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Glaring at Jason, I scoop my gloves off the ice and glide over to Coach, who is now fuming by the exit door.
His face is going so red that it’s creeping into his balding scalp. His expression is a mix of impatience and total confusion as he shakes his head at me.
I know. I’m not the guy who loses his cool. I’m known for my calm, unflappable demeanor.
Shit, am I fucking turning into my dad?
The thought has bile surging up my throat. I clamp my teeth together while Coach has a go at me.
“I expect more from you, Carlisle. What the hell are you doing? Starting fights? Where’s your self-control?”
“Sorry, Coach,” I mutter, staring at the ice because he’s right. I’m not the reckless jackass who does this shit.
Jason starts harping on about how he didn’t do anything wrong and I’m obviously on my period or something.
Dammit, the guy is so fucking punchable. I will never understand how he made captain over Ethan. Even though his parents are loaded and donate huge amounts of money to the hockey program, it’s not a good enough reason for this shitgibbon to be captaining our team.
“You’re done for the day.” Coach points at me. “Go shower up. And you better get your head on straight, you hear me? We have a game tomorrow night, and I need my best D-man. Do not let your team down.”
With a heavy sigh, I flick the door open and head for the locker room.
It’s fucking humiliating being kicked out of practice early, but Coach is probably right to get me off the ice.
Of course Jason got to stay.
My blood continues to simmer and boil as I smash my helmet down on the locker room floor and thump onto the bench seat. Burying my head in my hands, I let out a sharp breath, muttering expletives as I’m once again plagued with images I can never forget.
Dad’s drunken face contorted with rage. His fist curled so tight that I thought his knuckles might pop out of his skin.
“Go!” Mama would shout at me. “Get your sisters.” She’d start rattling off commands in Spanish because my stupid-ass Dad didn’t speak it.
She’d force me to leave her alone in the kitchen to face the monster, and I hated myself every time I obeyed her.
But the few times I didn’t, I was home from school for a week. Mama wouldn’t let me leave the house with the bruises still showing.
“Fuck!” I smash my fist into the locker behind me, then sit there puffing as the sting radiates across my knuckles.
I don’t want to be a violent man.
I don’t want to feel this kind of rage pulsing through me.
I work overtime to remain calm and cool and in control.
But Rachel’s black-and-blue torso has brought all my nightmares straight back. And it’s only made worse by the idea of the way she was treated. Violence against women and children is my kryptonite. I can’t handle it. I wish I was a superhero and could bust into every abuse-ridden home and end it for good.
Slumping back with a heavy sigh, I stare into the empty locker room; the only sound past the heaving in my chest is the dripping shower to my right.
I need to calm the fuck down before I get back to Hockey House and see Rachel again. She doesn’t need to carry my shit too.
I won’t become my father.
I don’t give a flying fuck if his DNA is part of who I am.
“So don’t be him, you moron,” I mutter. “Calm down and get over this. Be the guy Rachel needs right now. Let go of this shit.”
Keeping up with the pep talk, I strip off my sweaty hockey gear and head for the showers, washing up as fast as I can and getting out of the locker room before the rest of the guys pile in.
I decide to jog home because it’s as good a therapy as any.
