Page 16 of Ice Rebel

“You’re right. For that you’ll need to agree to go out with me.”

CHAPTER 4

Cole

Seattle Sentinel: Another Battle Brewing in the AHL, the Wild Versus the Blackhawks. Will Cole ‘the Rebel’ Kendrick Live up to the Family Legacy? Experts Smell Blood in the Water

Portland Herald: All Eyes are on Cole ‘the Rebel’ Kendrick. Will He Be Drafted by the Portland Hellions? A Triple Dose of Kendrick Power

There was nothing like pressure to be the best, especially when that included living up to the standards as set by my own family. Ford and Beck had positioned themselves within the NHL to become legendary, rivaling some of the all-time greats. I wasn’t that player, but even members of my own team thought I could help push the Seattle Wild into the playoffs.

What? Just on name only?

With every game, the pressure increased, every win meant additional scrutiny so when I fucked up, social media treated me as if I was subhuman. As supposedly the most sensitive of the family, I’d been warned about what the constant barrage of questions and notoriety could do. As with everything else, I was a stubborn son of a bitch.

Watching every mistake made, every goal missed and every defense line compromised wasn’t the highlight of any hockey player’s day, but the pain in hopes of the gain were necessary.

The game with the Blackhawks had been sloppy and not only because of my antics on the ice. We weren’t working well together as a team. A few of the guys wanted to put the blame on Jagger’s shoulders, but coming in after a season had started was always tough.

Not that I planned on giving the asshole too many breaks. He was as arrogant as they came, especially since his father was considered a pillar within Seattle. At least those were the rumors, which I couldn’t give a shit about.

Given the fact the Seattle Wild were independently owned by several investors, rumor had it that his dad had recently invested in the team. Which of course spawned the additional gossip about the powerful man buying a position for his son on the Wild. There were other rumors Jagger had almost beaten a player to death, the reason he’d been tossed off his old team. That I could relate to. Not that I’d place that on my resume.

Those types of rumors never boded well for camaraderie, especially when so many of us had worked our way up through the ranks. In my case, that had included coaching summer hockey camps. Don’t get me wrong. I’d loved the work, learning something from the kids almost every day, but I’d paid my dues like everyone else, hoping for a shot in the NHL.

It would seem Jagger was on the fast track to becoming the next NHL darling. Naturally, that pissed people off.

The entire team stood in the theater watching not only a playback of the previous night’s game, but also one from Reno exploding for a win against Phoenix the night before. They’d been on fire when we’d limped along.

One of two coaches stood against the wall rubbing his jaw as he glared at the big screen. Even practice had been shit that morning, enough that the team didn’t have their usual spunk after winning a game the night before.

Head Coach Joe Stryker flicked off the screen, remaining where he was staring at the big black hole on the wall.

The tension was ripe, so much so I glanced at Hudson who grimaced in response.

“I don’t need to tell any of you how important it is we win the game in Reno on Friday. Do I?” The coach turned around, facing the team. You knew he was pissed when he decided to take extra time to find the eyes of every player.

Today, the time taken felt like a penalty round.

As he hung his head, tossing the remote on the table then planting his hands on his hips, I heard one of the players audibly sucking in their breath while another made the mistake of uttering a single sound.

“Here it comes.”

Coach Stryker did nothing but exhale. “I thought I had a bunch of winners on my hand. After we swept the first ten games, I was excited at the prospects this season. I was thrilled to come to work every day. Then Todd decided he’d enjoy pretending to be fucking Mario Andretti.”

“Who?” Cujo asked. Finn Roth was a damn good left wing, but even his antics had gotten out of hand since his buddy, my brother had advanced to the NHL and he hadn’t. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the chops. It was that he had an addiction to puck bunnies and beer bongs.

“Think Chase Elliot, NASCAR’s most popular driver,” Coach Reynolds suggested. He was much younger, offering a name we would know.

In turn, Coach Stryker threw him a nasty look. Wow. The man was mad as hell.

“Anyway, he decided that going in excess of a hundred fifty miles per hour was exactly the thing to do. After that, the team just fell apart. Why? Because he was your number one center and your captain?”

We all looked at each other, no one eager to step up to the plate with an answer.

“Yeah,” the coach muttered. “That’s what I thought. I’m only going to say this once. If I need to say it again, heads will roll, gentlemen. Get. Your. Shit. Together.”

Coach Reynolds grabbed something from another table, tossing it onto the one in front of us. “Did anyone see the Sentinel this morning?”