I’m not sure why it feels like a lie when I slap my hand across his back and say, “Of course.” I should let it go, but I can’t. “What’s going on with you and Molly?”
“Nothing, we’re fine. She’s been busy with school.”
Before I can fire back, Coach steps out into the hallway, eyes locking on me. He curls a finger. “Murphy.With me.”
A chorus of “Oohs” ripples from inside the dressing room. It’s almost time to get gear on and head out for warm-ups.
“I’ll deal with you fuckers later,” I call out, smiling when I hear the answering laughter from my teammates. I point at Alex as I step away. “Not going to forgive that easily. You’re dead to me.”
He taps his chest. “Can’t kill your only friend.”
“Watch me.”
“Won’t have to. Looks like Coach is going to take care of you first.”
“Please. If I were in trouble, he’d already be yelling.”
Coach snorts despite himself as I pass him, then folds his arms. “Navarro, it’s game time. Let’s go, Jack. Not going to ask again.”
My coach gestures to follow him, and I fall into step beside him without missing a beat. We head to his office, down a long hallway buzzing with everyone who supports the team. I can feel the tension and excitement in the air tonight. Opening night always feels like Christmas Eve—that sugar rush of anticipation that happens after too many cookies and eggnog, waiting for the Big Man.
“Sit,” he orders.
I know when to be a good boy.
I sink into the chair, my eyes falling to the picture frames of family lining the bookcase behind him. Ava smiles back, as if she’s taunting me. I rub my sweaty palms over my knees and clear my throat, ready to get this over with.
Yes, Coach, I’m fucking your daughter.
Everything always looks easy for me. And maybe that’s the problem. When people decide you’re coasting, nothing really sticks. Doesn’t matter about your effort or if you have the best of intentions.
When I was little, I only played hockey because Ethan did.He was the star—fast, focused, and the one everyone said was headed for something big. Sloane’s dad, Jimmy Arden, adored him. He wanted him to chase every opportunity while I busted my ass at each practice and game, proving I had just as much right to be there as my brother. I got good at making my coaches and teammates laugh. Making my parents forget to worry. They had enough to figure out running the restaurant. Whatever kept the peace. And if that meant being the clown, I’d do that too.
But my brother couldn’t get his head out of his ass in high school and lost his scholarship to Boston College after a bad fight with Jimmy’s son. It seemed like all of Merritt Point was still stuck in their disappointment over Ethan while I landed the scholarship. No one threw me a parade. Then I was drafted and went pro. My family was excited, but they were busy. It was lonely while I played a few years in Oregon as a rookie before I was traded to the Boston Breakers.
I know I’ve had a dream career. But that’s the thing. I work fucking hard, and everyone assumes it’s easy for me. Maybe I let them believe it. Maybe I’m just better at selling the lie. Maybe I’ve been selling it so long that I don’t know what’s left when I stop. I don’t know. But as I sit across from my coach, the look on his face tells me my time might be up soon.
“I don’t know how else I can get it through your head, Murphy, at how close you are to losing it all.”
“Losing what?” I shift in my seat, adrenaline already pumping through me. It’s that same pressure that filled my chest during the interview earlier. I need to get out on the ice, and I know I’m going to need whatever this frustration is to play hard. The New York Monarchs are a tough team.
“You keep running your mouth…”
Everyone seems obsessed with the fact that I have a certain reputation, but my coach, Christopher Kapeck, has one too. He’s a hard-ass with a wicked temper and possesses the remarkableability of turning a shade of red that shouldn’t be humanly possible.
I lean forward, tapping my hand on his desk. “I show up. I’m never late. And we both know I’m a great fucking hockey player.”
“Except it’s more than that now. You’re a commodity to this league, Jack. The sponsors love your fucking ugly mug for some reason, fans adore you, and you sell us a lot of tickets.”
“It’s the charm.”
He reclines in his chair and folds his hands behind the back of his head. He has a faded tattoo on his forearm that’s a drawing of Superman Ava made when she was four. It’s terrifying. All big eyes and noodly limbs.
“I don’t know how else to get you to understand. You keep pulling the shit that ends with your name in the wrong headlines, and it follows you onto the ice. The charity auction bought you some goodwill. Don’t waste it. You’re here to play great hockey. Start playing like it.”
I scratch my chin, heaving a sigh. I’m so fucking tired of the lectures. Tired, and scared he’s right, but I won’t give him that. “I get it. Don’t fuck up tonight.”
“Tonight. Tomorrow. Three months from now. You’re going to have a fucking good season if you can focus.”
