“Regardless, get a good lawyer and nail down an ironclad child support agreement. It’s one thing to take care of your kid, another to allow the mother to take you to the cleaners because you lost control of one of your swimmers.”
Jagger leaned forward even more, whispering, “Sounds like Coach has experience in accidentally knocking women up.”
“I was young once, too, you know.” Our bench boss shoved one hand into his pocket. “And since you’re so curious, yes, I do have three adult children, born to three different mothers, none of whom I was in a relationship with when they were conceived.”
Three? Jesus. You’d think he would have learned to wrap it up after the first whoopsie.
Says the man who’s only gone bare with one woman, and she’s not the mother of his child.
Okay, maybe I shouldn’t be so judgmental about Coach’s family situation, seeing as mine wasn’t too much different.
Davenport issued a stern warning. “Make sure to be smart, Nixon. Protect your assets.”
“Yes, sir.”
Satisfied that I’d gotten the message, he continued his trek toward the back of the plane, likely in search of the restroom since the coaching staff usually sat up front.
Jagger blew out a breath. “Man, he’s intense.”
“And apparently, a bit of a manwhore,” Crew chimed in.
We all burst out laughing.
Gripping my side, I wheezed out, “How much you wanna bet he barks orders in bed like he does on the ice?”
Cole got in on the fun, imitating Coach’s gruff voice. “Less teeth! You’re sucking a dick, not competing in a hot dog eating contest.”
Our howls of amusement only grew louder.
“Oh my God, I can totally picture it,” Jagger managed to say, gasping for breath.
“Shh.” Crew widened his eyes. “He’s coming back this way.”
The four of us zipped our lips but were unable to keep a few errant snickers from escaping when Coach passed by.
This was nice. Joking around with my teammates.
I’d thought I was hot shit in Connecticut, coming straight from the draft to the pros, and winning a championship early in my career didn’t do anything to temper my ego. I wasn’t well-liked within the locker room, which I could admit was my fault. Focused only on myself, I saw everyone else as a threat—the guy who stole my spot on the starting line, the ones who got special teams play when I didn’t, those who wore a letter on their jerseys. Because of that, I found myself on the fringe, watching from the outside while everyone else was part of a close-knit brotherhood, and that only made me resent them more.
Getting my ass traded might have seemed like a punishment, but maybe it was the fresh start I so desperately needed.
Another game, another battle.
We were putting up goals, but so was our opponent, the Phoenix Pythons, and we’d found ourselves in the middle of an old-fashioned shootout. Exiting the ice after the horn sounded at the end of the second period, we were tied at six.
My teammates and I filed into the locker room, everyone shucking different pieces of gear for the twenty-minute intermission designated to give players time to rest and refuel.
I grabbed an energy bar and a sports drink before heading to my assigned stall. Dropping onto my ass, I untied and loosened my skate laces, letting out a sigh of relief.
“This bullshit ends now!”
Coach’s booming voice could be heard from the hallway, and everyone’s spines straightened as he came into view, pissed off and red-faced.
“Six goals,” he huffed. “Six fucking goals. That’s more than this team has scored during any game this season. But it’s not enough because YOU KEEP LETTING THEM TAKE CLEAR SHOTS!”
Those screamed words echoed in the silence that followed, a few guys flinching at the loud volume.
“Here’s how the third period’s gonna go, boys. You’re going to put your bodies in front of every shot attempt, and I swear to God, if I see one of you move out of the way, I’m going to tie you to a motherfucking chair next practice and let the whole goddamn team line up to take slapshots. Do I make myself clear?”
