Page 190 of Puck Me Back to Life

Coach doesn't sit. Doesn't crowd me.

He simply stands there, quiet and heavy and disappointed in a way that somehow feels worse than yelling.

After a long moment, he says, “You broke Grove's nose.”

“I know.”

“He's furious.”

“Good.”

“You're lucky the refs didn't toss you earlier.”

“I know.”

“You're lucky the league isn't already calling.”

“I know.”

Silence.

Then, quieter, “You're lucky Grant found me before anyone else did.”

My fingers tighten around the cigarette. That makes me look over. Coach's face is unreadable in the glow from the rooftop lights.

“Ash told you?”

“He told me you needed someone and that if I sent security up here, he'd break their hands.”

Despite everything, a laugh escapes me.

Small.

Ruined.

Coach's mouth twitches. “That's not funny.”

“It's a little funny.”

“It's a little funny,” he admits. Then the almost-smile fades. “You can't keep doing this.”

The words land softly.

I look away. “Hence why I'm sitting up here.”

“What, you're going to throw yourself from the roof of the rink and haunt this place?”

The cigarette burns low between my fingers. “Yeah, maybe.”

Coach finally sits beside me, knees bent, forearms resting on them as he looks out over the city too.

For a while neither of us says anything.

Then he holds out his hand. I stare at it.

“The cigarette, Hayes.”

I hesitate. Then hand it over.