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Directly on his wrist.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GIGI
Date night
I WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING TO A STRONGLY WORDED EMAIL from the head of the athletics department.
In two terse lines, it states that my presence, along with every single member of the hockey program, is required at the Graham Center at 1:00 p.m. sharp. Any player who doesn’t show up better have a doctor’s note or be dead. I assume Chad Jensen added that last part himself because it’s very Jensen-esque.
Thanks to donations from former students like my father, the Briar Hockey complex is basically its own little kingdom on campus. We have our own gym and training center full of PT and weight rooms, saunas, hot and cold tubs. Two huge media rooms, two rinks, enormous locker rooms.
And a large auditorium where today’s emergency meeting is being held to discuss the events of last night.
The entire coaching staff of both the men’s and women’s programs stand on the stage, while their respective players fill the first three rows of cushy seats. Near the podium is a tall willowy woman in a white pantsuit. Her entire vibe screams public relations.
Coach Jensen looks like he wants to murder everyone in the room, including his own colleagues. He approaches the microphone at the podium and gets things going in a brisk, irritated voice.
“I would like to congratulate each and every one of you for ruining my Saturday plans with my granddaughter. She’s ten years old and recently developed an affinity for tiger sharks, and she cried when I told her I couldn’t take her to the aquarium today. Everyone, give yourselves a round of applause for making a ten-year-old girl cry.”
Beside me, Cami smothers her laughter with the sleeve of her hoodie.
“In other news,” he announces. “Tim Coffey’s out for at least four weeks with a sprained wrist. He’ll miss the entire preseason and likely several games.”
Jensen punctuates this with a glare at our team doctor, as if he’s the one who sprained Coffey’s wrist. To his credit, Dr. Parminder doesn’t even flinch. Tim Coffey does, however. In the front row, the freckle-faced senior hangs his head in shame. I heard he spent half the night in the emergency room getting X-rays.
“I won’t bother telling you how stupid and irresponsible you all were last night. I get it, I was young once. I enjoyed a good party in my days. I won’t lecture you about the drinking—underage drinking for many of you.” He shoots a pointed look at the lowerclassmen. “I won’t even go too hard on the fighting. But to the bonehead who decided to film the fight and post it online?”
He does a slow clap, which triggers another wave of silent giggles from Camila.
“Congratulations, bonehead—you’ve scared the boosters.” Shaking his head in disgust, Jensen stalks away from the podium.
My own coach takes his place. Adley clears his throat and addresses the auditorium.
“What Chad is trying to say is, we’re dealing with some very concerned boosters and alumni at the moment. Donors,” he says meaningfully. “In case you need reminding, donations are what pay for this state-of-the-art facility. They’re what keep your locker rooms stocked with top-of-the-line equipment. They’re what gets you several televised games a year—you see any other D1 programs receiving that perk? This school offers the most elite program on the East Coast, but that doesn’t just happen by chance. We might attract the talent, but we need the money to develop it. And now, thanks to last night’s events, we’ve got boosters calling and emailing to ask why our program is in shambles. Why our own players are breaking each other’s wrists and how will that help us make it to the playoffs, let alone win any championships.”
My fearless, smart-ass captain thrusts her hand in the air.
Coach Adley notices and nods in her direction. “Yes, Whitney?”
“I want it on the record that the women’s team had nothing to do with yesterday’s fight, and we did not bring shame upon this house.”
A few titters echo in the cavernous room.
“Noted,” Adley says. “However, that doesn’t change the fact that we’re in damage control mode. And this requires a concentrated effort on the part of both our programs.”
Adley nods toward the white-pantsuit lady, who takes over.
“Good afternoon. My name is Christie Delmont, and I’m the executive vice president of marketing and public relations for Briar University.”
Why do job titles sound so made up these days?
For the next ten minutes, Delmont lays down the law and lists all the sins we’re no longer allowed to commit. No fighting or visible hostility in public. No filming anything if hostility does arise. We’re not to conduct any interviews or release any statements without prior approval from her or the athletic department, but she has arranged for a glowing profile of the new Briar/Eastwood team that will run in all the Boston newspapers.
