t think Boston is going to help that young man’s career though.”
Thinking back to what I know about Declan, I remember he’s in his mid twenties and early on in his career.
“Is he shopping for a new team by chance?” I ask sagely.
“Maybe,” Coach drawls, smirking.
“You wanted to see what I saw,” I realize.
“Get ready,” he says. “You’re going in soon. You have good eyes, and this is your team. I wanted to make sure you recognized the talent I do.”
Nodding, I watch as Richards scores the goal he was going after. The goalie missed that damn biscuit by a mile. Damn, that was embarrassing. The siren blares as our fans scream, and then he’s jumping over the gate and tagging me in.
My skates hit the ice hard as I join my team, and I lose myself to the game. Disassociating from reality is how I’m able to also be completely immersed in the plays. It’s like unfocusing your eyes to find how relaxing it is.
I’m sure a therapist would have plenty to say about this, but my therapy exists between the puck and my stick. When I’m out here, nothing else matters, and all I feel is peace.
I’m not sure if Coach Foster saw any of this when he decided to say what he had to in order to keep me out of the professional hockey scene, but somehow, it fueled my determination even more.
I’m still standing, fighting, and playing, while he’s dead.
The game ends on a shut out, and I make it a point to shake Declan’s hand as the teams line up to offer congratulations.
