I hold his gaze but say nothing. I’m not the brightest bulb in the arena, but I’m fairly certain that was a rhetorical question. He already knows the answer. He’s had to deal with the fallout for days now. There have beenmanytalks withmanypeople, much more important than myself, about my fate. I’mhere so he can serve me the consequences, not give my side of the story or offer up a bunch of excuses.
“This is becoming a pattern, Fork,” he grumbles, letting out a long sigh. “Your first year, you got away with your shit by the skin of your teeth. I’ve followed your career. Even when I wasn’t a part of this team, I was well aware of your behaviour. Last summer, we swept that shit that happened in California under the rug. This? This one was the mecca.”
I wince. That isn’t good.
Sweat is starting to pool on the back of my neck. Again, I don’t get nervous, but Idoget stressed. I’m feeling really fucking stressed out right now.
I can’t lose my job.
“I know, Coach,” I say, trying not to mumble like a little boy. Ariana always tells me that it makes it seem like I don’t mean what I’m saying, even when I do. “I’m sorry.”
“What happened?”
“I’m sure you’ve already talked to the guys.”
His eyes harden—frustration level increasing. “It doesn’t matter who I have or haven’t spoken to. I’m asking you a question. What happened?”
Well, okay then.
“Some idiot was bothering this girl,” I say, shrugging like it’s nothing. It wasn’t nothing. He touched her without her consent.Smackedher. “He took it too far and I lost my shit.”
Coach nods, likely having heard this story at least three times already. He lets out a long, deep breath and shakes his head. I feel like the bad kid in class, constantly being scolded, unwilling to improve. It’s hard when it’s who you are. This isn’t a behavioural thing. I don’t want attention. I’m just reactive. It’s ingrained in me.
“You’re suspended for two games,” he says. Just like that.
My heart should sink, but it soars.
Holy shit. I’m not fired?
My eyes must light up because Coach shoots me a look so lethal that my excitement fizzles out to nothing.
“You’ll be expected to make a statement about this. You have to talk with Amanda in public relations. I don’t trust you to produce something respectable on your own.”
That’s fair. I’m not the most trustworthy of his players at the moment.
I nod along repeatedly, but all I hear is that I’m not fired.
“I did a lot of damage control when it came to your position on this team, Forker. It wasn’t an easy task, alright? I can’t keep doing it. I put my neck out for you and you punish me for it. This is your last chance, kid. You can be a bully on that ice as much as you want, but off of it? That has to stop.”
I nod again, but this one feels less assured. I’m going to try, but I have a habit of making the same mistakes over and over again. Even when I have the best of intentions, my temper rears its ugly head eventually. Swinging is something that comes naturally to me. It’s how I solve disagreements. I’m not good with my words, not smart enough to win fights that way. I hit things. I’m good at that.
“You won’t play tomorrow, but you’ll be here. You’ll suit up and show your face. You’ll do press after the game, and I’m going to put you on the desk with someone else who was at that bar, or maybe somebody who just makes you look good. I haven’t decided yet.”
Saltzy or Lowesy, then. Boston barely speaks to the public as it is. He’d be useless in this situation. Coach isn’t dumb. He knows the right people to put in the spotlight to sway public opinion.
Saltzy was there. He is the perfect diplomat. You never know what that man is thinking, but hewillsay the right thing at that desk. Hewillmake sure that our team comes outlooking the best we can possibly look. Best part? He’ll have an answer for everything. That man doesn’t flounder.
Lowesy wasn’t atIcebox, but he’s my right-hand man and the whole world knows it. Having him next to me would be wise. Just two best friends, one with a halo above his head, and the other with devil horns embedded in his. Balance. Plus, he’s the golden boy. The sunshine that pours from those dimples and those eyeballs tends to project me in a nicer light.
“Absolutely.” I’m nodding so much that I feel like a fucking puppet. “Thanks, Coach. I won’t let you down.”
Coach dips his chin, but uncertainty is wafting off him in waves. He might have put his neck out for me again, but he fears it was a mistake. That’s a tough pill to swallow. The only way to make this better, to swap the look on his face with something nicer, is to figure my shit out and be the player he needs me to be.
I keep repaying his kindness with shit. Shit on a silver platter is still shit.
I stand, but he doesn’t follow suit. I ignore that pang of disrespect. He’s a Southern man. He usually stands when we do, says goodbye in a way that he considers polite. I hold out my hand anyway, and thankfully, he takes it—even though he does so with a hard look.
“I promise,” I say, looking him in the eye so he can see how serious I am when I repeat the next words. “I won’t let you down again.”
