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When we walk through the door, Coach doesn’t even look in our direction. Half the team is already sitting in front of him, each wearing an identical look I recognize: fear. JJ takes a seat next to Henry and gives me a look that saysFind out, Captain.
Neil Faulkner is not a man you want to get on the wrong side of. Three-time Stanley Cup winner before a drunk driver knocked him off the road, shattering his arms and right leg, instantly ending his NHL career. I’ve watched his old game tapes countless times, and he was—no, still is—one scary motherfucker.
So, the fact he’s sitting on a chair in front of the team, red faced like he’s going to implode but saying nothing, is triggering my fight or flight. But my team needs me, so I reluctantly poke the bear.
“Coach, we we—”
“Get your ass on a seat, Hawkins.”
“W—”
“I’m not going to tell you again.”
Stumbling back to my teammates with my tail between my legs, they look even worse now than they did a minute ago. I’m racking my brain, trying to think what we could have done because there is no way he’s angry over the house party we went to last night.
Apart from Henry, most of the underclassmen weren’t there. They’re not old enough to drink, so we don’t invite them to parties with us. Not to say they’re not all out getting wasted on frat row instead, but at least I’m not the one putting the beer in their hands when I’m supposed to be their responsible leader.
When Joe and Bobby finally arrive and sit, Coach finally makes a move, well, a huff, but at least it’s something.
“In my eighteen years at this school, I have never been as ashamed as I was this morning.”
Fuck.
“Before I go on, does anyone have anything to say?”
He’s looking at each of us like he’s waiting for someone to stand and confess, but I genuinely don’t know what we’re supposed to confess to. I’ve had theI’ve never been so ashamedspeechsomany times since I joined the team—it’s a Faulkner special—but I’ve never seen him look this angry.
Folding his arms across his chest, he leans back in his chair and shakes his head. “This morning, when I arrived at the rink, I found it destroyed. So, who has been causing trouble?”
College sports are full of traditions. Some good, some bad, but traditions all the same. Maple Hills is no different, and each sport has its own quirks and superstitions that get passed down from year to year.
Ours are pranks. Reckless, childish pranks. Against each other, against other teams, against other sports. I’ve been in enough of these Faulkner verbal beatings over the years to know I wasn’t letting it happen during my time as captain. Egotistical guys were fighting to outdo each other, and even themselves, until it got to the point the school was being forced to get involved.
So, if our arena has been trashed, it means someone hasn’t been listening to me.
I creep forward slightly to get a better view of my teammates, and it takes approximately 0.2 seconds to spot Russ, a sophomore who’s been playing with us for the last year, and right now looks like he’s seen a ghost.
Faulkner’s voice gets louder to the point it’s echoing around the room. “The director is furious! The dean is furious! I’m fucking furious! I thought we’d drawn a line under this prank bullshit? You’re supposed to be men! Not kids.”
I want to say something, but my mouth is dry as hell. I clear my throat, which does nothing to help, but manages to capture his attention. Taking a sip of water, I finally manage to speak. “We have drawn a line, Coach. We haven’t done anything.”
“So, someone spontaneously decided to smash the generator and cooling system? My rink is on its way to being a swimming pool, and you expect me to believe you clowns have nothing to do with it?”
This is really, really bad.
“The director is holding a meeting with every student athlete in five minutes. Buckle up, gentleman. I hope none of you want to make hockey your career.”
Have I said fuck?
THREE | ANASTASIA
My planner is in total,irreparable chaos and I’m irritated as hell.
This is the opposite of the Friday feeling people so famously love. Today was going to be a problem-free day; I woke up under a beautiful man, and the rest of my day was planned to perfection. Gym, college, training with Aaron, dinner, and finally, dancing until my feet hurt at whichever party sounded the most fun.
I even had the option to see Ryan again and concentrate on scratching those mutual itches while he’s still got time.
But according to the very passive-aggressive email I received, David Skinner, Maple Hills Director of Sport, doesn’t give a flying fuck about my planner or my training schedule, and he certainly doesn’t give a fuck about my sex life.
