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Well, fuck.
I breathe evenly. “I don’t see how that’s a hockey problem.”
“You don’t see how not getting along with any of your teammates, fighting with them all the time, and alienating them from you is a hockey problem?”
Again, all I can do is shrug. “I get along with Marcus and Dante. They know how to play the game.”
“Marcus and Dante don’t count. You were friends before you were drafted. I’m talking about Bastian, about Richardson?—”
I squint at the latter name. “Who?”
Coach snarls. “The rookie you bulldozed in warmups, wiseass.”
Ah. So that’s his name. It pretty much goes in one ear and out the other, though.
“Oh.”
“That’s what the fuck I’m talking about right there! Everyone knows who you are, but you don’t even know who your teammates are! You don’t bother with them!”
“I would if they impressed me.”
Coach scoffs. “Oh, I see. You wanna talk about impressions? Okay, let’s talk about impressions then. You’re a dickhead on the ice to your teammates, and when you’re not doing that?—”
“—Aw, shucks, you don’t gotta flatter me?—”
“—you’re roaming around in the wild, fucking everything that moves, partying, getting into trouble with the law, gambling.”
I throw my stick on the ground at our feet. “Gambling? Are you serious? That’s a bunch of horseshit and you know it! We all make plenty of money out here, Coach. If I want to throw some on a bet, who gives a damn? Everyone else does plenty of the same.”
“Yeah, but they’re not getting into brawls at casinos because they tried hitting on some trust fund kid’s arm candy.”
Ah, good memories, that. Wish I’d gotten the broad’s number. She looked like she'd have been one hell of a lay.
“It was one time.”
“You’re missing the point, Dalton. You’re not a team player, on or off the ice. We have sponsors threatening to pull their support because of you. Fans threatening to cancel their season tickets because of you. Being associated with us has become a liability—because we’re associated with you.”
Okay. That’s a little sobering. Still, my personal life can’t possibly put that much stink on the team, right? I’m only one guy.
“Alright. What about the other guys who party, huh? Hell, what about Bastian? He’s a disgusting little creep and we all know it?—”
“Bastian isn’t filling tabloids and sports articles with his bullshit. I’m gonna lay it on you straight: you clean up your shit in here and out there, or all the good plays in the world won’t save your ass from the cut you’re gonna get. I mean it. I’m done and so are they.”
Coach turns to signal the conversation is over, but I’m furious. Cut me? Me? I catch him before he can walk away and spin him right back around.
“You get rid of me,” I snarl, “you get rid of any chance you might have at championships. You know I’m good. You can’t afford to lose me.”
He’s quiet for a minute, and I think I have him. I’m ready to walk out of this rink with my chin held high, chest puffed out. The gorilla with the oomph to bang his chest and go, Yeah, I’m the fucking winner.
Then he does something I don’t expect.
He laughs.
“I’d be fine never winning a game again if it meant I didn’t have to live with a man so arrogant he can’t see the harm he’s doing to everyone around him.”
His words aren’t angry or inflamed in the slightest. They’re so dead-on sober that it hurts that much more. Icy. Unforgiving.
Coach peels my gloved hand off his wrist. Then, with one last look into my speechless face, he turns and walks away.
