I don’t get nervous.It’s not an emotion I’m used to feeling. But standing outside Coach Davison’s door, knowing I have to walk in and face the music, this feeling in my gut is the closest thing to nerves that I’ve ever felt. The whole walk down here was far too reminiscent of my countless strolls to the principal's office.
Knowing I have to take responsibility eventually, either now or later, I knock on his door.
I was called in early for a ‘discussion’. Never a good sign. This isn’t the first time this has happened either, so I’m well educated on how this will go. He’ll scold me, remind me why I’m here, and order me to keep my nose clean for the foreseeable future. There might be a subtle threat at the end, but that depends on his mood.
Well, that’s how the conversation wouldusuallygo. This time feels a bit different. This time, I took it a bit too far.
Unfortunately, I think there’s much more at stake this time around, and I am not sure a simple lecture will suffice. There are actual charges that are about to be pressed against me. Iwas physically tossed and booked into jail for assault. The media is already having a field day with this story.
I’ve officially made this team a circus act.
This is more than just too much roughhousing on the ice, more than all those times I got away with throwing a punch or two. The public has been roped into it, and they have pulled up a front row seat. There is nothing the big hats hate more than public opinion.
“Yeah.” It’s more of a grunt than anything.
Man of many words, Coach Davison.
I open the door. He doesn’t look up to greet me, even when I shut it behind me and hesitantly step into his office. Not much ever changes in this room. Coach is a man who likes his space the way he’s always liked his space, and he’d probably sock anyone who tries to mess with it.
His large, roomy office is spotless, and that’s not because of the cleaning staff. It smells like fresh leather, and Coach always has a jar of individually wrapped pieces of gum on the corner of his desk. ‘Everyone always wants gum,’ is what he said when I asked about it once.
He isn’t wrong.
I reach for the jar.
His cold, blue eyes snap upward. That look is disparaging and holds a very clear warning that I am not to help myself to anything right now. Gum included.
I yank my hand back just as quickly and lower myself into the brown leather chair across from his desk.
“Forker.”
“Coach.” I nod.
He slowly moves the papers in his hands to the side of his desk, angling his body away from his computer. He leans back in his chair, folding his hands to rest them on his stomach, his face completely void of emotion.
He says nothing.
This is hell on earth.
There is nobody I hate disappointing more than the man on the other side of this desk. My parents? They’ll live. Ari? Hurts sometimes, but I’ll get over it and so will she. My team? That one stings a bit, but I know what I’m doing. Most of the time.
Coach? I’d rather die than disappoint the man who has always looked at me and seen a smart and tactical player, not a basket case. Since he’s been a part of the team, he’s made it clear that I’m valuable, much more than just an enforcer, and I’ve felt that way every single day since.
My last Coach? The one who got canned not too long ago? The opposite. I was nothing to him. Not when Saltzy and Lowesy were on his roster. Those were his stars. The rest of us? He could take us or leave us. Especially the enforcers. He would have traded me in a second and not batted an eye.
“You’ve created quite a mess.”
I nod stiffly. No sense in denying that.
Those blue eyes skim my face. His cheeks aren't a blistering red, so he can’t bethatangry with me, can he? That’s his usual giveaway. His veins aren’t popping out of his neck, either. All of his tell-tale signs of frustration are not visible.
I might survive this.
“What am I supposed to do with assault charges?”
Forgive me?
Get them dropped?
