Three
Brayden
“Way to fuckup out there today, rookie. You’re going to make a great duster.” Gavin snickered as we walked past each other in the locker room.
“Thanks.” I rolled my eyes. There wasn’t much to say, which fucking sucked. I hated biting my tongue.
He smelled like absolute dick as he dripped with sweat, walking over to the showers. His cocky ass smirk made me want to deck him right there, but punching the coach’s son was probably not going to be a good move when I had just joined the team. Hazing was expected; all the guys gave me a hard time and I had tough skin, but there was just something about Gavin that I couldn’t fucking stand. It probably went back to the days when our dads were teammates. Our rivalry very well could have been our own, but it likely bled from our fathers’ propaganda.
My dad was Reggie Cox, one of the best left wings the New York Otters had ever seen. He was named captain his second season and had that C on his chest until he was forced to retire due to a knee injury he sustained from being hooked in the middle of a playoff game. The Otters ended up losing the game and hadn’t gone to the Stanley Cup since. That’s when everything went to shit for my family. It was the beginning of my father’s end, when he turned to the bottle and opiates, becoming the meanest son of a bitch on the fucking planet.
“Reg. Stop. You’re hurting him.” My mom pleaded as my father’s grip tightened around my upper arm. I just glared at him for a few seconds; this was nothing new. I knew standing up to him would only make matters worse, but it was getting to the point where I just didn’t care any more.
“Dad, I promise I can do better.” I tried to pull away, but that only made his nails turn in, digging slowly into my tender flesh, even through the jersey. Dad power was a real bitch and he abused it knowingly.
“You’re going to learn how to do this slap shot if we have to be here all night.”
The rest of the team watched from the bench, most of their jaws dropping to their chests as their coach reamed out their teammate again.
My mom leaned over the wall, trying to reach out to her husband—yet another failed attempt to break through his rage.
“Dad, please. I promise I will get it right this time.”
“You fucking better, or you’re going to be a damn good duster and Connor will be my new starting left forward. How would you like that?”
“I want to play.” His grip finally loosened and I was able to skate back over to the rest of my teammates.
“Gentlemen, settle down.” Coach Hayes cleared his throat for the hundredth time, adjusting his tie, fidgeting, and sweating.
“What’s going on with Coach? He looks like he’s about to start shitting bricks.” Donaldson leaned over, muttering low enough that only I could hear him.
I shook my head, sitting in the rumbling locker room, hair still dripping from my post-practice shower. “I don’t know, man.”
Gavin Hayes stood up and went over to his father. “Shut the fuck up, guys. This is serious.”
“Coach’s son to the fucking rescue.”
Donaldson was really starting to get on my nerves. Just because I was a rookie didn’t mean I was someone he could bitch and moan to about the team. To me, we were all brothers—end of fucking story. Him acting like a teenage mean girl was going to eventually get him knocked the fuck out.
Ignore him.I had to keep reminding myself of the advice Myla force-fed me every night over dinner when I would come home and unleash all my pent up rage from the day.
“Men, we have to name a new captain. You all know Nikolaev isn’t returning this season. Since my son is on the team, I have decided it’s unfair for me to appoint our next one. Instead, we’re going to put it to a vote. Everyone is eligible. Think of leadership. Who do you want to be your voice on the ice? Who do you trust enough to let them wear that C on their chest? Write his name down and put it in the locked box I have on my desk. This is the only fair way to do it.”
We all took slips of paper and a bunch of the guys started chatting in the corner. It wasn’t unheard of for a team to put selecting a new captain to a vote. It was respectable that Coach wanted to remain unbiased, particularly because it was clear that his son Gavin was the right man for the job. Personally, I thought he was a fucktard, but most of the guys respected the shit out of him and he was damn good at pep talks on the ice.
Staring at the blank piece of paper, I tried to come up with anyone else’s name to write down. Nothing. Gavin was the going to be our next captain. He was going to make my life hell, but maybe I would become a better player because of it.
Gavin
“Cheers, to Gavin being named captain of the Otters. Who would have thought a fuck-up like you would ever become a leader of the team?”
I rolled my eyes, clanking my goblet against my brother’s, my mother’s, and finally my father’s crystal glasses. “Thanks, Pop.”
I cut into my rare steak, watching the juices pool on my mother’s fine china—the crap she only brought out for special occasions. It meant a lot that she thought of this as a celebration, but who the fuck were we kidding? The team had only picked me because there was no better option, and the fact that Gideon Hayes was my father; they probably all thought that was what they were supposed to do.
Griffin gave me a quick eye roll followed by his reassuring wink, trying his best to laugh off my father’s rude display of persistent disappointment in me. “Dad, don’t be so hard on Gavin. He’s the right man for the job—his teammates think so at least. It’s good they trust him.”
“Bunch of idiots if you ask me, but the majority had its say.” Dad slurped his cabernet like a heathen, wiping the driblets from his chin brassily with the back of his hand. You can take the hick out of the backwoods and move him up to New York, dress him up in his Sunday best, but you can never take the backwoods out of the hick when booze and disappointment start to soak his blood.
