Page 34 of Hard to Handle

I round on the locker room to find every teammate staring at me, defeat in their postures, and fury in their expressions. They’re sweaty and spent in partial stages of undress but all of them are laser-focused on me. In anger. This isn’t right. This isn’t how it was when I decided to come here two years ago. They had welcomed me and my aggression, knew I was here to lift the game—the team—to Cup level. And now the bastards think I could throw a game . . . fucking pisses me off.

“What’s the problem?” I shout, hands out, fight welcome. “Is that not what you were asking for when you sent Maysen to talk to me today? Be more of a team player? Pass to make sure every goddamn one of you got to put their stick on the puck? You wanted a fucking Kumbaya session, boys, and you got it.” I stand on the bench. “What? You don’t have a right to stand there and look like someone pissed in your Wheaties when you got exactly what you asked for.”

They all gawk at me, the rookies on the team shrinking into themselves, the hardened fuckers like me standing their ground.

“What do you all have to say now?” My voice reaches a fever pitch, and I hate the fucking tinge of panic in it. I hate that even though I did exactly what I set out to do, I’m still sick to my stomach over it. Staring at the people I’ve devoted blood, sweat, and pulled muscles to, I loathe the look of disappointment in their eyes and that it’s directed at me.

“Mad Dog—”

“Don’t Mad Dog me. Don’t act like you guys didn’t send Maysen to lead the charge in telling me I’m too selfish, too aggressive, too me, because guess what? When I’m not, none of you stepped up to the fucking line and played the damn part.” I throw my gloves into my locker with a thud. “Maybe you all oughta start asking yourself the question, why the fuck not?”

My hands tremble with anger, and I need to get the hell out of here before I do something I’m going to regret. Before I fuck up more than I already have.

I’m losing control and there’s no worse feeling in the world.

None.

“Maddox. In my office.” The voice of Coach Jünger booms through the locker room and while I look at him, everyone remains staring at me. “Now.”

“This is total bullshit.” I jump off the bench, kick the foot of my locker, and stride toward the door Jünger is holding open for me.

When it slams behind me, I stand there as he takes his time walking to the other side of the desk before resting his hips on the counter at his back. He looks at me with the same disappointment that everyone else did.

“You want to tell me what the fuck that was all about?” he asks and tosses his clipboard on the desk with a thud.

“The team thinks I’ve been showboating. Had a delegation deliver a talk to me this morning over it . . . so I gave them what they wanted.” There isn’t an ounce of fucks given in my voice, but inside is a goddamn hurricane of emotion. “I gave them mediocre Maddox.”

“And you think you’re paid the big bucks by the big dogs upstairs to deliver mediocre Maddox?” He crosses his arms over his chest.

“It’s not our arena so I’m not quite sure where the big dogs are, but I’m pretty sure they’re not upstairs.”

“That’s how you want to respond, smart-ass? Let’s try again.”

“Just trying to keep the team chemistry alive.”

“The fuck you are,” he shouts and walks over to snap closed the blinds that allow everyone in the locker room from seeing in before turning to face me. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on in your life, and it sure seems like you don’t want anyone to know, so you give me one reason why I shouldn’t go against the GM’s request I received five minutes ago to bench your ass for the next three games.”

“Because you want the Stanley Cup as much as they do and benching me isn’t going to help a goddamn ounce with that. We’re running out of games now and without me on the ice, the team’s just not the same. You need me.”

“We don’t need what you did tonight.”

“My half-ass is better than some of their full bore.”

“Your arrogance isn’t becoming.” He says the words but nothing else, because he knows I’m right.

“Withers is in a shooting slump, Frankie is in his own head too much after that suspension, and Maysen, God love the fucker, but shooting isn’t his strong suit right now . . . so yeah, I’ve been an asshole. I’ve got shit going on that no one needs to know—”

“Who’d you get pregnant?”

My laugh echoes off the walls. “Hilarious.”

“You off the oxy?” he asks, his face suddenly falling some to match the gravity in his voice.

“I’m good.”

“You sure? You’ve had injury after injury this year without taking a day off. Cortisone shots help, but I know Oxy is even better to take the edge off. Is that it? Are you hooked on—”

“It’s not drugs, it’s not women . . . fuck, Jüng, it’s just shit, okay?”