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“I nominate Colson,” a swollen-lipped Trager pipes up, his tone flat.
Jensen’s jaw tightens at the interruption.
“I nominate Ryder,” my teammate Nazzy calls out.
I smother a sigh.
Okay, this is not getting off to a good start.
It’s obvious what’s happening. They picked the two best players to be captain. Not necessarily the two players who should be captain. First, we’re both juniors. Most of the seniors in this room probably deserve the nod far more than we do.
And second, I’m not goddamn captain material. Are they crazy? My personality isn’t suited for leadership. I’m not here to hold hands and love everybody.
I’m the man who wants to be left the fuck alone.
Case Colson appears equally annoyed to be included in this farce. But as I look around, a sea of determined faces greets me. My Eastwood teammates have war in their eyes, several of them nodding decisively. Briar’s players convey identical fortitude.
Coach sees the same thing I do on their faces. The battle lines have been drawn.
He blows out a breath. “So that’s it? That’s who you all want? Colson and Ryder?”
A chorus of agreement ripples through the room. This is a statement, right here. Each side wants the other to know that their player, their superstar, is in charge.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter under my breath.
Shane chuckles. On my other side, Beckett Dunne snorts. I’d like to say my best friends have the whole angel/devil thing going on, where one is a dick and the other sits on my shoulder spewing kindness and compassion. I’d like to say that.
But they’re both just assholes who take great amusement out of my misery.
“Ryder, are you good with this?” Jensen’s sharp gaze finds mine.
I’m not good with it at all.
“Yeah, sure,” I lie. “All good.”
“Colson?” Jensen prompts.
Case glances at last season’s captain. Demaine gives him a quick nod.
“If that’s what the team wants,” Colson mutters.
“Fine.” Jensen walks over to the podium to jot something in a notebook.
God fucking help me.
And yet despite this unwanted title being foisted upon me, I can’t deny I do feel relief knowing Jensen won’t try to get rid of me this time.
Coach leaves his notes and walks toward the whiteboard beneath the multimedia screen, black-felt marker in hand.
“Okay, now that that’s decided, there are a few more things we need to go over before training camp gets underway. Number one: What happened out there just now with group one? Un-fuckingacceptable. You hear me?”
Jensen stares directly at Jordan Trager and Rand Hawley. Then he frowns, because neither of them shows an iota of penitence. Only petulance.
“We don’t fight each other at this school,” he says. “Do so again at your own peril.”
He turns to scribble something on the whiteboard.
No Fighting
“Number two, and this is very important, so I hope you’re fucking listening. I will not clean up my language for you assholes. If your delicate sensibilities can’t handle a few f-bombs, then you have no business playing hockey.”
He writes something else.
Fuck You
Shane snickers quietly.
“Number three: Every year or so, some dumbass gets the cockamamie idea that the team needs a pet. A living mascot in the form of a goat or a pig or some other godforsaken farm animal. I will no longer tolerate such ideas. Don’t present them to me—your request will be denied. There was an unfortunate incident in the past, and neither I personally, nor the university itself, will place ourselves in that position again. We have been pet-free for twenty years and will remain that way for eternity. Understood?”
When nobody answers, he glares.
“Understood?”
“Yessir,” everyone says.
He turns toward the board.
No Pets. Ever.
“What do you think the unfortunate incident was?” Beckett leans closer to whisper in my ear.
I shrug. Fuck if I know.
“Maybe it was a chicken and they accidentally ate it,” Shane suggests.
Beck blanches. “That’s dark.”
“All right, that’s it.” Jensen claps his hands. “Group one, you fucking blew it, so you can go home. I’ll see you at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. Group two, meet me on the ice in fifteen minutes.”
The room comes to life as everyone stands and shuffles along the rows toward the aisle. Jensen calls out before I reach the door. “Ryder.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Sir?”
“A minute, please.”
Swallowing my apprehension, I walk toward him. “What’s up, Coach?”
He’s quiet for moment, just studying me. It’s unnerving and I resist the urge to fidget with my hands. I’m rarely intimidated by people, but something about this man makes my palms sweat. Maybe it’s because I know he never wanted me here.
I fucking hate knowing that.
“Is this captain thing going to be a problem?” he finally asks.
I shrug. “I guess we’re going to find out.”
“That’s not the answer I want to hear, son.” He repeats himself. “Is it going to be a problem?”
“No, sir,” I answer dutifully. “It won’t be a problem.”
“Good. Because I can’t have my team at war. You need to step up and be a leader, understand?”
