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ChapterSix
My new coach hates me—scratch that. My newteamhates me. It’s clear I’m not wanted here, but I’m not here to win them over. I’m here to win them games, plain and simple. And that’s something I happen to be good at.
A point I’m proving to all of these haters right now as I continue to run the endless drills the coach yells in my direction. Hitting the net with my puck each and every time. Even when the fucker put two goalies up against me, I still managed to make that red light shine.
I’m determined to make this work. I’m not an idiot. I know that this team is my last shot at any kind of pro career. If I don’t, I doubt I’ll even get a job coaching a youth league.
My thighs burn as I skate up and down the ice as fast as I can, trying to be quicker and better than everyone else. I get body-checked into the boards by Monroe, fucking Grayson Monroe. AKA the owner’s son and my babysitter’s older brother. Also the guy whose house I slept at last night for fear of said babysitter finding out I didn’t stay.
Right as I hit the wall, I look up into the stands, not expecting to see her staring right back at me. A small smile on her too-pretty face.
Fuck, King, get your head on straight.I internally curse myself. I can’t be thinking of her, or that she’s fucking pretty. Or that I want to know what her naked body feels like pressed beneath me. I bet I could make her come alight with pleasure, make her scream my name so loud the whole city hears it.
I shake my head and skate after Monroe—no fucking way is he getting that puck away from me. I manage to catch up to him just as he’s swinging for a goal. Swooping in, I get a hold of the puck and I’m off towards the other end of the ice. I can feel him on my heels as I dodge the rest of the useless fuckers trying to stop me. Skating around them like they’re nothing more than an orange cone on the ice. I don’t see the obstacles when I skate. I see the clear paths around them and I take those.
The puck hits the back of the net and I spin around to a fuming Grayson Monroe. He’s not happy I just showed him up, but I don’t give a fuck. Like I said, I’m not here to make him fucking happy. Although I must admit there is one Monroe whose face I’d like to put a happy, contented, orgasmic smile on…
I look back up to the stands, but she’s no longer standing there.Did she see me score?
Why the hell do I want her to see me score? I don’t work to impress chicks. I don’t need to. I know. I sound like an ass, but the truth is the truth. Why this particular girl is taking over my thoughts, I have no idea. It’s probably because I need to get laid. If she didn’t ruin my plans last night, I wouldn’t be so wound up today. Not getting laid and sleeping in a house where I clearly wasn’t wanted—yeah, let’s just say that tonight I’ll be staying at my own apartment, no matter how many fucking spiders are inside it.
“Hit the showers. Same time tomorrow. Don’t be late,” Coach yells out to the team. Just as I turn to skate off the ice, I hear him call my name. “King, hold back,” he grunts.
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. Instead, I grit my teeth, biting down on my mouth guard. And face him. I know what’s coming. It’s not the first time I’ve had a coach who hates me on day one. They’re all fucking pissed that I’m good at what I do. I make their job easy. I get wins. Any normal person would think that would make them fucking love me. But, no, they fucking hate it for reasons unbeknownst to me.
He takes his time. I could close the gap, but I’m not moving an inch. He wants to talk to me? He can fucking walk his ass over here. He stops two feet in front of me and has to crane his neck slightly to look up at my face.
“You think you’re God’s gift to hockey, don’t you?” he asks.
“No, Coach,” I answer. Do I think I’m great at what I do?Yes.But a gift?Hell no.I’ve fucking worked my ass off to be this good.
“Your time here is limited. You know it and I know it. Don’t get too comfortable, son. This is temporary. This team doesn’t need a player like you,” he spits out.
“A player like me?” I point to my chest. “Oh, you mean a player who scores? A player who wins championships?” It’s no secret that this team makes the playoffs and then fails, every single year.
“A player who will only bring bad press and the bad vibes that come with it. Word of advice? The owner of this team isn’t going to put up with your kind of bullshit. And I’m not the type of coach who will take your shit laying down, not like your last one,” he says right before he shoulder-barges past me.
Well, at least now I get why he hates me so damn much. I wonder if they knew the reason I beat the fuck out of my coach if they’d still be so offended. He fucking deserved it. You don’t fuck with family. I don’t care who you are.
* * *
I’m the last one in the locker room. Everyone else has cleared out. Pulling my bag down, I quickly get dressed. I’m sore and tired but also really fucking bored. There has to be something to do in this godforsaken town. Something to keep me entertained. I pick up my phone and make the mistake of looking at the screen. Ten missed calls from my mother. Five text messages that I have no plans of reading anytime soon.
I might not let anyone else fuck with my family, but that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be pissed at them. I’m honestly not sure how I’ll ever be able to look at my mother and not see fucking red after what she did.
Shoving my phone into the pocket of my jeans, I swing my bag over my shoulder and walk out of the locker room. Only to stop at the sight that greets me the moment I step out.
Aliyah Monroe, sitting crossed-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall opposite the door. She has a large coffee cup next to her alongside her oversized Dior bag. Is she planning a camping trip? Because I swear she could fit a tent and a sleep sack in there.
I tilt my head and observe her. She either hasn’t noticed me yet or is doing a great job of pretending she hasn’t, with her face glued to the screen of her phone as she scrolls through some social media account.
I clear my throat, causing her to sigh, roll her eyes, and then slowly raise them to meet mine. “I was hoping you drowned in there, or slipped on the soap and broke your neck,” she says in a very monotone voice that has me questioning if she’s joking, or if this woman seriously wishes me bodily harm.
“I’m not usually in the business of disappointing women, but in this case, I’m not sorry,” I say. “What are you doing sitting out here?” I ask, looking up and down the very empty corridor.
“Waiting for you. What else would I be doing?” she fires back.
“Why?”
