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I don’t want to be.
But for now, I’ll play nice.
13
REESE
Two hours later, we’re done with practice. The end of it was as brutal as the beginning. More plays bungled, more yelling. But no more blood spilled, though not for lack of trying.
Sometimes, it feels like I’m the only one who wants to try and actually do something on this team. It’s like they forget we were just inches away from winning the Cup two years ago, only to have the same kind of silly shit fuck it all away for us that’s fucking us over in practice. They forget I’m the one that pulled us so damn close to the finish line.
I’m the only one with some damn passion on this team.
It’s exhausting.
My teammates skate past me on their way to the showers. For some reason, I’m the one getting ugly glares. What gives? I’m not the one screwing up today.
If they’d get their shit together, I wouldn’t have to lay into them. It’s not like Coach Driscoll doesn’t do his job; it’s just that I’m better at busting balls, and a good ball-busting is exactly what this team needs.
They’ll see when we have another championship win under our belt again that my way is the only way.
I wait until everyone else is all the way gone down the tunnel before I turn and head that direction. But I’ve still got one foot on the ice when I hear a voice call my name.
“Dalton! Hold up!”
I groan. The last thing I want is a lecture.
But it looks like that’s exactly what I’m gonna get. Coach Driscoll comes stomping over. He’s a pretty hefty guy, late fifties, crisp salt-and-pepper mustache. He made a pretty good name for himself back in the day as a no-nonsense enforcer before he turned to coaching. “Risky Drisky,” they used to call him.
When I was first signed, we were thick as thieves. Nowadays, it seems like all he does is regret the fact he ever so much as glances in my direction. I don’t get it. He signed me, and I do my job. I do my job damn well.
I put on my best professional-sounding voice. “Coach.”
I can tell he knows it’s all bullshit. The frown on his face is deep, like someone took a gash out of it with freshly sharpened skates.
“Don’t you Coach me, Dalton. The hell was that out there today?”
I shrug a shoulder. “Just trying to get the whole team to get on the same page.”
He rolls his eyes. “‘Same page,’ my ass, Reese. You’re a bully. I’m sure it makes you feel like a big man on the inside, but it ain’t what teamwork is about.”
“The fuck do those guys know about teamwork?” I shoot back. “You have people that can’t remember basic plays, can barely skate in a straight goddamn line without falling on their own asses.”
“And you’re better, picking fights?”
I grimace. “Coach, that shit with Bastian wasn’t my fault. He hit me first, for one?—”
“You didn’t need to get in his face. That’s not your job.”
“Well, maybe if you’d do your job, I wouldn’t have to step up and be a player and a coach at the same damn time!”
I regret the words as soon as I say them, but there’s no taking them back now. We’re two snarling bulls squaring off in the mouth of the tunnel. Jaws clenched tight, nostrils flared, fists knotted.
Driscoll breaks first. He breathes in and backs off, shaking his head in dismay. “Dalton, you’re one of the best?—”
Yeah, I know.
“—but you’re an asshole.”
